His Holiday Heart

by Jillian Hart

  Why did it have to be Spence? What she would give for time to change. She dashed through the house flicking on lights. Since she hadn’t closed the blinds yet, she had a perfect view of him striding with athletic grace up the front steps. He was carrying something—she couldn’t seem to focus on it. It was the look he wore that drew and kept her attention like a supercharged magnet. He wasn’t scowling any longer. He wasn’t frowning. She didn’t think she had ever seen that expression on his face before. It was a little like kindness.

  Oh, no. She skidded to a stop, heart pounding with dread. She could handle his frown. She was prepared for his scowling demeanor. She could even take the troubled Spence she had seen earlier today. But a kind Spence McKaslin was something she couldn’t handle. Was it too late to pretend she wasn’t home?

  He rapped on the window—not the door. Startled out of her thoughts, she realized he had spotted her. Too late. There was nothing left to do but face the music and Spence McKaslin. She watched him nod and point toward her door.

  She nodded. Yes, she would let him in. She dragged her feet forward. The worst had already happened. Not only did he know about the sorest spot in her soul, something terribly private and painful, but he had seen her like this. At least it couldn’t get worse. She said a quick prayer, braced herself and opened the door.

  “Sorry to drop by like this.” The big man towered politely on her doorstep with a baby Christmas tree tucked in one arm and a file folder clutched in his other hand. “I needed to say something to you, and I didn’t want to say it over the phone.”

  Icy air breezed right through her and she shivered. It was too cold to make him stand outside. “Come in. I’ll make us some tea.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  She backed up so he could enter, aware of his masculine presence in her domain. Something about him tugged at her spirit. Something about him made her want to be the kind of girl who could start dreaming again. Her dreams were fictional these days and nothing more. She closed the door. “Let me take your coat.”

  “First this.” He held out the live tree. “This is for you.”

  “For me?” That seemed unlikely. The adorable little fir was decorated with a single string of tiny white lights, a golden garland and silver and gold ornaments. A delicate glass angel was lashed to the top, breathtakingly beautiful. She had seen the ornaments in the McKaslins’s bookstore. Had he taken the time to decorate the tree himself?

  No, she couldn’t picture it. One of his sisters probably did or maybe an employee. “I don’t understand.”

  “I made you sad twice now. I would have brought flowers, but Danielle has been calling me Ebenezer, so—” He shrugged. “I brought a little bit of Christmas instead.”

  He pushed the ceramic pot holding the tree into her hands. She saw another new emotion on his face, one of deepest sincerity. “I’m sorry, Lucy. I said the wrong thing today.”

  “You made me remember the past, that’s all.”

  “I reminded you of an unbearable loss. And I don’t want to do it again. So don’t think about it. Think about how much you can’t stand me.” He smiled.

  Wow, Spence was incredibly handsome when he smiled. She nearly dropped the pot in surprise. She stared, smiling right along with him, noticing there were midnight flecks of darker blue in his deep blue eyes. She couldn’t help sighing just a tiny bit.

  “I can’t stand you only a little,” she confessed, kidding him. “What is it the twins say? A pinch. A dash. A smidgeon, or something like that.”

  “Something like that.” He unzipped his coat. “What’s with your cat?”

  “My cat?” Normally Bean kept her distance from strangers. It was the feline’s opinion that other humans were highly suspicious creatures. So why was she rubbing her cheek against Spence’s jeans leg? “I don’t think that’s my cat. I think it’s a weird alien clone.”

  “I don’t approve of cats.” Spence scowled again.

  This time she caught the flicker of humor in his captivating eyes. He really was more bark than bite. She carefully carried the tree into the house with her. “I don’t approve of cats either.”

  “I can see that because she is so abused.” He followed her, carefully sidestepping the persistent animal. “I see two cat condos.”

  “I don’t approve of cat condos,” she quipped.

  “And blankets on the couch cushions.”

  “I don’t know who put those there.” She set the tree on the kitchen table. “Some phantom cat lover.”

