by Sarah Remy
“I’m hanging up, Everett. I’ve got to meet with a florist about your greenery in half an hour and I haven’t had breakfast.”
“One second.”
Abby heard the distant sound of shuffled papers. She gritted her teeth. “Everett.”
“I’m landing in Richmond, nine o’clock the night of the first. Pick me up?”
“Do I have to?”
“Please.”
As easily as that her irritation vanished. “Richmond. Nine o’clock. I’ll try.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
And then, because the sound of his voice made her chest ache with a longing she didn’t want to acknowledge, Abby snapped her phone shut and sent it spinning away across the floor.
The meeting with her florist took less time than Abby had budgeted. She took the extra twenty minutes and drove out to the Creek. The winding road had been cleared of snow, but was still bumpy and slick.
She drove carefully, keeping her eye on the road and her foot on the sluggish brake pedal. When she turned onto Everett’s drive the vibrations eased, but not enough. She made a mental note to put a call into a clearing service and schedule ice removal for the extent of the party.
She didn’t need intoxicated drivers playing bumper cars in front of her perfect creation.
And it was picture perfect, she thought as the Mercedes slid to a halt and she studied the colonial. Fresh white snow covered the front lawn and the flower beds and much of the roof. The temporary miniature evergreens she had planted on either side of the drive looked as if they sprung naturally from the earth and not hidden planters. A single Twelfth Night candle glowed in every window. Tiny icicles hung from the eaves in glistening spirals, reflecting the afternoon light.
“And he wanted icicle lights,” Abby grumbled as she stepped into the cold. Snow crunched beneath the soles of her boots, and she had to hug herself against chill air. “He’s got the real thing.”
She marched up the drive and climbed the front steps, one hand on the iron rail. She’d have to remember to ask the service to deice the stairs. It wouldn’t do at all if a guest slipped on slick brick and took a tumble.
Through panes of glass on either side of the front door she could see the vague red shadows of the poinsettias she’d set in the entry way. Tomorrow they’d be joined by swathes of evergreen mistletoe. The florist had promised delivery at 8AM sharp.
Abby didn’t unlock the front door. Instead she stood on the top step, and turned to look back over the yard. She felt as though she were standing smack in the middle of a Norman Rockwell painting. The snow across lawn looked so very fresh.
She had to ignore a gleeful urge to run back and forth across the white expanse and leave a trail of zigzagging footprints.
No. Everything had to stay pristine and perfect, at least until Everett had a look at the miracle she’d managed. Abby knew he would be happy with the results. She’d given him everything he had asked for and much more.
“He’d better be pleased. He’d better be knocked right out of his shoes.”
She discovered she had the edge of a thumbnail in her mouth, and yanked her hand away. She’d been chewing her nails voraciously lately. It was a habit she scolded her son over, and she needed to stop.
It was Everett’s fault, driving her batty. Damn the man.
“You’re hopeless, Abby Ross.” She considered her ragged thumbnail.
A flash of red shot in a streak across the edge of her vision. Abby lifted her head, and then held her breath.
A cardinal, scarlet and royal, danced on air just above the snow. The bird swooped over the lawn several times, and then settled on a bare branch just across the asphalt.
The cardinal added a final bright spot of perfection to the paradise Abby had built on Edward Anderson’s faulty legacy. She wished in vain for her camera.
The bird stayed on his branch for another fifteen minutes, waiting as the sunlight warmed and the icicles began to drip. Abby stood just as still, waiting with the bird, worries forgotten, until a cloud passed over the sun, and the cardinal stretched his wings and dove from his perch, and cut away into the afternoon.
Chapter Seventeen
EVERETT HAD PREPARED HIMSELF for light and color and an abundance of festive details. He’d had in the back of his head pictures from magazines and imagines of Christmas at the White House or the grand holiday celebration at Carter’s Grove.
Two beautiful old houses, done up elegantly for the winter. He had supposed Abby would treat his own old house to much of the same elegance.
But the truth of the matter knocked those preconceived images, along with every sensible thought, straight from his skull.
Elegance abounded, yes. All the festive details he could hope for. And the furnishings she’d chosen were certainly tasteful and period enough to grace the pages of any magazine. But she had added something more. Something he’d never noticed on those White House tours, or on elementary school field trips to plantation homes.
She’d added a...feeling. A feeling he couldn’t quite pin down, couldn’t quite name. Homey, maybe. A sense of welcome and belonging. The promise that, no matter how lovely the over stuffed chairs, no matter how stylish the pewter knickknacks or how extensive the greenery, a person would always find a warm nook to relax in, a comfy chaise to share with a book.
And there would always be something carelessly comforting simmering in the kitchen.
