“Don’t get your hopes up.” It figured—he wanted something. What all men wanted, apparently. And after she’d had all these lovely thoughts about him, too.
He chuckled. “Want to go flying with me later?”
She stared at him. “No way!”
“You’re getting to be a pro at this. There was hardly a peep out of you the entire flight home.”
“I was busy praying.”
Oliver shook his head. “Come on. We’ll have a good time.”
Oliver Hamilton was not getting her back in the air, especially for the so-called fun of it. To her, flying simply wasn’t entertainment. “No. N-O,” she said, spelling it out.
“That’s a pity.”
Not to her. It was life preservation.
The apartment, a ground-level corner unit, was small but well-designed. The single-story complex was fairly new but beautifully maintained, and each unit had its own front door. The surrounding doors were all decorated with wreaths and pine swags and lights. Inside, Emma was thrilled to see brand-new appliances, including a dishwasher. Sliding glass doors off the kitchen led to a fenced area in the back that would be perfect for Boots. There was even space for a container garden, which pleased Emma. Her mother had always had a garden. Emma had hated weeding and watering it as a girl. She’d never believed she’d miss it, but she did.
Oscar walked around, cocking his head as if confused. He looked up at Oliver, who ignored his canine friend.
“Well, what do you think?” Oliver asked, leaning against the kitchen counter in a nonchalant pose.
“It’s wonderful!”
He grinned knowingly. “I thought you’d like it.”
“I do. Thank you, Oliver, thank you so much.” Impulsively she kissed his cheek.
Not one to let an opportunity slip away, Oliver grabbed her around the waist and brought her into his arms. “You can thank me properly, you know.”
She was tempted to do just that when there was a sudden knock at the open door and Oliver’s friend Jason let himself in. Emma had met Jason when Oliver took her to the owner’s unit to collect the key.
“Have you made a decision?” he asked.
Embarrassed, Emma quickly disentangled herself from Oliver’s embrace. “I’ll take it. Just show me where to sign.”
Jason had the paperwork with him, and after reading the lease agreement, she quickly signed her name at the bottom and wrote him a check.
Jason handed her the keys, assured her she could move in anytime, and left.
“You are my hero,” Emma said once the other man had gone.
“I know,” Oliver murmured in modest tones.
She was half-tempted to kiss him again, but changed her mind. “I suppose I should get back to the office,” Emma said reluctantly.
“Okay, but I need to stop at my place first.”
She couldn’t quibble, since he’d driven her here and, more, had arranged for her new home.
He walked out, turned right and went down two doors.
Emma followed. She didn’t understand, until he inserted the key into the lock, that this was his place—two doors down from hers.
“You live here?” she asked. “Here?”
He nodded, opening the front door. It had the biggest Christmas wreath of all, and the front window sparkled with tiny white lights.
“It didn’t occur to you to maybe mention this before now?” She’d asked him earlier if there were any strings attached and he’d promised her there weren’t. She should’ve known.
Her tone must have conveyed the fact that she wasn’t happy with this unexpected turn of events. She remained standing in the doorway, resisting the impulse to look inside, although she did catch sight of a gaily decorated Christmas tree.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you want me for a neighbor?”
She found it hard enough to keep him out of her thoughts as it was. Living two doors down from him would make it impossible. “As a matter of fact, no. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Didn’t enter my mind. You should be grateful I found you an apartment.”
“Which I wouldn’t have needed if you hadn’t opened your big mouth,” she said, even though that was only partially true.
“So it’s my fault?” he cried out at the unfairness of her accusation.
“Yes, yours.”
Oliver glared at her. “Fine.”
She crossed her arms and glared right back at him.
Jason stepped up to his vehicle on the other side of the street and raised his hand. “Merry Christmas,” he shouted.
“Right,” Oliver muttered back. “And goodwill to all mankind.”
Chapter Twelve
Late that afternoon, Oliver joined Walt Berwald at the tavern down the street from the newspaper office. Walt sat at the bar with his shoulders hunched forward, looking as if he’d just received some piece of devastating news. His demeanor was at odds with the cheerful rendition of “Deck the Halls” playing on the tavern’s crackling sound system.
Oliver shared Walt’s sentiment. He had no idea what he’d done that was so terrible. There was no mistaking Emma’s irritation with him, although he’d expected her to be overjoyed that he’d found her an apartment. Oh, no, that would’ve been far too rational. He should’ve remembered that there was nothing rational about most women. His mother and one of his three sisters were the exception that proved the rule.
What really got to him was that he hadn’t purposely hidden the fact that he lived in the same complex. It just hadn’t seemed important, and he didn’t understand why it mattered. The ride back to the newspaper office had been silent and uncomfortable. Emma hadn’t been able to get out of the truck fast enough.
