“We’re a family hotel with a long, well-documented history in the Adirondacks. No flim-flam here.”
Satisfied with the sincerity of her response, Rebecca explained the note and then the woman chuckled. “Our Santa Claus packages are very popular over the holidays. We have a strict confidentiality clause if the giver requests it.”
This time, Rebecca wasn’t so quick to defend the existence of Santa. “And what if a creepy, stalker dude is the giver? Mr. Murphy, for instance.”
“You have a creepy, stalker dude, missy?”
“No,” admitted Rebecca, because Mr. Murphy wasn’t that creative. “It wasn’t my parents, was it?” Bob and Evie Neumann weren’t the most luxury-minded of parents, but it wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility.
The woman laughed. “Could be.”
Rebecca frowned, considering the uncharacteristic generosity. Her family had never been as flush with the green stuff as most of her friends, which perhaps, maybe, okay, probably, had influenced her more avaricious leanings. Her friends? “Natalie!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s just like her. This is a singles place, isn’t it? Oh, no, no, no. Don’t tell me. I want to be surprised.”
“Yes, I’m sure you will be. You’re confirming the reservation, then?”
“A lodge?” Rebecca still wasn’t sure. She wasn’t an over-the-river-and-through-the-woods sort of gal, but Natalie was usually spot-on, and she wanted to escape. If only for a while. If only to let the blood-letting inside her stop.
“We have a four-star restaurant, the suites have in-room whirlpool baths and fireplaces. A full spa—”
“Spa? With pedicures? And in-room foot tubs full of scented bubbles?” The world grew brighter.
“Sure. We can do that. And ice-skating, sledding, a movie theater in town—”
“Stop. You had me at the bubbles.”
It was going to be the perfect escape. The perfect way to get her head together. She’d have a nice, relaxing vacation, and then figure out a way to get her life in order. Preferably something that didn’t involve kids. Maybe retail? She would excel at retail.
“Look us up on the Web, Miss Neumann. You won’t regret it.”
“I’ll be there on Friday.”
Rebecca hung up, a bourbon-flavored smile on her face. Tomorrow she’d hurt, but right now she was happy. “Janine, I’m heading to the Adirondacks, and I’m taking the curling iron with me.”
Friday, December 20th THE SNOW WAS STARTING to fall in huge, blinding flakes, the road nearly invisible even though the wipers were moving faster than the wheels.
Eventually the road disappeared altogether, and Cory Bell swore. He lifted his foot off the accelerator and his pickup slid to a crunching halt. The last thing he needed was to be stuck with another one hundred and seventy miles to go. Hell. He hadn’t even gotten out of the States, yet, and already the never-ending Christmas music was eating at his nerves.
When Christmas came, Cory headed north, running for the French-Canadian mountains where English wasn’t the native language. He didn’t like the holiday, didn’t like being around people for it and chose to find a place where a man could disappear and nobody would care. Cory had learned early on that a disappearing act was the smartest thing he could do.
The windshield was nearly covered in white, and Cory cursed every meteorologist ever born. There wasn’t supposed to be snow yet. Two days ago, they said it was supposed to be “unseasonably warm” until the storm blew in. When the windshield was completely blanketed, he knew that global warming hadn’t kicked in here, at least not yet, and reluctantly he put the car back into Drive. There was a turnoff ahead for Lake Placid. He’d see what was there. All he needed was a restaurant, or a bar with people who saw, heard and said nothing. By the looks of the steely sky, he was going to be stuck for a few hours—at the very least.
* * *
The local cabbie picked Rebecca up from the train station and deposited her in front of a rustic snow-covered wonderland with huge firs lit up like golden Christmas trees. Timberline Lodge was an old-fashioned camping-style lodge, with two large stone support columns, towering timbers and an A-line roof that seemed to go on forever. It wasn’t the quaint bed-and-breakfast she was expecting, but warm and—Christmassy. Was it what she needed right now? She wasn’t sure.
The front door was twice her size, and she heaved it open, trudged inside, hauling her suitcase behind her.