  “I especially don’t approve of those.” He almost couldn’t keep frowning. She really was pretty funny—a little quirky, but funny. And her house wasn’t what he expected at all. He expected a big fancy house with showy pieces instead of a smaller place with cozy, comfortable furniture. Bookshelves, as far as he could see, lined the walls of every room, including the kitchen.

  “You don’t approve of a lot of things.” She took his coat and hung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

  “It’s intentional.” He admired the wall of books where most women might put a hutch. “If I started approving of everything, then what would happen to my reputation?”

  “I see your point. People might start actually liking you.” She was smiling. It wasn’t an admonishment.

  She understood him. It had been a long time since anyone had. He was on unfamiliar ground. He didn’t know what to do, but he did know that whatever he said, he had better say it with care. He was not going to make her sad a third time. He laid the folder on the counter. “This is yours. You left it behind in the church.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t realized. Thanks. I suppose we will need that.” She opened a cabinet door, revealing boxes and boxes of all kinds of tea. “Any preferences?”

  “You pick.” He didn’t care. He doubted any of the variety of flavors on that shelf would ease the tension in his jaw joints. He tried to relax and couldn’t. Why did Lucy make him tense? It was a mystery of the universe.

  “How about Joyful Holidays?” She pulled down a box decorated with Christmas ornaments and holly. “Fitting, don’t you think? I assume you want to talk about the file folder, now that you’re here.”

  “I didn’t look in it.”

  She looked surprised as she lifted a rumbling tea kettle from the professional-grade stove. “The folder is nothing personal. It’s my shopping list for the kids.”

  “Shopping list? Isn’t that a last minute kind of thing?” He flipped open the folder and scanned the neatly organized list of businesses and individuals and what they had donated in prior years. “I mean, you don’t know who is going to be in the hospital until the last minute, right?”

  “In many ways, yes.” She filled two big ceramic cups with hot water. “There are a certain amount of children we know will be in the ward for Christmas.”

  He served in an executive capacity on the board; he had gone over the requests for funds and approved plans and proposals. He had never taken the time to give much thought to the children their church helped. As he turned the page, he saw a write-up on one of the kids—three-year-old Ashlinn Thomas, who had been diagnosed with cancer two days before Thanksgiving. He stared at the digital picture of a blond-haired, brown-eyed little munchkin with dimples and the sweetest smile.

  He hung his head. His problems evaporated like morning mist. His niece, Madison, would turn three the day after Christmas. He closed the folder, unable to look anymore.

  “Do you want to come into the TV room?” She carried two mugs with her as she walked away from him. “It’s really a family room, but as it’s only me here it seems weird to call it a family room.”

  “I know what you mean. I have one of those, too.” He had put one in the house he had built five years ago as an investment. It was two minutes from Katherine’s house, five from Danielle’s and four blocks from his parent’s townhouse. Work was less than a five-minute drive if he hit all the lights.

  Anyone could see that Lucy’s house was a home. There we
re personal things like an apple-shaped vase on the fireplace mantel and a row of family pictures in shadow boxes marching along the top of the bookshelves. The books were everything from classics to history to political biographies to inspirational fiction. Sort of like his at home.

  He followed her to the comfortable furniture partly facing the fireplace and a wide screen. He had to keep looking down to avoid the cat, which kept trying to trip him.

  “Bean, stop that.” Lucy rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what has gotten into her. It must be your masculine charm.”

  “I wasn’t aware I had any.”

  “Maybe it’s only detectable to cats?” Her eyes were laughing at him.

  “That would explain why I can’t get any dates.” That wasn’t the reason, but it felt good to laugh with her. He settled into one of the overstuffed chairs, which was even more comfortable than it looked, and took his mug off the central coffee table where Lucy had set it. The cat leaped up onto the arm and knocked her cheek against his shoulder.