Walt slid his gaze to Oliver when he claimed the stool next to him, nodding morosely. The bartender looked over and Oliver motioned toward the beer in Walt’s hand. “I’ll take one of those. And get another for my friend.”
“Thanks,” Walt said.
“My pleasure.”
Neither spoke again until the beers arrived.
“What’s got you so down in the dumps?” Walt asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it. What about you?”
Walt shrugged. “Same.”
Women were beyond Oliver’s comprehension. He had sisters and knew from experience that Emma was probably talking to Phoebe right now, describing every aspect of his many faults. Things had begun to look promising, too. He’d been attracted to Emma from the start and he’d been certain she felt the same way. After this morning, he was no longer sure.
“How’s it going with that reporter of mine?” Walt asked, reaching for his cold beer.
“Not bad.” Oliver didn’t elaborate.
“Emma’s got real potential as a journalist, you know.”
Oliver believed that, even if he hadn’t read anything she’d written. This was her big shot and despite their differences, he wished her well. “She’s got a few hang-ups.” He didn’t mean to say that aloud and was surprised to hear his own voice.
“All women do,” Walt said, as if he were an authority on the subject.
“You know this from your vast research, do you?”
Walt laughed and shook his head. “Hey, when it comes to women and relationships, I’m a disaster waiting to happen.”
Oliver gave him a second look. Walt had always seemed secure and confident. He knew his stuff, as befitted a man who was the third generation of his family in the newspaper business. Now, however, Walt seemed to feel downright miserable.
Oliver did, too. And it was all because of Emma. It was times like these when he felt like sitting in the dark, listening to Harry Connick Jr., bourbon in hand. Either that, or go and visit his mother. Knowing her, she’d pry out of him what was wrong, give him some common-sense advice and then feed him a huge dinner, as if her cabbage rolls would solve all his problems.
Oliver loved her and her stuffed cabbage, but even his mother wouldn’t be able to help him understand E
mma Collins.
After a second beer, Oliver slid off the stool and placed a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. “See you around,” he mumbled at Walt.
Neither one of them had been very talkative.
“Yeah, sure,” Walt responded in the same weary tone. “Thanks for the beer. I’ll buy next time.”
Oliver nodded, and got up to head back to his truck, where Oscar was waiting impatiently inside the cab.
“You got plans for the evening?” Walt asked unexpectedly.
“Not necessarily.” It was either his mother’s cabbage rolls or listening to Harry. “What have you got in mind?”
“You are a friend indeed,” Emma said as she came out of the bedroom dragging a cardboard box filled with books. She and Phoebe had left work early, once Emma had finished the article, skipping lunch to do it. They’d collected boxes on the way to Emma’s place and spent the past two hours packing. Fortunately, Boots was still at the vet’s and therefore not underfoot.
Phoebe didn’t seem to be listening. “You’d help me move, too, if our circumstances were reversed.”
“Something on your mind?” Emma asked. Phoebe hadn’t been her usual self since she’d returned from lunch.
Sighing, her friend straightened. “I met Walt for lunch. We left separately and went five miles out of our way in order not to be seen. It’s ridiculous! I love Walt, but I told him I was through sneaking around.”
Emma didn’t blame her.
“I won’t do it again.” Phoebe sounded firm about her decision. “If he wants to wait until after Christmas, then fine, we’ll wait. But I won’t see Walt again until he’s willing to be open and honest about our relationship.”
“You’re right.” Emma admired her friend’s courage and conviction. “What did Walt say?”
Phoebe’s shoulders slumped. “He thinks I’m overreacting.”
“You aren’t!”
“I know. I’ve been feeling dreadful all afternoon, and when I left, I didn’t let him know I was going to help you move. Instead, I let him assume—” a slow smile formed “—that I had…other plans.”
“Other plans? Like being with another man?”
Phoebe gave a careless shrug. “Never mind. It’ll do him good to wonder where I am.”
“I really do appreciate the help,” Emma said earnestly as they both walked out to the parking lot with loaded boxes.
“I know. You’d do the same for me,” Phoebe said again. “When’s the next fruitcake interview?” she asked, although Emma wasn’t sure why she’d changed the subject.
“Next week—Tuesday, I think.”
Emma didn’t welcome the reminder that Oliver was scheduled to fly her into Friday Harbor. She didn’t want to think about him—or the fact that she’d soon be in the air again.
“Are you ready to take these over to the new place?” Emma asked in an effort to derail her thoughts. She was eager to show off her apartment. An apartment she wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for Oliver, her conscience pointed out.