Inside was just as cavernous as out. A stone fireplace climbed up one wall, running three stories to the roof. Rough-hewn timber columns were used to support it, so tall they must have been redwoods. Rebecca, who was used to feeling small, felt extra Lilliputian.
The furnishings weren’t new; some had that homemade look—the real deal. And there might not be eight-hundred-thread-count sheets she had hoped for, judging by the looks of things, but heck, it was a gift, so who was she to complain?
She was stamping her pink UGG boots on the mat, when the door opened and a man entered behind her, his black hair blanketed in white snow.
“You work here?”
The voice was low, more of a growl, but Rebecca had faced worse every morning before 9:00 a.m., and all less than three feet tall. She straightened her mouth into a tight line.
“No.”
“Didn’t think so,” he said, brushing his hair and shrugging out of his coat, tossing it onto the coatrack, and hitting it expertly.
She wanted to ignore him—she really should ignore him—but this one drew her eyes. He was a good head and shoulders taller than her, silky hair, black eyes, thick lashes that still held a few stubborn flakes of white.
The stubble-darkened jaw was square and hard, just another indicator that this man was not a cheery person, nor would he probably ever be. Such magnetic personality traits were the reasons that she kept looking, noticing the brown off-the-rack sweater. Off-the-rack had never looked so good. The blue jeans were old Levi’s, faded, molded to lean hips and long legs. He was thinner than the current style dictated, but it looked right. He was lean, mean and had never owned a Bentley in his life. What a shame. A definite “C” on the Eligibility Scale, although she gave bonus points for smoldering sexuality. If this was any indication of the man quality at Timberline, she could get on board with this new plan. So what if the kids needed her? So what if she didn’t have a job? After all, with the right husband, food and shelter wouldn’t be an issue. And the right position at a philanthropic foundation could do wonders for other kids. New kids, underprivileged, rather than overprivileged.
Rebecca took a deep breath, hung up her coat (the nonathletic way) and stepped aside right as a tiny old lady came up to greet her.
“Miss Neumann, I’m Helen Krause. We’ve been expecting you. I was worried with the weather, thinking you’d be stuck somewhere on the roads.”
“Not a problem for me,” said Rebecca. “I took the train. Mass transit is my friend.” Rebecca lifted her suitcase and the older woman waved it back down.
“Let Roland take care of that.”
“Roland?”
“He’s our doorman, as well as my husband.”
Rebecca envisioned a ninety-year-old man trying to lug her four-ton suitcase up three flights of stairs and frowned. “I can do it.”
Helen took the suitcase in her feeble, birdlike hand. “But you’re a guest.”
Rebecca reached out, ready to protest, but Mr. Lean, Mean and Bentley-Less stepped in between them. “Where’s it going?”
Mrs. Krause smiled nicely, obviously not a devotee of the women’s movement. “Follow me. Aren’t you a dear man to help?”
The man grumbled something that sounded vaguely obscene, but fell into line behind the old woman. Rebecca followed, watching him move up the winding wooden staircase. Okay, there was more ogling, but he moved with an easy, athletic grace that was fun to watch, and filled her with a marvelous tingling sensation. What harm was there in that?
They went u
p three flights, down a hallway, around a corner, around another corner and then down another long hallway. Finally Mrs. Krause stopped outside a room and the man dropped the suitcase with a loud thud. Rebecca winced at the echoing noise. Yes, she should have packed lighter, but a woman needed her accessories.
Mrs. Krause beamed at the man. “You’re staying with Miss Neumann then?” She turned to Rebecca. “I thought you’d be traveling alone.”
“She is,” the man answered. “I’m waiting for the snow to let up. Do you have a restaurant or place I could sit for a few hours? A bar would be great.”
Mrs. Krause looked out the bank of windows, shaking her head. “The dining room will be open for tea shortly, but I’m not sure the snow will be stopping anytime soon.”
“I’ll be fine. You tell me where I can wait and be out of the way.”
