Jingle All the Way

by Fern Michaels

  It had been the worst Christmas of her life. The worst New Year’s, too. The next Christmas and New Year’s had been just as bad because her parents had looked at her with pity and then anger. Just last week they had called and said, “Get on with your life, Morgan. You’ve already wasted two years. In that whole time, Keith hasn’t called you once or even dropped you a post card.” She’d been stubborn, though, because she loved Keith. Sharp words had ensued, and she’d broken the connection and cried.

  Tonight she had a date.

  Life was going to be so wonderful. The strain between her and her parents would ease when they saw how happy she was.

  Mo looked at the clock. Five-thirty. Time to shower, dress, pack up the Cherokee for her two-week vacation. Oh, life was good. She had it all planned. They’d go skiing, but first she’d go to Keith’s apartment in New York, stay over, make him breakfast. They’d make slow, lazy love and if the mood called for it, they’d make wild, animal love.

  Two years was a long time to be celibate—and she’d been celibate. She winced when she thought about Keith in bed with other women. He loved sex more than she did. There was no way he’d been faithful to her. She felt it in her heart. Every chance her mother got, she drove home her point. Her parents didn’t like Keith. Her father was fond of saying, “I know his type—he’s no good. Get a life, Morgan.”

  Tonight her new life would begin. Unless . . . unless Keith was a no show. Unless Keith decided the single life was better than a married life and responsibilities. God in heaven, what would she do if that happened? Well, it wasn’t going to happen. She’d always been a positive person and she saw no reason to change now.

  It wasn’t going to happen because when Keith saw her he was going to go out of his mind. She’d changed in the two years. She’d dropped twelve pounds in all the right places. She was fit and toned because she worked out daily at a gym and ran for five miles every evening after work. She’d gotten a new hair style in New York. And, while she was there she’d gone to a color specialist who helped her with her hair and makeup. She was every bit as professional looking as some of the ad executives she saw walking up and down Madison Avenue. She’d shed her scrubbed girl-next-door image. S.K., which stood for Since Keith, she’d learned to shop in the outlet stores for designer fashions at half the cost. She looked down now at her sporty Calvin Klein outfit, at the Ferragamo boots and the Chanel handbag she’d picked up at a flea market. Inside her French luggage were other outfits by Donna Karan and Carolyn Roehm.

  Like Keith, she had gotten a promotion with a hefty salary increase. If things worked out, she was going to think about opening her own architectural office by early summer. She’d hire people, oversee them. Clients she worked with told her she should open her own office, go it alone. One in particular had offered to back her after he’d seen the plans she’d drawn up for his beach house in Cape May. Her father, himself an architect, had offered to help out and had gone so far as to get all the paperwork from the Small Business Administration. She could do it now if she wanted to. But, did she want to make that kind of commitment? What would Keith think?

  What she wanted, really wanted, was to get married and have a baby. She could always do consulting work, take on a few private clients to keep her hand in. All she needed was a husband to make it perfect.

  Keith.

  The phone rang. Mo frowned. No one ever called her this early in the morning. Her heart skipped a beat as she picked up the phone. “Hello,” she said warily.

  “Morgan?” Her mother. She always made her name sound like a question.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?”

  “When are you leaving, Morgan? I wish you’d left last night like Dad and I asked you to do. You should have listened to us, Morgan.”

  “Why? What’s wrong? I told you why I couldn’t leave. I’m about ready to go out the door as we speak.”

  “Have you looked outside?”

  “No. It’s still dark, Mom.”

  “Open your blinds, Morgan, and look at the parking lot lights. It’s snowing!”

  “Mom, it snows every year. So what? It’s only a two-hour drive, maybe three if there’s a lot of snow. I have the Cherokee. Four-wheel drive, Mom.” She pulled up the blind in the bedroom to stare out at the parking lot. She swallowed hard. So, it would be a challenge. The world was white as far as the eye could see. She raised her eyes to the parking lights. The bright light that usually greeted her early in the morning was dim as the sodium vapor fought with the early light of dawn and the swirling snow. “It’s snowing, Mom.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It started here around midnight, I guess. It was just flurries when Dad and I went to bed but now we have about four inches. Since this storm seems to be coming from the south where you are, you probably have more. Dad and I have been talking and we won’t be upset if you wait till the storm is over. Christmas morning is just as good as Christmas Eve. Just how much snow do you have, Morgan?”

  “It looks like a lot, but it’s drifting in the parking lot. I can’t see the front, Mom. Look, don’t worry about me. I have to be home this evening. I’ve waited two long years for this. Please, Mom, you understand, don’t you?”

  “What I understand, Morgan, is that you’re being foolhardy. I saw Keith’s mother the other day and she said he hasn’t been home in ten months. He just lives across the river, for heaven’s sake. She also said she didn’t expect him for Christmas, so what does that tell you? I don’t want you risking your life for some foolish promise.”

  Mo’s physical being trembled. The words she dreaded, the words she didn’t ever want to hear, had just been uttered: Keith wasn’t coming home for Christmas. She perked up almost immediately. Keith loved surprises. It would be just like him to tell his mother he wasn’t coming home and then show up and yell, “Surprise!” If he had no intention of honoring the promise they’d made to each other, he would have sent a note or called her. Keith wasn’t that callous. Or was he? She didn’t know anything anymore.

