Holiday for Two (a duet of Christmas novellas)

by Maggie Robinson, Elyssa Patrick

  Griffin would go exploring instead, inspect the structure as if it were a renovation project. These old Yankee carpenters were famous for their construction techniques—they’d honed their skills on clipper ships and it always gave him joy to see their fine craftsmanship when it applied to houses and outbuildings.

  “Where are you going?” He saw she’d already poured wine into two red plastic cups.

  “Just taking inventory.”

  Aside from the usual items to be found in a twenty-first century garage, there were more paper products and canned items along the wire shelves. He wouldn’t tell her about the tin-opening tool on his knife or she’d probably make him dine on institutional-size cans of cold baked beans and peaches later. Someone had gone quite mad at Sam’s Club. The toilet paper alone would last until next Christmas even if the inn was fully booked all year long.

  Griffin walked around the car to the stairs that led to the storage space above. The banister was original and well-worn, though a few stair treads had been replaced. He noticed a door set under the stairway and opened it.

  By God, a loo. Without thinking, he ran water in the tiny sink and flushed the toilet. A working loo. If he used it, he’d better be careful—a man his height would knock himself unconscious on the underside of the stairs.

  What an unexpected amenity. Should he tell Miss Moore? He’d never get her out of here.

  Too late to keep his secret. She popped up behind him, holding a red cup in each hand.

  “Wow! All the comforts of home. We really lucked out, didn’t we? Here’s to Santa—I mean Father Christmas—and his elves!” She handed him the cup and it would have been churlish to refuse.

  “Cheers,” he said, not feeling cheerful at all. The wine was as excellent as he’d expected. Griffin wondered if he had any Advil in his suitcase.

  Maybe he was hungry, too. Like Miss Moore, he hadn’t had lunch, hoping to get ahead of the storm. That had proved to be impossible. He’d finally stopped on the turnpike to use the rest room and wound up buying only the orange monstrosity of a hat. He had not been one bit tempted by the greasy fried chicken or industrial hamburger patties on offer.

  Griffin seldom found himself ahead of any storms except when it came to work, and there he seemed to be inordinately blessed. As for the rest of his life—

  “This is really excellent, isn’t it? I’m not much of a wine connoisseur. I bet you’ve got a wine cellar at Archer Hall.”

  Yes, and it was mostly empty save for the dust and spiders. Griffin’s father had sold the last of the wine to pay for roof repairs. Griffin supposed he’d developed his interest in the renovation of old buildings by living in one and praying the ceiling wouldn’t cave in.

  He took another sip. “I’m not much for wine, either. I can’t afford the good stuff, and there’s no point to the other.”

  Miss Moore raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t know. Cheap wine has its charms.”

  “If one cannot afford the best, one should go without.” Or so his father had always said. Of course, the man had never gone without anything as far as Griffin could remember.

  “Really? Do you believe that? I can’t afford an original Klimt, but I’ve got some postcards on a bulletin board in my office. They give me great pleasure.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather have one of his paintings?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure I would. The responsibility of housing a priceless masterpiece, you know. I probably couldn’t pay the insurance premiums. And why should I be the only one to see it? That seems selfish. Art should be available to everyone.”

  “You’re a Bolshevik, then.”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind. I don’t wish to argue with you.” Griffin pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to distract himself from his headache.

  “Wait a second. I did study history along with my art. Are you calling me some kind of communist? I hate to tell you, but communism is completely unfashionable here. People throw the word around, but they haven’t the faintest idea what it means. Communist News Network. Honestly.” She actually snorted.

  “I’d prefer we didn’t discuss politics.” Or anything. Griffin thought about the plaid blanket. There were some boat cushions tucked up in the rafters. Why shouldn’t he go to sleep at four o’clock? It was not as if he wanted to be awake.

  “I don’t want to discuss politics either. Or religion. My parents told me not to, particularly with people who seemed—” She paused, a faint tinge of pink on her cheeks.

  He raised his eyebrow now, feeling certain the pixie was about to insult him. “Seemed?”

  “Difficult.”