  “Maybe I should put Bean outside.” Lucy came close, bringing with her the scent of lilacs and sunshine. She scooped the furry feline off the chair arm and cradled the cat like a baby. She walked to the nearest French door and gently set her feline outside. The Persian flicked her tail several times and stalked off, looking very perturbed.

  “I’m in big trouble for that, but she would have made you spill your tea.” Lucy dropped into the chair across from him and put her stocking feet on the coffee table. She wrapped her hands around the ceramic cup and sipped. “Don’t worry. It’s cold out there, but she has a kitty door around back.”

  “Bean?” he asked.

  “Strange name, I know. When she was a kitten, she didn’t walk, she hopped. She used to bounce around like a Mexican jumping bean. So it stuck.”

  “She’s more like Velcro now?”

  “Exactly. Except with the name Bean, there are endless puns.”

  “I know I’m going to regret asking. Puns?”

  “When I come home, I can say, where have you bean?” She blushed a little. Cute. Real cute. “If she’s been sleeping in the dryer I can say, careful, don’t turn into a baked bean. Corny, I know, but I live alone. I have to amuse myself.”

  “I live alone, and I don’t amuse myself.”

  “Pardon me, Spence, but you don’t approve of amusement. Don’t deny it. I know you were thinking it.”

  He laughed. What he was thinking, was that she was captivating in the pure, innocent way of snow falling from a midnight sky or dawn’s soft glow in midwinter.

  Tenderness filled him as he gazed upon her. Her round glasses made her look like a bookworm, but then he was partial to bookworms. Her hair was pulled back in a haphazard ponytail, off center and all manner of silken strands had fallen down to riot around her face. How a woman could look more beautiful in baggy, mostly worn-out sweats than in designer clothes he didn’t know, but he could not look away.

  “Okay, so I might have been thinking it. I don’t approve of a lot of things, except hard work,” he said, intending to sound gruff. But did it work? No. Lucy had somehow stolen his gruffness.

  “I agree with you. Hard work is one ingredient to a happy life.” She didn’t blink, and to his shock, she was agreeing with him.

  Yes, it would have been much better if he could have resisted coming.

  “So, do you want to go over the files, since you’re here?” She took a long sip of her tea, watching him over the rim.

  “Might as well. I’m not imposing on you?”

  “No. My work day is done, and as you can see, I have a lot going on here, but I think I can squeeze you into my jam-packed evening schedule.”

  Behind her, the uncovered windows reflected the room and his own face staring besotted at her. You are not falling for Lucy Chapin, he ordered himself sternly, praying it would work. It was the only defense he had left around her. If he couldn’t count on his self-discipline, then he was in big trouble.

  She forked the last bite of oriental chicken salad and tried to convince herself she wasn’t disappointed the evening was coming to an end. His stay had been a pleasant one. While she had filled him in on all that had been done and what was left to do before their big Christmas party, she had pulled out the bowl of salad she had made the night before and toasted thick chunks of French bread in the oven. They had sat down at the table to go over the kids on their list so far. Now, the meal was done and they had reached the last child in the folder. Timothy Lyman.

  She watched Spence as he studied the computer printed page. She had met Timothy and taken his picture earlier in the week. Although the seven-year-old boy had fractured half the bones in his body in a car accident, he still managed to make a funny face for her camera.

  “He wants to be a fireman.” Spence rubbed a hand over his face. “So does my nephew.”

  She thought of how hard the world could be and took the folder. “These children need Christmas. It’s hope. It’s joy. It’s a moment in time where they can forget about their illnesses and injuries and just be little kids again…where they can be reminded of God’s love for them.”

  He nodded. “I don’t know why I’m here. You know what you’re doing, Lucy. You should be chairing this, not me.”

  “Are you abandoning me?” She knew he wasn’t, but it made him grin.

  “I’m not the kind of man who jumps ship—ever. Believe me, I’m not trying to get out of this. I don’t have anything to offer. I don’t think I am the man for the job.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I’m good at running things and juggling projections and goals and budgets. I’m excellent at telling people what to do.”