The house had room enough for any number of visitors, but she’d taken something cold and made it beautiful. Made it ready. Ready for family, clients. Children.
A cat, Everett thought foolishly as he touched the shining banister. A cozy house needed a cozy cat.
God help him, Abby had turned the place into a home. And he was afraid he had fallen in love with the old man’s drafty monster. Oh, he had been halfway there, he supposed. He’d seen the potential over the summer.
But this was different. Full of furniture and easy clutter, the rooms were newly welcoming. Already he longed to take a nap on the parlor sofa in front of the fire she had just set to crackling. Sit down to supper at the new dining room table. Explore the wine cabinet and sideboard.
Look to see if those were real presents under the tree in the dining room, under the tree in the master bedroom, under the little fir in the corner of the kitchen.
And then there was the library. She had stocked the library with books.
It wasn’t the sort of house one rented out between summers. It was the sort of house one lived in, loved in.
Oh, yes, he’d fallen in love. In a matter of minutes he’d tumbled to.
Because he saw Abby in every room of the house, in every piece and detail, in every painting and fabric and rug. He thought he’d prepared himself. He was wrong.
“So.” She stood with her back to the fireplace, warming her hands with seeming indifference, but he didn’t miss the slight furrow between her brows. “You’ve gone quiet. What do you think?’
Everett left the banister and walked into the front parlor. He fingered the tapestry wings of an armchair. He couldn’t find the right words, the complimentary words he knew she expected, he couldn’t quite untie his tongue.
Shaking his head, he abandoned the chair and stood alongside the twelve foot Douglas fir that stood twinkling in the center of the room. Fingering a bundle of needles, he inhaled. The entire house smelled of the Christmases he’d never had.
“You don’t like it.” She sounded very professional. “All right, then. We’ve still got time. Not much. But some. What do you want changed?”
He shook his head again. And then, glancing down between his feet at the velvet tree skirt, he said the first thing that came to mind. “Are the presents real?”
“What?”
“Are the presents real? The gifts beneath this tree? And the ones upstairs? The tree in the kitchen?”
Abby paced from the hearth to his side and then back again. She was nervous, he thought
, and somehow that realization made him breathe a little easier.
“The ones beneath this tree are party favors. One for each guest. As per your instructions, through that monster you call an assistant. The ones beneath the kitchen tree are door prizes. For the games you wanted planned. Again, through your assistant, who is not only a monster but a tight ass-”
“He does his job well,” Everett interrupted pleasantly.
“Yes, sure.” She made a sound of indignation. “You saw the basement. The pool table and the roulette and darts.”
“Perfect.” He broke a needle from the tree and rubbed it between his fingers. “I suppose I’ll have to sleep upstairs. In a real bed.” In the carved antique four poster he knew she loved. Between white linen sheets that somehow carried her scent.
He knew that, if he ever managed to close his eyes in that bed and sleep, he would dream of her.
“I guess so. Is that a problem?”
“No. I think, at last, I’ve outgrown the basement.” He smiled wryly at the needle in his hand.
“The fridge is stocked, of course. With enough munchies to keep you happy. The caterers will start carting in the non perishables tomorrow. The rest will be ready by Tuesday.”
“Perfect,” he repeated. “What about the presents under the tree in my bedroom?”
Her eyes widened slightly, but her expression remained professional. “From Chris and I. Just little things.”
His pulse jumped. “That was kind.”
“Chris’s idea.”
“Of course. They’re beautifully wrapped, all of them. Service?”
“No.” As he watched she wet her lips. “Turns out I’m handy with a bow.”
“I like the ones on the trees.” Casually, he crossed the new blue and green Oriental rug, and stretched his fingers to the fire.
“Thank you.”
“And the strands of pearls and the little stars.”
Her cheeks were pink, whether from the heat of the flames or the press of his body. Experimenting, he edged closer.
“Thank you,” she said, again, staring hard at something past his left shoulder.
“Abby.” He took her gently by the elbows and made her look at him. She didn’t flinch, only gazed up at his face, lips parted on a silent question.
“I love it,” he said. “Every bit of it. It’s perfect. More perfect than I could have imagined.”
“Perfect,” she echoed, and the corners of her mouth curled slowly upwards. “I wanted it to be perfect.”
“You succeeded. I’m struck unusually speechless.” And because he found her subdued animation just as unusual he dared to steal her hand and tuck it against his forearm. “You’re rather quiet. Ever since you chased me into the car at the airport I’ve heard hardly a word. Everything all right?”
“I was worried.” He felt her breath on his collarbone. His fingers tightened around her own. “I don’t usually get worried. This time I was. I wanted you to like it.”