“The library’s as nice a place as any. And there’s hot cider and gingerbread cookies.”
His eyes didn’t look happy, but he didn’t say anything, merely headed downstairs. The old woman watched him curiously, before turning her attention back to Rebecca. “You know, I’m not sure your room is ready. I asked the maid to put the portable foot spa in your room, and I don’t think she’s got to it yet. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind waiting in the library, too? I’m afraid this weather has thrown everyone for a loop. The second shift maid couldn’t make it in and we’re a bit shorthanded.”
Rebecca didn’t mind at all. For a portable foot spa, she’d walk through hot coals. She smiled easily. “Not a problem, Mrs. Krause.”
“Please call me Helen.”
“Helen, then. And I’m Rebecca.”
Chapter 3
The library was a cheery place, if one could be swayed by such sentimental trappings. Rebecca could. The fire crackled in the fireplace, and a freshly cut spruce had been decorated with ornaments and tinsel, a lighted star topping it off. Everywhere was pine greenery, red velvet ribbon and mistletoe.
Any other time it would have been relaxing. Now it wasn’t, because of him. Rebecca folded her hands in her lap and stared into the flames. The man sat on the stuffed sofa on the other side of the room, but she could feel him looking, breathing, emoting. Unrestrained tension rolled off him in huge waves—he didn’t want to be here.
However, Rebecca was undeterred. She had coaxed first-year pledges into teasing conversations, she had bribed six-year-olds into confessing that they’d rocketed pencils into the ceiling tiles. And best of all, there wasn’t a man she couldn’t handle. Maybe a weekend flirtation was the best way to get the old Rebecca back.
“Nasty weather, yes?”
“Um,” he answered, more of a grunt than actual vocal articulation. She almost corrected him, but then thought better. Not in the classroom anymore.
“Where were you going? Family for the holidays?” Judging by the worn black cowboy boots, he didn’t look like the “family for the holidays” type, but then, she was the poster child for the “family for the holidays” look, and she was no fan of the experience. That’s what happened when you trapped twenty-three Neumanns into a two-bedroom house. Actually it would have been okay except for Uncle Edgar, who never quite seemed all there, and talked twenty decibels too loud for average human ears.
“I’m heading to Canada.”
“French, as a language, is severely overrated. You should consider Spanish instead. Not only more practical, but the climate is warmer, too.”
His face was set like granite. An even bigger challenge. She cocked her head, smiled and she saw something flicker in the granite.
“You have family around here?” he finally asked.
“In Stafford Hill, Connecticut. This is a chance to get away for a while. Do some thinking. Maybe skiing,” she lied. Everything sounded better than “I just got fired from the only job I’ve ever wanted, and actually I’m hoping to meet someone new.”
He looked around the library. “Nice.”
“I thought it sounded like an adventure,” she answered, as if she were an adventurous soul. Oh, she, who brought eight pairs of shoes, all with three-inch heels (designed to show her short legs off to best advantage).
“Some adventure,” he muttered.
“You don’t want to be here?” she asked, going for the obvious. Better to understand the hostility and embrace it. Resolving conflict was a key job requirement when handling six-year-olds, and apparently surly men.
“Stuck.”
“There are worse places to be stuck,” she answered.
“Name one.”
“Siberia.”
This time he almost cracked a smile, not much more than a quirk of his lips, but mentally she cheered. Okay, the old Rebecca was coming back. She wasn’t beaten down. She could feel it.
Normally she didn’t try so hard, but the dark, somber eyes struck a raw place inside her. They were eyes like Pepper Buckley’s, hollow and ancient. The pain there was like a loud ringing inside her head. Not that there was anything she could do, but she couldn’t leave it alone.The silence grew longer until a couple wandered into the room. Newlyweds, by the way they were ignoring the rest of the world. Hand in hand, eyes glued to each other. Until they spotted the mistletoe hanging from the chandelier in the middle of the room. Mistletoe made Rebecca happy, no question, because she was a world-champion kisser, and had parlayed an “accidental” mistletoe kiss into a full-blown relationship more times than she could count. However, watching others in the midst of moonstruck happiness wasn’t really her thing. She was way too competitive.