  She thought about the awful feelings that had attacked her over the past two years, feelings she’d pushed away. Had she buried her head in the sand? Was it possible that Keith had used the two-year hiatus to soften the blow of parting, thinking that she’d transfer her feelings to someone else and let him off the hook? Instead she’d trenched in and convinced herself that by being faithful to her feelings, tonight would be her reward. Was she a fool? According to her mother she was. Tonight would tell the tale.

  What she did know for certain was, nothing was going to stop her from going home. Not her mother’s dire words, and certainly not a snowstorm. If she was a fool, she deserved to have her snoot rubbed in it.

  Just a few short hours ago she’d stacked up her shopping bags by the front door, colorful Christmas bags loaded with presents for everyone. Five oversize bags for Keith. She wondered what happened to the presents she’d bought two years ago. Did her mother take them over to Keith’s mother’s house or were they in the downstairs closet? She’d never asked.

  She’d spent a sinful amount of money on him this year. She’d even knitted a stocking for him and filled it with all kinds of goodies and gadgets. She’d stitched his name on the cuff of the bright red stocking in bright green thread. Was she a fool?

  Mo pulled on her fleece-lined parka. Bundled up, she carried as many of the bags downstairs to the lobby as she could handle. She made three trips before she braved the outdoors. She needed to shovel and heat the car up.

  She was exhausted when she tossed the fold-up shovel into the back of the Jeep. The heater and defroster worked furiously, but she still had to scrape the ice from the windshield and driver’s side window. She checked the flashlight in the glove compartment. She rummaged inside the small opening, certain she had extra batteries, but couldn’t find any. She glanced at the gas gauge. Three-quarters full, enough to get her home. She’d meant to top off last night on her way home from work, but she’d been in a hurry to get home to finish wr
apping Keith’s presents. God, she’d spent hours making intricate, one-of-a-kind bows and decorations for the gold-wrapped packages. A three-quarter tank would get her home for sure. The Cherokee gave her good mileage. If memory served her right, the trip never took more than a quarter of a tank. Well, she couldn’t worry about that now. If road conditions permitted, she could stop on 95 or when she got onto the Jersey Turnpike.

  Mo was numb with cold when she shrugged out of her parka and boots. She debated having a cup of tea to warm her up. Maybe she should wait for rush hour traffic to be over. Maybe a lot of things.

  Maybe she should call Keith and ask him point blank if he was going to meet her in front of the Christmas tree. If she did that, she might spoil things. Still, why take her life in her hands and drive through what looked like a terrible storm, for nothing. She’d just as soon avoid her parents’ pitying gaze and make the trip tomorrow morning and return in the evening to lick her wounds. If he was really going to be a no show, that would be the way to go. Since there were no guarantees, she didn’t see any choice but to brave the storm.

  She wished she had a dog or a cat to nuzzle, a warm body that loved unconditionally. She’d wanted to get an animal at least a hundred times these past two years, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit that she needed someone. What did it matter if that someone had four legs and a furry body?

  Her address book was in her hand, but she knew Keith’s New York phone number by heart. It was unlisted, but she’d managed to get it from the brokerage house Keith worked for. So she’d used trickery. So what? She hadn’t broken the rules and called the number. It was just comforting to know she could call if she absolutely had to. She squared her shoulders as she reached for the portable phone on the kitchen counter. She looked at the range-top clock. Seven forty-five. He should still be home. She punched out the area code and number, her shoulders still stiff. The phone rang five times before the answering machine came on. Maybe he was still in the shower. He always did cut it close to the edge, leaving in the morning with his hair still damp from the shower.

  “C’mon, now, you know what to do if I don’t answer. I’m either catching some z’s or I’m out and about. Leave me a message, but be careful not to give away any secrets. Wait for the beep.” Z’s? It must be fast track New York talk. The deep, husky chuckle coming over the wire made Mo’s face burn with shame. She broke the connection.

  A moment later she was zipping up her parka and pulling on thin leather gloves. She turned down the heat in her cozy apartment, stared at her small Christmas tree on the coffee table, and made a silly wish.

  The moment she stepped outside, grainy snow assaulted her as the wind tried to drive her backward. She made it to the Cherokee, climbed inside, and slammed the door. She shifted into four-wheel drive, then turned on the front and back wipers. The Cherokee inched forward, its wheels finding the traction to get her to the access road to I-95. It took her all of forty minutes to steer the Jeep to the ramp that led onto the Interstate. At that precise moment she knew she was making a mistake, but it was too late and there was no way now to get off and head back to the apartment. As far as she could see, it was bumper-to-bumper traffic. Visibility was almost zero. She knew there was a huge green directional sign overhead, but she couldn’t see it.

  “Oh, shit!”

  Mo’s hands gripped the wheel as the car in front of her slid to the right, going off the road completely. She muttered her favorite expletive again. God, what would she do if the wipers iced up? From the sound they were making on the windshield, she didn’t think she’d have to wait long to find out.

