Mistletoe Magic

by Fern Michaels

  “Sweetie, I could never be upset with you for wanting to protect our child.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “But I will give you a great big hickey in front of my entire family if you don’t tell me, tell us if we need to paint the nursery pink or blue.”

  Again, all eyes were focused on the couple, and their two girls. “Maybe striped. Because you see, there seems to be one of each. So to answer your question”—Stephanie beamed—“we’re having twins. A boy and a girl.”

  More whoops and hollers, and tears. Congratulations were said again and again.

  Claire watched her brother and her sister-in-law and prayed that she and Quinn would always be as happy as they were at this exact moment.

  When the excitement died down, and plans for baby showers, new baby furniture, and names dominated the conversation, Quinn grabbed Claire and whisked her outside.

  “It’s freezing out here! Have you lost your mind?” Claire asked, though she was teasing and thrilled to be alone with him even if it were only for a few minutes.

  “I have not lost my mind, at least not yet, but I have lost my heart. To you. Donald got his wish after all, and he really didn’t need to do a thing.”

  “Well, poor old soul, he loves his castle and his country. What more can a man want?”

  Quinn gathered her in his arms, tilting her chin up so she could look into his eyes. “You, Claire. I want you.”

  She smiled up at him. “I’m all yours.”

  “No, I mean for always and forever. I want to share the rest of my life with you. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Claire had expected anything, but not a proposal, but then she remembered who she was dealing with. “I would be honored to spend my life with you, Mister Christmas.”

  Quinn kissed her with such passion, Claire’s rumba dancer’s went wild.

  “I love you, Claire O’Brien.”

  “And I love you, Quinn Connor.”

  “Let’s go inside and tell the rest of the family we’re all going to Ireland Christmas Day.”

  Claire’s heart swelled with love.

  Life was good. Very, very good.

  A Winter Wonderland

  Chapter 1

  December 2012

  Angelica Shepard tossed aside the script she’d been reading. It was beyond her skills as an actress even to begin to get into character for a part in yet another off-off-Broadway play under financial duress, and most likely—and this is only if she was lucky—it would have a short run, and the reviews would be atrocious.

  When she began to study acting right out of high school, she’d given herself ten years to “make it” to the top. Meaning, she would be able to support herself and, if the gods smiled on her, she’d be able to quit her second job. At eighteen, ten years had seemed like a lifetime. Now at thirty-two, four years past her self-imposed deadline, she was still searching for the role that would catapult her to stardom.

  She glanced at the script, then told herself to forget it. Something better was sure to come along.

  A cup of tea would be nice right now, she decided as she walked three feet from her living room/bedroom to the small kitchen—if you could even call it a kitchen. It consisted of one small counter, four cabinets that hung above the countertop, a mini-stove, and a refrigerator. She’d made the best of the limited space, calling it home for more than ten years. It was a small studio, even by New York standards, but Angelica couldn’t help feeling a wee bit of pride. Purchasing the place on her own, and in the city, was quite an accomplishment. Yes, she had to supplement her acting career with a part-time job bartending at one of New York’s hottest nightspots, but without that job, she would never have been able to pay the mortgage, much less continue to pursue an acting career. Many times, Angelica had wanted to throw in the towel and just work at the club full-time, but she was determined to pursue an acting career a while longer. Maybe after six months, she would once again reevaluate her career choice.

  She filled the white ceramic teakettle from the tap and placed it on top of the burner. Walking the few feet back into the living room/bedroom, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the small chest of drawers that held her entire wardrobe. She had medium-length coffee-colored hair and hazel eyes, which were just beginning to reveal the first signs of crow’s-feet. Her skin was still smooth, her lips full, her teeth perfectly aligned, but she could see the beginning signs of aging. Maybe she should consider having Botox injections. Her friends swore by the stuff. But the thought of injecting botulism in her system was a bit too much.

