Christmas Confidential: Holiday Protector

by Marilyn Pappano

  She’d told him that, hadn’t she? No matter. Surely his friends at the police department—all private investigators had them, didn’t they?—could tell him that she’d been a late bloomer when it came to cars. “No car until then, no point in learning to drive.”

  “What about when you were sixteen? Didn’t your parents have a car?”

  Her father, she’d learned, had had a garage full of them. At fifteen, Miri had sold her mother’s aged car with a forged signature to buy food and medication. The car was worthless to them. It didn’t run half the time, and by then, Mom’s mental condition had deteriorated to the point that she rarely left her bed.

  “We took the bus when it was convenient and walked when it wasn’t.”

  “This ‘walking’ you speak of...it’s an alien concept.” He scooped up some fries. “I got that car for my sixteenth birthday. Keep in mind, it didn’t run, was missing all its glass and had only two tires and no doors, but it was the best gift I ever got. My dad and I worked on it every evening until it was like brand-new. Good times.” Popping the fries into his mouth, he chewed and swallowed before asking, “Did you ever do anything like that with your dad or mom? You know, a mother-daughter project.”

  “Not unless forcing a pill she didn’t want to take into her mouth, then holding her jaws shut until she swallowed counts,” Miri murmured, then went utterly still. Oh, God, had she said that out loud?

  She must have, because Dean was staring at her with—surprise? Shock? Pity? Her shoulders straightened. She didn’t want pity, not from him or anyone else. She’d loved her mother. She’d committed seven years of her life to taking care of her, and she didn’t regret or resent one minute of it.

  Aggression built inside her, her muscles tightening, her gaze narrowing as she waited for him to pursue the subject or, worse, say something totally inane like I’m sorry. But all he did was look at her a moment, then, casually, easily, he changed the subject as if he’d lost interest in the previous one.

  “So what do you think of your first day without prison guards?”

  Tension drained from her neck, her jaw, even her teeth. She breathed once, twice, something that felt like gratitude pumping through her veins. “Considering the company, it’s not that different.”

  “Aw, come on, you gotta admit, I’m better looking than most of the guards, and I’m as strong as at least one or two.”

  An image comparing him to the female guards in her cellblock almost made her smile. “Maybe one or two. But most of them could take you in a fair fight, and there are a few who could probably bench-press you.”

  “Hey, it’s hard to fight a woman. My dad taught me not to hit girls. My mom taught me not to hit anyone unless they hit me first.”

  Her mother had had the same rule: no nonsense about gender, just don’t start a fight, but defend yourself if someone else did.

  “From where I stood at the bus station, it was kind of hard to fight a man, too.”

  Dean feigned a wounded look as he gingerly touched his jaw. “The guy sucker punched me. I didn’t even know he was there. How can you protect yourself against someone you don’t even know is there? And you with the warnings...”

  This time she did smile. It was rusty and unnatural but vaguely familiar. If she tried hard, she could remember a time when smiles came as easily to her as they did to Dean. If she got sentimental enough to make a Christmas wish, maybe it would be for the smiles to come back.

  “All right, all right. Enough with the whining. The next time I’ll yell, ‘Dean, watch out!’”

  Again he stared at her. For a moment she couldn’t think why, then she realized: she’d said his name. A meaningless thing, but somehow, in a musty motel room with the television on Mute and the wind howling outside, it seemed intimate.

  Awkwardly she shifted on the bed, tossing aside the burger she was finished with, fingering a lukewarm onion ring, gathering her defenses close again. “Besides,” she muttered, “it isn’t going to happen again.”

  “From your lips to God’s and Santa’s ears.” He stood, held out his hand for her trash, then headed toward the wastebasket in the corner. Glancing back with a devilish grin, he added, “I’m too handsome to get a black eye for Christmas.”

  “Aw, doesn’t it get you sympathy from the girls?”