  “You think I’m difficult?”

  Miss Moore nodded. “Admit it. You’re not in a very good mood.”

  “Of course I’m not in a good mood! I’m stuck trespassing in a bloody barn in a snowstorm.”

  She looked up at him, her brown eyes magnified by her lenses. She wasn’t really bad-looking, just somewhat ordinary except for her crazy hair. That dull beige jumper did nothing for her, either. “Well, so am I.”

  “Yes, but you live here.” How stupid and stuffy he sounded.

  “Not really. I’ve only been in Maine six months. No native would ever call me a Mainer. Not Mainiac, by the way. You know what they say. ‘Just because the cat has her kittens in the oven, it doesn’t make them biscuits.’”

  It took him a minute to work that out, and then he couldn’t help but laugh. “All right. We’re both fish out of water, to use another aphorism. I suppose we should make the best of it.”

  “Stiff upper lip and all that.”

  When she looked at him with that mischievous expression, he decided she was rather cute. Not a haughty beauty like Alice, who had been born to land on the Frontispiece page of Country Life. And had, when their engagement had been announced.

  “I shall do my best to salvage the reputation of the United Kingdom, Miss Moore. I’ve been a bit of a prat, haven’t I?”

  “I’m not sure what a prat is,” Miss Moore said, “but it sounds about right. And you should call me Carrie. If you don’t mind, I don’t think I can Lord Archer you all night, either. Is it okay if I call you Griffin? I won’t get beheaded for my lack of etiquette?”

  “Alas, my sword is in my other suitcase.” Griffin had not brought much with him—he was supposed to drive back to Boston the day after Christmas, much to Aunt Rosemary’s dismay. He hadn’t wanted to come up at all, feeling as unfestive as he did.

  “As long as you have your knife and don’t decide to use it on me, just the pate and cheese.”

  Griffin’s stomach rumbled. “All right. Let’s get this party started.”

  He left Miss Moore—Carrie—to organize the food and fought his way to his car in the driveway. The snow had drifted halfway up the doors, and it was a struggle to open the boot and get his beat-up leather weekend bag. He might have time to go over the Boylston Street reno contracts tonight, and he’d have a change of clothing for tomorrow. Fingers crossed they would just be able to slip across the road—not literally, he hoped—get on the morning ferry and put this wretched incident behind them before the authorities pounced.

  Griffin supposed he’d try to sleep later in the clothes he was wearing. It would be awkward to don pajamas in front of a perfect stranger, not that he had any with him. He usually slept in the buff and had counted on the privacy his aunt’s summer home was to afford him. With all those bedrooms and en suite bathrooms, he would be unlikely to be disturbed in his natural state.

  Where would he sleep? The plaid blanket on hard concrete was not at all appealing. Maybe Carrie had a point—the car might be his only chance at getting any rest.

  Griffin stamped his feet and shook the snow from his hair upon entering the carriage house. This time he’d taken the precaution of folding his glasses and leaving them behind on the windowsill. When he put them on, he saw paper plates were set at opposite ends of the blanket, with a small but choice variety of food items
in the center. One might consider the whole scenario romantic, if one had any romantic bones unbroken in one’s body.

  “What’s in your bag? I don’t have dessert.”

  Griffin sat down Indian-fashion, unzipping his coat at last. “Sorry to disappoint. Oh, wait. I sent the major presents ahead, but I do have a box of fancy chocolates from Burdick’s for my aunt.”

  “I’m sure she won’t mind if we eat them. Needs must and all that.”

  “Then you don’t know the woman at all. She’s mad for chocolate.”

  “I think she’s found a substitute.” Carrie leaned forward, looking terribly earnest all of a sudden. “I’m really worried about her. I don’t want to rat her out, but you’re family. Maybe you can do something. Talk to her.”

  His aunt’s last PA had tried to convince him that his aunt was losing her memory when they stayed at Archer Hall last year. It had all been a scheme to get power of attorney for Aunt Rosemary’s feckless third husband, the blighter.

  What was this one up to? Aunt Rosemary had singularly bad luck with PAs and husbands.