  She’d had high hopes for a part she’d auditioned for just last week. The role had called for an actress in her mid to late twenties who could sing reasonably well, dance, and, of course, act. Her agent, Al Greenberg, a kindly old guy who’d been in the business forever, had promised her he would call and tell her if she’d gotten the part. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than her cell phone’s musical ring filled the small studio apartment at the same time the teakettle began its low whistle. She grabbed her cell phone, leapt to the stove, and removed the kettle.

  “Hello,” she said anxiously.

  “Angelica, my dear, how is my favorite client?”

  She took a deep breath. “It depends on why you’re calling,” she said, hoping to sound light and silly rather than dark and desperate.

  Al laughed before responding. “Now, now, don’t hold me responsible for your moods, kiddo.” He paused.

  Angelica heard his intake of breath and knew then that his reason for calling was not to impart the news she’d hoped for. A heavy sigh escaped her before she spoke. “Go ahead, Al. Shoot.”

  “I couldn’t believe it when I heard it myself. Ross called.” Ross was the director and producer of the play Angelica had auditioned for. “He wants Waverly Costas for the part.”

  Silence.

  Al did not need to explain to her what that meant. Waverly Costas was twenty-three, with beautiful ash brown hair and a body to match. The sad thing was, and Angelica couldn’t help but acknowledge the fact, the younger woman was actually a gifted actress. Her stomach instantly knotted, and her eyes pooled.

  Darn, dang, and double darn! She’d really wanted the part! Inhaling, then slowly exhaling as she’d been taught in her yoga class, Angelica chewed her bottom lip, then plunked down on the cream-colored sofa. “It’s okay, Al. As you always say, it must not be the right part for me.”

  She heard Al’s heavy sigh. “That’s true. It takes time. Everyone wants to star on Broadway. You know the competition is tough, but your time will come, Angie.” He used the pet name that he’d given her years ago.

  “Sure, Al. You’ve been telling me that for how long now?” Of course, she knew exactly how long. He’d been her agent for twelve years. Yes, she’d had a number of good roles, all supporting, but never a lead.

  “Ahh, come on, Angie, don’t be discouraged. I hear that Johnny Jones has something in the works. It’ll be the perfect role for you. Rumor is that Morgan Freeman has accepted the leading male role.”

  How many times had she missed out on “the perfect role”? And this one was with Morgan Freeman? Her favorite male actor in the world. Al knew it, too. She could just see it now. Her name beneath his on the playbill. Blotting her eyes with a corner of the dark green throw tossed on the back of the sofa, Angelica took another deep breath. “Listen, Al. We both know I’m not getting any younger. Maybe it’s time to call it quits. We know youth rules the business these days. The younger, the better. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me, truly I do. Maybe I’ll take some time off during the holidays, rethink my career choice.”

  Al’s robust laughter filled her ears. “I think that’s an excellent idea, Angie, best I’ve heard all day. Why don’t you head out West? I know how much you enjoy skiing. Hell, who knows, you might even meet some lucky ski bum.”

  Her spirits sank even further. Al sure had a way of making her feel good about herself today. “Yeah, that�
��s what I’ll do. As a matter of fact, I’ll call the travel agency now. I’ll get in touch when I return.”

  “See? That’s the attitude! You have a Merry Christmas, kid, and I’ll see you when you come home. Who knows what’ll be waiting for you?”

  “Yeah, who knows? Merry Christmas, Al.” Angelica disconnected. She suddenly felt as though she were about to say a final good-bye to her dreams.

  Fourteen years of hard work.

  Down the drain.

  Chapter 2

  Dr. Parker North, trauma surgeon at Denver’s Angel of Mercy Hospital for the past eight years, dropped the blood-soaked bluish-green scrubs into a disposal bin. The coppery smell of blood filled his nostrils as he removed the paper covers from his Nike cross trainers. Inside the physicians’ changing room, he took from his assigned locker his favorite pair of faded Levi’s and a worn-out gray T-shirt that read HARVARD MEDICAL in faded black letters, and tossed both articles of clothing on a metal chair. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he saw that his dark hair was in need of a trim. Gray half-moons rimmed his dark eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good night’s sleep, but apparently his eyes had another story to tell, looking like he’d just woken up.