  “You wouldn’t be sympathetic if my whole face was pounded into ground beef, and you’re the only girl around right now.” He yawned, stretching his arms high above his head, then picked up his duffel. “I’m gonna take a shower, then go to bed. I suppose you’ve already got the alarm set for presunrise.”

  “I don’t need an alarm. The call to wake up in prison is not subtle. I’ll never be able to sleep in again in my life.”

  He closed the door behind him, then the water came on. Swinging her feet to the floor, she sat on the bed and savored the last drops of the cocoa, which stirred way too many memories that she couldn’t handle right now. After tossing the cup into the trash, she turned off the TV and the lights on her side of the room and slid into bed, facing the wall, covers heaped over until she was sure only a spot of her hair showed. Arms around Boo, she closed her eyes, slowed her breathing and slowly drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  Dean knew the instant he reentered the room that Miri was asleep. That was how strong her personality, or their connection or whatever it was, was. Her breathing was steady where she curled around the bear, one hand holding tightly to him, the other cupped to her cheek. Hell, she looked about ten years old. When she really was ten, had she ever been allowed the freedom of childhood? How long had she been nursing a mother who didn’t want to be nursed?

  So far he’d learned that her mother had been ailing, she had at least two siblings, they’d had no car and had lived where snow and buses were common, and she’d made zero mention of a father. Had he never been around, or were there different dads for the kids? Or had her father been a rat-bastard who abandoned them because the responsibility was more than he’d wanted?

  Dean had worked his share of deadbeat dad cases. He despised men who could live in new houses, buy new vehicles, take vacations and help support their current girlfriend’s kids but couldn’t spare a dime for their own children. If Miri’s father was like that, no wonder she’d never mentioned him. And had trust issues. And a less-than-happy childhood.

  He watched her a moment longer before the idea that he was violating her privacy made him turn away, stuffing clothes into a laundry bag, turning off lights and crawling into the other bed.

  He was out cold in seconds, sleeping through the night and awakening to the country tune of a reindeer hit-and-run coming through the window, audible even over the sound of the big diesel engine warming up. Sliding out of bed, he walked to the window, lifting one corner of the blackout curtains to find a big white truck, not just a pickup but a monster-size dually, lights on, doors open, two men carrying bags from room to truck. They were dressed in camo-patterned jackets and hats with earflaps, and black scarves hid everything exposed but their eyes. Even through the scarves, puffs of air formed when they spoke, and the truck’s exhaust was billowing out clouds of white.

  “Damn, it looks cold,” he muttered.

  “Twenty-eight degrees with wind out of the west gusting to twenty-five miles per hour.”

  He let the flap fall and returned to his bed. “How do you know that?”

  “I called the desk and asked after my shower.” Miri sat up, and in the dim light he could see she was already dressed.

  “You really did intend to get out before sunrise, didn’t you?” He groaned for effect as he flopped back down on his bed.

  “Check the clock. It’s 8:15.”

  This time his groan was real. “Where’s the snow?”

  “Coming.”

  “Then we’d better get going.”

  B
y the time he’d changed clothes and brushed his teeth, she was standing near the door, wearing the blue coat over her black sweatshirt and the ball cap on her head. Her left arm was wrapped tightly around the bear. “You can wait here while I get the car warmed up,” he said as he shoved the rest of his stuff into the duffel.

  “I’d rather not.”

  One of his off-and-on rules for the business: pick his arguments. This wasn’t important enough to count. Shrugging into his drastically insufficient leather jacket, even with a sweater under it, he shouldered the strap of his duffel, took her pack and led the way to the car. The white pickup was gone.

  The air was so cold, it had substance, sliding over his bare hands and cheeks with edges sharp enough to cut. Every breath out froze and hovered, as if it might fall to the ground in shards, before finally drifting away. The sun might as well not exist, its thin rays unable to pierce even the tiniest of holes in the thick veil of gray cold, and the wind was adding its own torment.

  He thought of his parents on that cruise ship in the Caribbean and would have wept if he weren’t too macho for tears.