  “I have three volunteers. You can boss them around.”

  “Oh boy.” He rubbed a hand over his forehead. “I’m afraid this requires more than what I’ve got.”

  She started to argue with him, but he meant what he said. He genuinely did. For a moment, he looked bleak. He had the kind of sadness that made her catch her breath.

  Hopelessness. She knew the look and the feel of it. She had once walked that dark place. She laid her hand on his. He was like sun-warmed marble, strong and impossibly human. “I think you are exactly right for this project.”

  “You mean you need someone to boss you around?”

  “Nice try, big fella, but humor isn’t going to work. You need to learn to take a compliment.” She liked him. Heaven help her, she really did. “Everyone brings something different to this. To the world. You do the best with what you’ve got. It will be enough.”

  “It’s more than finding presents for some kids. I can see that right now.” He looked troubled, as if he did not believe her.

  “Everything good in life always requires more than it seems.” Gentle feelings swept through her. “You’re enough, Spence. You really are.”

  His throat worked, and he looked away. It was hard to tell if she had said what he needed to know or if she had said too much. He remained silent and she withdrew her hand, wishing she could withdraw her words as easily. She pushed away from the table and from the big stoic man sitting, but he filled the room with amazing presence. Spence was a tough man to ignore.

  “Did your cut heal up?”

  She saw his reflection in the windows as she put the rest of the bread loaf away. “It’s just fine.”

  “Good. You wouldn’t want to get an infection.”

  “No.” She sensed what he was really asking her. And it had nothing to do with the injury to her hand but about the single truth he knew about her.

  She capped the ginger salad dressing and returned it to the refrigerator door. “It’s not easy being reminded of Christian, but I believe in the work I do. It’s his memory I serve.”

  “You don’t have to talk about it.” He rose from the chair, all six feet-plus. “I didn’t want to remind you.”

  “I know. I’m reminded of him every day. It never goes away.” While it could make her sad, the memory warmed
her heart, too. The bond she and a little boy shared still lived. It still mattered. It made a difference. She made sure of it. “I never want to forget him. I never want to live in a world where a little boy’s love is something that is best forgotten.”

  Spence swiped the back of his neck, looking unmoved as he paced toward her, towering above her like granite. It was not ice she saw on his face or stone in his heart. “Just when I think I can’t like you anymore, you go and say something like that. I don’t want to like you, Lucy.”

  “I don’t want to like you, Spence, but I do.” Heaven help her. It wasn’t a mistake, was it? “Do you want dessert? I picked up some sugar cookies from Ava’s bakery on the way home.”

  “Thanks, but I had better go. It’s getting late.”

  “The roads are probably already freezing. I should have thought of it sooner.”

  “I have snow tires and four-wheel drive.”

  He was a very good driver, she knew, under any conditions. Spence McKaslin radiated a steady capability that was deeply attractive, too. Just add that to his other fine qualities—more things she had to try not to notice. She mentally rolled her eyes. Sure, like that was possible.

  “It looks as if you and I are going to be spending a lot of time together.” Was that a hint of a smile?

  Yes. She definitely wasn’t imagining it. She pulled a red plastic gift baggie from the box in the drawer and carried it to the bakery box on the breakfast bar. “You’re right. We have to spend lots of time together. Organizing lists. Calling donors and retailers. Wrapping presents. I hope your gift wrapping skills are top-notch.”

  “I’m no slacker.”

  No, Spence was the kind of man who did everything right. She opened the box and slipped a few cookies into the baggie.

  “I guess we’ll have to trade numbers.” He sounded casual, as if it were nothing but business.

  So why did her heart skip three beats? Why did her spirit brighten just a bit? There was no logical reason. Spence was not the kind of man she was looking for.

  On another hand, he was exactly what she had been praying for. She handed him a pen and notepad she found in the top drawer. “How about your e-mail addy too? That way I can e-mail your half of the donor list to make calls from.”