  He stepped inside the stall, hoping to wash away the day’s memories. Under the shower’s warm, pelting spray, Dr. North mentally relived every last detail of the patient he’d spent the last three hours trying to save. Eight years old. It sickened him to think of the loss, the heartache the family felt. Seeing the young girl’s parents break down had more of an effect on him than anything he had ever experienced before. Sadly, patients dying was part of the job, and Parker knew it. But seeing a perfectly healthy child die senselessly was not a part of his job that he relished. And knowing that the child’s death could have been prevented, it was hard to accept. He truly sympathized with the parents, but he was also very angry. The little girl’s death was the result of a total lack of parental responsibility.

  Vigorously, he lathered up with the harsh antimicrobial soap the hospital provided. He scrubbed his skin until it hurt, but he knew that no matter how much he tried, he could not erase from his memory the image of the little girl’s lifeless body.

  She had been airlifted from Aurora, the third largest city in Colorado, just eight air miles away. Parker had been informed of her arrival minutes before the life chopper had landed in its designated area. He and his trauma team were prepared for the patient’s arrival. Knowing it was a child put the team on high alert, not that an adult elicited any less of a response. They’d been informed by the paramedics that their patient had been hit by a vehicle while riding her bicycle on the street where she lived. They were also told the child had not been wearing a helmet. There were massive head injuries and severe blood loss.

  Parker knew the statistics. The survival rate among children with head injuries was not good. Not at all. How could parents allow their children to ride bicycles without the proper headgear? A twenty-dollar helmet could prevent an extraordinarily large amount of traumatic brain injuries, especially in children. And donor blood could drastically improve one’s chances when a significant amount was lost. This accident could’ve been prevented.

  The swish of the trauma center’s entrance doors and the thundering footsteps of the paramedics jolted him into the present. There was no time for what-ifs. He had a life to save.

  Flashes of dark blue whizzed past Parker as he raced toward the gurney that held the victim. Quickly, Parker assessed the girl’s visible wounds. Her left arm was almost detached from her shoulder, her right foot was shattered, the bones haphazardly resembling a set of pickup sticks. Most concerning, she did not appear to feel any pain. After a hasty examination of the still child, Parker said, “Let’s get a CT scan, stat.”

  Within seconds, a portable computed tomography—CT unit—was quickly wheeled into the trauma unit next to the gurney. The technicians made fast work of performing the CT and getting the results to radiology.

  Parker did what was required of him, but knew at this point that his efforts might not save this little girl’s life. She’d lost way too much blood and was completely unresponsive. When the tech returned with the CT results, Parker’s heart plunged to his feet and back. The parents needed to be told of her condition immediately.

  “Where are the parents?” Dr. North barked.

  “They’re on their way,” a nurse offered.

  Dr. North nodded and probed the child’s neck. “We don’t have much time. Let’s get this child to surgery. There is intracranial pressure.” He looked at the machine, which beeped with the child’s vitals. Her oxygen level was dropping. Fast.

  “Let’s get moving! We don’t have much time.” Knowing the little girl’s chances were slim to none, Dr. Parker North was going to do everything within his power to see that she survived.

  Two and a half hours later, he knew it was time to inform the parents of their loss.

  * * *

  Parker turned the water off and stood inside the shower, mindless of the cold water dripping off him as he remembered his unsuccessful efforts to save the patient. A child was dead, two parents were devastated, and his skill as a trauma neurosurgeon was not up to standards, at least not his standards. He should have been able to save the girl. He had tried every medical procedure he knew, but sadly, her injuries were just too severe.