The woman looked up at her lover, quirked a brow in invitation and then they kissed. Long, longer, endlessly, everlastingly, infinitely, skin-flayingly long. Thankfully no tongues looked to be involved. Rebecca felt her face bloom in uncharacteristic hotness.
She sneaked a peek at the room’s other occupant, to see if he noticed, to see if he was uncomfortable, to see if he was getting turned on. He wasn’t looking at her, he was staring fixedly at the fire, which was somehow worse. He was ignoring her.
Quickly Rebecca looked away before he saw her staring at him, and then he would think that she was the desperate type—which she wasn’t normally.
The couple broke apart, took a cup of cider (which they shared) and wandered out, leaving Rebecca in an interminably fidgety state. She crossed her legs together and tried to look casual. Nearly an impossibility, but four summers of charm school training made every impossibility a possibility.
Rebecca got up and wandered to the bookshelves, looking for conversational diversions. There were a million diversions on the bookshelves. A collection of classical literature, thrillers, historical fiction and science fiction. She moved from row to row, trying to determine which one suited him best.
“They have a nice collection of Westerns here. McMurtry, Zane Gray. Do you like Westerns?”
He didn’t even look up. “No.”
Rebecca heaved a loud sigh, which, if he were a more sensitive type, would have been seen as a subtle rebuke. “Cup of cider?”
“With rum?” he asked hopefully, turning in her direction.
She scanned the table. “No, sorry.”
“I’ll pass.”
She poured a cup for herself, took a sip and then leaned gracefully against the old antique table. “Where did you come from?”
He looked at her closely. “Curious, aren’t you?”
“Simply making conversation. I love to talk to people, make new friends.”
“I don’t.”
A second couple wandered in. A tall, modelesque woman, with her very own Adirondack Ken, complete with red-wool plaid shirt. Of course, it took them less than a minute to find the mistletoe. Rebecca clocked it. After seven minutes of R-rated tongue action, Rebecca made discreet choking sounds.
The man met her eyes, and laughed.
“Nice weather we’re having. Warm enough for you?” she hollered to him.
The model pulled away from Ken, thankfully, and flashed a photogenic pout.
Rebecca wasn’t cowed. “Do I know you? Didn’t we do rehab together? Susie? Shirley? Or was it a ‘J’ name?”
The woman pulled at Ken’s hands and the two left the room, off in search of new and more unusual public displays of affection.
“Little punchy there, aren’t you?” the man asked. “I thought you’d be making new friends.”
“Very nice,” she answered, sounding punchy.
“Rehab, huh?”
“It just came out. Sorry.”
“You could’ve left the room.”
“So could you.”
“Maybe I like to watch,” he said, and Rebecca swallowed. Hard.
She met his eyes and shrugged. “Maybe I do, too.”
“Where’s your Romeo?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Why are you here alone? Somebody stand you up?”
“Christmas gift.”
“A solo pass to a couples joint? Does this person like you?”
“This isn’t a couples joint,” she insisted, just as another couple entered the room. Again.
Rebecca turned to the stranger, her face contorted with misery. “I didn’t mean to get pregnant. It was an accident. You have to believe me.”
The couple wheeled around and left. Problem solved.
“You an actress?” he asked, his arms folded over his chest. Somewhere along the way, she had moved from mouthy pest to curiosity. Progress. Definite progress.
“Seventeen years of watching General Hospital. I teach school. What about you?”
“I build things.”
“Big, officey things, or smaller, residential-type things?” she asked, curious. He looked like a builder. Probably drove a pickup. American made. Six-cylinder, possibly an extended bed. Nothing remotely sleek, or Italian. She really wanted to move him up on her scale, but he kept inserting barriers.
“Home renovation stuff. You teach really young kids, don’t you?”
She’d heard that tone before, the easy dismissal. “Why do you think that?”
A Blazing Little Christmas Page 17