  The metal of the car shrieked as they opened the doors, the leather seats creaking as they slid inside. The engine turned over on the first try, but it took a while to get warm air from the heater vents. “Breakfast inside or to go?” he asked as he drove around the motel corner and into view of the restaurant.

  “To go.” Miri snuggled closer to the bear. She was pale, her cheeks pink, her lips tinged with blue, probably colder than she’d ever been since those Christmases in the snow with her mom and siblings.

  “I’ve gotta get gas.” He pulled up to an empty pump, drew a breath and launched out into the cold. He’d known a front was blowing in when he’d packed yesterday, so why hadn’t he grabbed gloves, scarves and hats? Why hadn’t he taken the down-filled jacket that, true, had no style compared to the leather one but made subfreezing temperatures actually bearable?

  His fingers were numb by the time he finished pumping gas. With a sigh of relief, he went inside the moist heat of the store and cruised the aisles before going to pay. He returned to the car balancing two large cups of coffee with three plastic bags, giving them to Miri to put away. “Breakfast is in one of the bags. But first grab those gloves and hats. There’s a knife in the glove box to cut off the tags.”

  She opened one bag, filled with sweets, chips and bottles of water. From the second, she pulled out two pairs of black gloves, one large, one small, and two knitted caps, his black, hers pink. She cut the tags and, he would bet, didn’t think he noticed that she slid the four-inch lockback into her pocket instead of returning it to the glove box.

  He didn’t mind if she was armed. He was reasonably confident she wouldn’t use the knife on him. If he’d slept soundly enough for her to shower and dress without disturbing him, she likely could have found the pistol he’d tucked under the extra pillow. Though he’d prefer to think he wouldn’t be oblivious to a beautiful woman rummaging in his bed....

  She handed him gloves and the black hat, and he tugged the hat on as he pulled away from the pump. She pulled on her own hat, then flipped down the visor to get a look in the mirror. “Pink? Really?”

  “It was that, lime-green or a Santa hat with flashing lights around the fur.”

  “Pink is fine.” Pushing the visor back, she set the two bags in the backseat, then opened the third one. He’d grabbed two maple-frosted doughnuts, four sausage biscuits, two hash browns in greasy paper sleeves and two tortillas filled with scrambled eggs and sausage. “Hot food from a gas station? Do you have a death wish?”

  “Hey, in some areas, gas-station food is as good as any restaurant. It’s not like getting it from a vending machine or anything.”

  Predictably, after handing him a tortilla and a hash brown, she chose a doughnut for herself, practically moaning over the sugary-sweet flavor of the maple. Too intent on watching her, he almost rolled through a stop sign until a ground-shaking honk from a passing semi snapped him out of it.

  “I love maple,” she murmured, oblivious to his stare.

  “Yeah, I remember.” He remembered more than he wanted—and wished there had been more to remember. Like how she looked naked. How she felt beneath him. How she woke up after a long night of not sleeping. Tousled, drowsy, soft, sweet...

  “Did you hear anything in there about the weather?”

  He checked both mirrors before accelerating on to the interstate, heading east and hopefully to warmer weather, growing friendliness and some clue where Mr. Smith’s money was. “That was all I heard. ‘Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, there’s snow fifty miles west.’”

  “I hope it stays there.” She finished the last bite of doughnut, licked the sugar from her fingers—damn!—then looked into the bag again. This time she chose a biscuit, folding back the paper, eyeing the bread and sausage cautiously before taking a small bite.

  Dean concentrated on driving and eating until he was full and the coffee was cooled enough to drink. He glanced at Miri, fingers wrapped around her own coffee, and tried to inject casual interest into his voice. “Okay...Atlanta doesn’t get many white Christmases, so that’s not where you grew up. Maybe northern Georgia? There are mountains in that part, aren’t there?”

  “There are a few hills,” she replied drily.

  “Don’t make fun of my geography knowledge. I can take you anywhere you want to go in the Dallas area blindfolded. But the only place I’ve been in Georgia is the Atlanta airport on my way to or from elsewhere.” He paused. “You have family there?”