  Griffin reached for a misshapen roll. “Heavens. It’s not cocaine again, is it?”

  Carrie’s mouth dropped open. She wasn’t wearing any lipstick, but her lips were pink enough. “Mrs. Stephens took cocaine? I don’t believe it!”

  “It was the eighties. Somewhat before my time, although I might have been in nappies. Everyone did.”

  “Not everyone.” She still looked shocked.

  “She told my father it helped with her deadlines.” Griffin split the roll, spread on some pâté and held it out. Carrie fumbled and it dropped to her plate.

  “No. You must be wrong. She seems so—so—”

  “Queenly?”

  “Exactly! She’s so very proper. She’s—she’s an icon. Like Agatha Christie. I can’t tell you how much I admire her—her books are timeless.” There had been four seasons of them on ITV in the nineties, always in re-runs somewhere, the source of his aunt’s millions. Alimony had played its part, too.

  “It was just a phase, I think. She’s been on the straight and narrow for yonks, so don’t bother going to the tabloids.”

  Carrie shot up off the blanket, not exactly towering over him since she wasn’t very tall. “I would never! Believe me, I’ve seen and heard a lot of strange stuff in my line of work. People have problems—they don’t need to be persecuted for them by the press. Poor Mrs. Stephens.”

  She really did look stricken. Her face was pale as the snow outside, and Griffin felt a tiny bit of guilt for lying. But if he opened up the National Enquirer next week and saw an article about his aunt, he’d know the source and get her fired. Aunt Rosemary didn’t need to be betrayed again.

  “Sit down, sit down. What’s my aunt into to now?”

  “Gin.”

  Griffin shrugged. He made himself a pate sandwich and added a chunk of aged Vermont cheddar. Didn’t anyone in Maine make cheese? “That’s just the family curse. It’s in the DNA. All Archers drink gin.”

  “Do you?”

  “On occasion. But never to excess. I’m trying to break the cycle.” Someone had to.

  Carrie looked down at the roll as if it would jump up and bite her. “My goodness. Not much surprises me, but I admit I’m gobsmacked about your aunt. I love that word, by the way.”

  Griffin made up his mind. “I take it you haven’t seen her tattoo or heard about her night with Keith Richards either.”

  He tried to keep a straight face but it was impossible.

  Carrie made a fist, but she had such a small hand that even if she hit him, it wouldn’t hurt. “You! You must think I’m the most gullible person on earth.” Her cheeks were definitely rosy now.

  “Not quite. I appreciate your concern for her. She’s a grand old girl, and I’m very fond of her. Can you imagine Aunt Rosemary snorting cocaine? It would ruin her make-up. Not to mention she is the most disciplined woman I’ve ever known. She always keeps calm and carries on, no matter what. She practically invented the stiff upper lip. I doubt she even takes ibuprofen.”

  “You’re wrong there. It’s been a while since you’ve seen her. A year ago last summer, right? Her knees are killing her lately. All this cold and damp. And she’s got writer’s block.”

  “Well, that’s not to be wondered at. How many books has she written?”

  “Sixty-two.”

  Griffin waved his sandwich at her. “There you are. Who has sixty-three books in them? She’d do better to kill off snoopy old Miss Thingummy and retire. That woman has discovered more dead bodies than there are people in England.”

  “Miss Patterson. People love her. Your aunt gets fan mail every day—actual hand-written letters, not just e-mail.”

  She was relaxing enough now to eat and drink more wine. They talked more about the blunt-spoken prickly Miss Patterson, whom Griffin saw as his aunt’s fictional clone. Carrie had read every single book before she took the position, and he had to admire her for her commitment.

  Griffin had played a silly trick on her, but it had been useful in its way. Carrie Moore appeared to genuinely care for his aunt, unlike her grasping predecessor Iris, who’d slept with Aunt Rosemary’s third and now ex-husband Billy and schemed to get her claws on those millions.

  It had been a hard year for his aunt, and Griffin hadn’t helped any by staying away. He should have come up last summer, but he was getting settled into the new job. But he was here now, more or less, and tomorrow he and Diana would put their heads together and see how they could help.