“And I do. I knew you’d make me something wonderful, but I had no idea...” He trailed off, and gratefully inhaled the perfume of her body. “Abby.” He had missed her so much in the end he’d feared he would go mad.
She stiffened, and then slipped from his side. “I need to be going, Ev. I promised Chris I’d help him with his homework.”
Everett gripped his fingers behind his back to keep from reaching for her again. Hell. How had he managed to forget that the simple smell of her sent lust coursing through his veins?
“I’d hoped maybe he’d be at the airport.” He sounded gruff even to his own ears.
Abby shook her head, and reached for the floppy canvas bag he’d begun to associate with her work.
“He’s got a huge history report due tomorrow. Jackson’s keeping an eye on him until I get back.”
“Pierce.”
“Don’t grind your teeth. You’ll worship the man once you see what he’s done to your back lawn. The flagstones are gorgeous.”
“He spends too much time at your house.” But he’d made a deal with the devil, and he’d have to learn to live with it.
He moved before she could leave the room, recaptured her hand and pressed her fingers to his lips because it was simply too painful not to taste her.
“Come upstairs, before you run off. I’ve something I want to show you.”
Her nose wrinkled, and her eyes flared, and he laughed.
“Gifts,” he clarified. “For you and for Chris. Things are about to get very busy around here, and I don’t want to run out of time.”
She hesitated.
“I won’t bite, I promise. Come up. Just for a minute.”
She huffed and he laughed again, but she didn’t resist when he lead her up the curving stairway.
Each item in the bedroom bore eloquent witness to her taste. A polished mahogany desk stood against one wall, perpendicular to the windows. Behind the desk a carved chair crouched on slender legs. A simple cherry bench sat at the foot of the bed, supporting a stack of neatly folded and lovingly faded quilts.
She’d scattered red pillows across the white linen. Ivory candles sprouted on a wardrobe, and an evergreen bough had been tied with green ribbons to the four poster.
Everett had piled his luggage on the floor by the bed. He tugged Abby with him across the room, and then released her hand long enough to sort through the cases. It took him several tries to find the box he needed.
When he straightened up she had moved to the window.
“Starting to snow again.”
“I’m hoping for another blizzard.” Without ceremony he handed her a flat box.
“No bow, after all.” She turned the box over and shook it lightly.
Everett shrugged. “I fibbed a little. Open it.”
“What is it?” Still she wouldn’t quite look at him. Her eyes darted restlessly, skimming across his mouth and then dropping to the floor only to rise again.
So she was uncomfortable as he. Good. He liked the fact that he threw her off balance, off center.
“Open it,” he insisted.
She shot him an impatient look, and then unfastened thin cardboard flaps. The box fell wide.
Her gasp was loud in the room. Her hands shook a little as she unfurled green silk, and held it up against the window.
“The embroidery is hand made. Chinese symbols for good luck and happiness.” Everett watched her face with minute attention. He saw awe and yearning, and he was pleased. “It’s not the traditional Christmas gown, but I knew you could carry it off.”
“Christmas gown?” She held the silk against her chest, and Everett felt absurdly happy.
“This goes with it.” He plucked a linen envelope from the box, and put it in her hand.
She set the gown gently onto the bed and broke the seal.
“It’s an invitation,” he explained when she remained quiet. “You’ll come as my guest.”
“I don’t think-”
“You and Pierce. I sent the man his invitation myself. And you won’t say no as it’s a sound business decision. You’ve done the work, now put your face forward.”
He thought he saw the sheen of tears on her lashes, but she only smiled. “Jack in his Carharts and Wolverine boots?”
“I’m not buying Pierce a gown.”
Her lips twitched. “Fair enough.”
“And this is for the kid. A Sounders jersey. But not until Christmas. He has to wait.”
“Tough guy.” She set the second box next to her gown. “No invitation?”
“Party like this is no place for a kid. Trust me.” He hastened on. “I need you there, Abby. Not just for Chesapeake Renovations. For me.”
“Ev.”
He reached out, brushed the damp from her cheek with the knuckle of his thumb. “Don’t cry. You never cry.”
“Not even over a skinned knee.” She pressed his fingers against her cheek with the palm of her hand. “Maybe we’ve missed each other. I’ll give you that. And distances do fun
ny things. But nothing’s changed. Has it?”
He thought of the sheaf of papers in his carry on, and was surprised by a sudden curl of fear. As though she sensed his hesitation she evaded his touch, and retrieved her packages from the bed.
“I’m stopping by Hampton Delicious tomorrow to taste test the canapes.” She tilted her chin. “And running by the bakery to pick up the order of gingerbread men. You’re welcome to come. To make sure everything is to your specifications.”