  “At the Atlanta airport?”

  “Miriam,” he chided.

  She looked at him briefly before turning her attention to her coffee, taking a long drink. He fully expected her to ignore him or tell him it was none of his business, but she surprised him. “Why don’t you call me Miri?”

  “Because I like Miriam. And I’m the only one who calls you that. Aren’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose I could try to call you Miri if you insisted.”

  She gave him another look but didn’t insist before reaching across to turn on the radio. A staticky “O, Holy Night” came from the speakers. She pushed the scan button and brought up “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” After a few more tries with similar results, she punched the CD button and Trans-Siberian Orchestra’s symphonic/heavy metal “Christmas Eve/Sarajevo 12/24” crashed out into the air. Scowling, she shut off the stereo. “What is it with you and Christmas music?”

  “’Tis the season, and all that. Besides, I like it.” He waited an extra beat before asking, “What is it with you and Christmas music?”

  “It’s just another day, one that millions of people don’t celebrate. Do we have to be bombarded with all the hype?”

  He turned on his blinker to switch lanes and pass a slow-moving dually, the same one from the motel, it looked like. Once he was back in the outside lane, he glanced at her. “Is that what Christmas is to you? Just another day? Hype? You said your mother loved Christmas.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s dead, and I don’t love it.”

  The words she snapped out and the way she stiffened as soon as she realized she’d said them both made his gut tighten. He couldn’t imagine not having his mom around, especially during the holidays. Not that she was celebrating with the family this year, of course, but she was still celebrating, and everyone knew she would be home in a week and a half.

  But to know she was gone, that there’d be no more decorating the house or singing carols or watching the Rudolph movie even if it did creep them out... No wonder Miri wasn’t wild about the season.

  * * *

  The miles passed in a leaden gray blur. Middle of the day, and everyone’s lights were on—headlamps, houses and businesses alongside the interstate, Christmas lights flashing on buildings and signs
and even bales of hay in fields. The non-Christmas-celebrators couldn’t catch a break, Miri thought with a scowl.

  When the snow started, she tamped down a deep sigh. Watching it land on the windshield, the first flakes melting quickly before they slowly started to accumulate, the only thing she could think was—

  “At least it isn’t sleeting.” Dean shifted, flexing his shoulders, then his fingers before switching on the wipers. “If it was ice, we’d have to pull over somewhere and wait it out. I couldn’t risk this baby on ice.” He gave the dash a comforting pat.

  Miri snorted. “It wasn’t even half a car when your parents gave it to you. Surely you could fix one more little ding.”

  His look feigned horror. “How about I rip that bear’s arm off and give you a chance to sew it back on?” Without pausing for her response, he went on. “You don’t ‘ding’ a treasure like this car. You don’t even take chances on it.”

  “You drive in Dallas traffic every day. You park it in

  unattended lots. You take chances with it all the time.”

  He gave her a sidelong look, his mouth thinned. He’d taken the knitted cap off some miles back, when the car was warm enough, and his dark hair stood on end in places. It gave him a charming unpolished look. “You just don’t understand the relationship between a man and his car.”

  She thought of her father and his cars. Any one of them would have supported her family for two years or more, and his baby, the big silver Bentley, could have kept them until they were grown. “Don’t get it, don’t want to.”

  He shook his head with chagrin. “How did I end up with a woman who refuses to recognize the importance of a vehicle in a man’s life?”

  Miri’s first thought was to remind him—caustically—that he wasn’t with her, not in any real sense. But some part that she’d thought had died from hopelessness and resignation twenty years ago wondered what it would be like to be with a man—and not just any man, but Dean. Would it be like her early years, when her mother was still healthy and her father had still loved them? There had been a lot of laughter then, a lot of kisses and a whole lot of “playing” in their room that she and Sophy, and later the younger kids, had been excluded from. They had sat side by side and held hands when they walked and snuggled on the couch.