  Diana. Not known for her tact. Aunt Rosemary’s hackles would rise like a hedgehog’s. “Have you talked to my cousin about this gin business?”

  “Not yet. And now I won’t have to—you can tell her.”

  Just great. How many times had Griffin tried to reason with his father about his drinking? An army regiment didn’t have enough fingers and toes to count.

  He may as well try to enjoy himself tonight, for the next two days were bound to be unpleasant. Maybe he should stay in Maine longer to subject himself to more misery. The office was closed until January 2, although he’d planned on going in anyhow.

  The fluorescent lights above flickered.

  Bloody hell.

  “Oh, cra—uh, cripes. Edna told me the power is already out on the island, but that’s pretty common. Any little gust of wind and your aunt’s generator kicks in for the big stuff. The heat and fridge and stove. She’ll be fine. I hope we don’t lose the electricity on the mainland.”

  Griffin felt the flags of color on his cheeks. He was about to be practical, but somewhat improper nonetheless. One did not discuss one’s bodily functions with strangers. “Perhaps you should make use of the facility while it still flushes. I can fill up some buckets with snow to melt just in case we need them.”

  Carrie smiled at him. “Were you a Boy Guide?”

  “They’re called Scouts at home as well. And no. Whatever useful plumbing information I possess I picked up on my own.” The clanking bathrooms at Archer Hall were primitive in comparison to the neat little cubby under the stairs, another set of upgrades Griffin couldn’t afford.

  Carrie hopped up and disappeared around the corner. Griffin surveyed the remains of their dinner. He rose and pulled a red cooler off the shelves. It might be smart to save some of this for tomorrow. Pate for breakfast—why not?

  No, by breakfast time, they’d be on the boat going across the bay. Someone could scramble them eggs when they got there. There would still be time to cook the turkey—

  The turkey. He’d better fetch it from the snowbank before it froze solid. It would be safe enough from spoiling in the cooler if he set it outside.

  He took off his glasses again and put on his jacket, gloves and hat. Lifting a spade from its hook on the wall, Griffin ventured outside again. How far had he thrown the damn thing? He poked the spade gingerly into the masses of drifting snow, finding a garden urn and a small bush. Why hadn’t they noticed the cooler bef
ore he’d tossed the turkey?

  The fact was, Griffin was trying not to notice anything except the architecture after the little criminal mastermind picked the lock. If he was unaware of his surroundings, he wasn’t really there, right? If he didn’t look at Carrie Moore, he wouldn’t notice the beauty mark at the left corner of those unadorned full pink lips or see the way her glasses slid down her pert freckled nose. He would not observe the chickeny way her hair had dried and want to fluff her feathers down.

  She didn’t look old enough to vote, but apparently she was competent and organized. Aunt Rosemary had mentioned how pleased she was with her new PA, but checking the girl out had been one of the reasons Griffin had convinced himself to come. He was determined Aunt Rosemary not be taken advantage of again.

  Diana had not been especially helpful. She was in the middle of a messy divorce herself, and her children were spending the holiday with her soon-to-be ex-husband in Florida. Lucky little devils to miss out on this infernal snow.

  The Archer descendants were hell on marriages and engagements. What was Griffin even doing by thinking of Carrie—Miss Moore—in any way other than a professional one? Pink lips and a beauty marks. Faugh. Call it a mole and be done with it.

  The blade of his shovel hit something solid. At last, because his ballocks were about to freeze. Best not to think of them either. He hefted the turkey from its white nest and dumped it into the cooler that he’d set hard by the carriage house. No doubt he’d have to dig it out tomorrow when the snow stopped.

  It would stop, wouldn’t it? It rarely snowed in his patch of England, and certainly never like this. He could be in Switzerland.

  Hell, he wished he was in Switzerland, away from family and well-meaning strangers.

  Griffin returned to the scene of the crime to find Carrie sitting in the car, ensconced behind the steering wheel. It was on the wrong side—this car had been made for the American market.