  The radio crackled with static, making it impossible to hear what was being said. Winter advisory. She already knew that. Not only did she know it, she was participating in it. She turned it off. The dashboard clock said she’d been on the road for well over an hour and she was nowhere near the Jersey Turnpike. At least she didn’t think so. It was impossible to read the signs with the snow sticking to everything.

  A white Christmas. The most wonderful time of the year. That thought alone had sustained her these past two years. Nothing bad ever happened on Christmas. Liar! Keith dumped you on Christmas Eve, right there in front of the tree. Don’t lie to yourself!

  “Okay, okay,” she muttered. “But this Christmas will be different, this Christmas it will work out.” Keith will make it up to you, she thought. Believe. Sure, and Santa is going to slip down the chimney one minute after midnight.

  Mo risked a glance at the gas gauge. Half. She turned the heater down. Heaters added to the fuel consumption, didn’t they? She thought about the Ferragamo boots she was wearing. Damn, she’d set her rubber boots by the front door so she wouldn’t forget to bring them. They were still sitting by the front door. She wished now for her warm ski suit and wool cap, but she’d left them at her mother’s last year when she went skiing for the last time.

  She tried the radio again. The static was worse than before. So was the snow and ice caking her windshield. She had to stop and clean the blades or she was going to have an accident. With the faint glow of the taillights in front of her, Mo steered the Cherokee to the right. She pressed her flasher button, then waited to see if a car would pass her on the left and how much room she had to exit the car. The parka hood flew backward, exposing her head and face to the snowy onslaught. She fumbled with the wipers and the scraper. The swath they cleared was almost minuscule. God, what was she to do? Get off the damn road at the very next exit and see if she could find shelter? There was always a gas station or truck stop. The problem was, how would she know when she came to an exit?

  Panic rivered through her when she got back into the Jeep. Her leather gloves were soaking wet. She peeled them off, then tossed them onto the backseat. She longed for her padded ski gloves and a cup of hot tea.

  Mo drove for another forty minutes, stopping again to scrape her wipers and windshield. She was fighting a losing battle and she knew it. The wind was razor sharp, the snow coming down harder. This wasn’t just a winter storm, it was a blizzard. People died in blizzards. Some fool had even made a movie about people eating other people when a plane crashed during a blizzard. She let the panic engulf her again. What was going to happen to her? Would she run out of gas and freeze to death? Who would find her? When would they find her? On Christmas Day? She imagined her parents’ tears, their recriminations.

  All of a sudden she realized there were no lights in front of her. She’d been so careful to stay a car length and a half behind the car in front. She pressed the accelerator, hoping desperately to keep up. God in heaven, was she off the road? Had she crossed the Delaware Bridge? Was she on the Jersey side? She simply didn’t know. She tried the radio again and was rewarded with squawking static. She turned it off quickly. She risked a glance in her rearview mirror. There were no faint lights. There was nothing behind her. She moaned in fear. Time to stop, get out and see what she could see.

  Before she climbed from the car, she unzipped her duffel bag sitting on the passenger side. She groped for a tee shirt and wrapped it around her head. Maybe the parka hood would stay on with something besides her silky hair to cling to. Her hands touched a pair of rolled-up sleep sox. She pulled them on. Almost as good as mittens. Did she have two pairs? She found a second pair and pulled them on. She flexed her fingers. No thumb holes. Damn. She remembered the manicure scissors she kept in her purse. A minute later she had thumb holes and was able to hold the steering wheel tightly. Get out, see what you can see. Clean the wipers, use that flashlight. Try your high beams.

  Mo did all of the above. Uncharted snow. No one had gone before her. The snow was almost up to her knees. If she walked around, the snow would go down between her boots and stirrup pants. Knee-highs. Oh, God! Her feet would freeze in minutes. They might not find her until the spring thaw. Where was she? A field? The only thing she knew for certain was, she wasn’t on any kind of a road.

  “I hate you, Keith Mitchell. I mean, I really hate you. This is all your
fault! No, it isn’t,” she sobbed. “It’s my fault for being so damn stupid. If you loved me, you’d wait for me. Tonight was just a time. My mother would tell you I was delayed because of the storm. You could stay at my mother’s or go to your mother’s. If you loved me. I’m sitting here now, my life in danger, because . . . I wanted to believe you loved me. The way I love you. Christmas miracles, my ass!”

  Mo shifted gears, inching the Cherokee forward.

  How was it possible, Mo wondered, to be so cold and yet be sweating? She swiped at the perspiration on her forehead with the sleeve of her parka. In her whole life she’d never been this scared. If only she knew where she was. For all she knew, she could be driving into a pond or a lake. She shivered. Maybe she should get out and walk. Take her chances in the snow. She was in a no-win situation and she knew it. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Maybe the snow wasn’t as deep as she thought it was. Maybe it was just drifting in places. She was saved from further speculation when the Cherokee bucked, sputtered, slugged forward, and then came to a coughing stop. Mo cut the engine, fear choking off her breathing. She waited a second before she turned the ignition key. She still had a gas reserve. The engine refused to catch and turn over. She turned off the heater and the wipers, then tried again with the same results. The decision to get out of the car and walk was made for her.