  Knowing it was useless to continue to mentally flagellate himself, he reached for the white towel that hung limply on a rusting steel rod.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was dressed and in his rusted Ford pickup truck heading to his apartment just blocks away from the hospital. He was a trauma surgeon, and part of the job was being there when he was needed. He could make it from bed to the hospital in nine minutes flat. Faster if he ran the two traffic lights between his apartment and the hospital.

  After today’s loss, Parker North had decided to do something he hadn’t done since he’d begun his residency. He was taking some much-needed time away from his duties as a doctor. What had happened today made him realize the true value of life and his role as a doctor in saving precious lives. He’d never suffered from the God complex that some doctors did, but at that moment he wished for any other profession than that of a doctor. Seeing the looks on the faces of the parents when he had told them he hadn’t been able to save their daughter had made him cringe.

  He’d wanted to be a doctor his entire life. His father had been a cardiologist, but, sadly, he’d died from a heart attack before Parker had graduated from high school. His mother was still alive and well but spent most of her time hopping from one cruise ship to another, so it was only very occasionally that he saw her. After his father’s unexpected death, his mother hadn’t been the same. And if he was honest with himself, he hadn’t been either. His father’s death had led him to this very moment in time. And right now, he did not want to be a doctor. He did not want the responsibility of holding another human being’s life in his hands.

  Maybe it was time to consider a career change.

  Chapter 3

  Angelica headed for the car-rental agency at Denver International Airport just as she had numerous times in the past. She never tired of seeing the extensive art collection as she made her way through the airport, where she’d reserved a four-wheel-drive vehicle. Sculptures, murals, and dozens of paintings rivaled those in many of New York City’s museums.

  She located the rental booth quickly, placing her carry-on beside her as she joined the other travelers in the lengthy line. She’d never seen the line quite so long but remembered it was the Christmas season. Like New York City during the holidays, the Colorado city was transformed into a shiny magical land of dreams and never-ending cheer. This was her first trip away from the city during the holiday season. Suddenly, she doubted her decision to leave, to ski and pretend her life was as it should be.

  It could be worse, she thought, as she viewed the long lines at the other car-rental counters. She had her health, a
decent amount of savings, and a home of her own. Sort of. Hers and the bank who held the mortgage. For now, Angelica figured this was as good as it was going to get. She decided she would enjoy the next two weeks and forget about her acting career and anything connected to New York. Or at least she would try.

  As she waited in the ever-growing line, she observed the scene around her. Tourists from all over the world occupied every available inch of space. Some carried gigantic pieces of luggage. Others, like herself, pulled a small carry-on behind them, while some, mostly people with families, pushed fancy strollers as small children lugged mini-suitcases with their favorite superhero characters emblazoned on them. Backpacks of every shape, size, and color perched on the backs of many. Businessmen in Brooks Brothers suits carried their iPads in soft leather cases. Angelica couldn’t help but smile. Technology. She hadn’t upgraded to the latest and greatest in the technological field since her profession didn’t require much more than a telephone, but someday she’d investigate the high-tech world and decide if the leap was worth it.

  Slowly, the line inched forward. She continued to peruse her surroundings while she waited. The voices of children could be heard throughout the airport, their shouts of welcome and cries of good-bye suddenly making her homesick for the familiar sights and sounds of New York City. The scents from street-side vendors hawking roasted chestnuts, skewers of overcooked meat, and soggy hot dogs permeated the city. The acrid odor from the subway, and the exhaust from hundreds of taxis that traversed the city, were as familiar and comforting to her as a child’s favorite blanket—which brought to mind the red and green afghan she’d knitted years ago and had kept in her tiny dressing room at the Forty-seventh Street Playhouse. She’d left it there after her last performance and had never gone back to retrieve it. Maybe another young actor could use it. The backstage at the theater was always too cold anyway. Her last conversation with Al let her know she was on the downside of her career. There wouldn’t be time to knit backstage while waiting for her call. At her age, she’d be lucky to get an acting job in a dinner theater. The kind where the actors and actresses waited tables in between acts.