“Sure,” Phoebe said. “Let’s go.” But her enthusiasm seemed forced.
Emma hesitated. “Do you want to talk some more?” This disagreement with Walt had really depressed her friend.
“Not especially,” Phoebe murmured, revealing a little more life. “Let’s go,” she said again.
It was nearly seven and completely dark out. The first thing Emma noticed when she pulled up in front of the complex on Cherry Street was that Oliver’s apartment lights were off; only his Christmas lights flashed a festive message. He was probably out on some hot date, she thought glumly. Despite her best efforts, her spirits sank. It shouldn’t matter where he was or with whom—and yet, it did.
She stood by her car, fumbling for the door key, as Phoebe’s SUV drove up behind her. Carrying a couple of plants she’d transported on the front seat, she joined Emma. “What’s wrong, Em?”
Emma looked at her blankly.
“You just growled.”
“I did? I was thinking what a bother moving is,” she said, inventing an explanation that was also the truth.
“I’ll work as long as you want tonight.”
Emma nodded her thanks. She wanted out of the old place as quickly as possible. Because she didn’t own much, it hadn’t taken long to pack. Books, bedding and towels, clothes, kitchen stuff. Her TV and CD player. Odds and ends. Only a few pieces of furniture remained.
They made two trips, with both her car and Phoebe’s loaded, rooftop and all. Back at the old apartment, they surveyed the things that still had to be moved.
“We should take the bed over tonight,” Phoebe suggested, hands on her hips as she stood in the almost-empty bedroom. “That way you’ll be able to sleep at the new place.”
The idea appealed to Emma. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”
Phoebe nodded.
Oliver’s lights were on when they arrived with the bed and nightstand. So he was home. Not that she cared.
The mattress was the most difficult to handle. With Phoebe on one end and Emma on the other, they wrestled it out of the SUV.
“I’m starved,” Emma said as she paused to take a breath. She hadn’t eaten lunch; her only sustenance had come from a vending-machine pack of peanuts. “When we finish, I’m treating you to dinner. What time is it, anyway?”
Phoebe didn’t answer. When Emma looked around the protruding mattress, she saw why.
Oliver’s apartment door was open, and Walt Berwald and Oliver stood just outside the doorway, watching them struggle.
Phoebe dropped her end of the mattress. “Walt,” she said in a choked voice.
“Oh, could you use some help?” Oliver asked coolly as he stepped forward.
“Phoebe?” Walt sounded nervous.
Even in the dark, Emma swore her friend’s cheeks blossomed brighter than the cherry trees across the street ever would. She looked directly at Walt and then—reluctantly—at Oliver. She realized she owed him an apology. Her ungracious and ungrateful behavior toward him had worried her all day, and she needed to make it right.
“I’ll take that,” he said, hurrying toward her end of the mattress.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and moved aside so he could grab the mattress. “For everything.”
Oliver nearly stumbled. He dropped his corner of the mattress. “What did you just say?”
“I, ah, was attempting to apologize.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said. “It felt good to hear that. Would you mind saying it again?”
Emma considered refusing, since he just wanted to rub it in. Oh, well, she supposed he deserved to hear her apology twice. Not that she intended to use the word sorry even once. She cleared her throat. “I wanted to thank you for all your help,” she said more loudly.
He seemed gratified. Nodding his head, he said, “You’re welcome.” He lifted his end of the mattress again and grappled with it for a moment until he noticed that Walt hadn’t taken hold of the other side. He propped the mattress against the back of the vehicle.
Emma saw that Walt and Phoebe were staring at each other. He’d come to stand beside her, ignoring the mattress, Emma, everything.
“When you said you had ‘other plans,’ you let me think they were with someone else,” Walt murmured, frowning.
“It was what you deserved to think.”
“What’s going on with those two?” Oliver whispered, moving closer to Emma.
“They had a disagreement.”
“They’re seeing each other?” This seemed news to him. “They’re a couple?”
Emma nodded, watching her friend and their boss.
“I wasn’t joking, Walt.” Phoebe held her ground. She crossed her arms.
Walt exhaled and looked at Oliver. “Did I just hear you ask if Phoebe and I are a couple?”
“That’s your business, man.”
“No,” Walt countered, “I want you to know. I love Phoebe and she loves me.” He turned to face her. “There, does that sa
tisfy you?”
Phoebe grinned. “It’s a start.”
With that, Walt opened his arms and Phoebe walked into his embrace. A second later, they had their arms around each other and were locked in a passionate kiss.
“Hey, about this mattress?” Oliver whispered to Emma.
“Shh,” she whispered back. This was a scene normally reserved for the movies; all it lacked was a soundtrack. Emma didn’t think she’d seen anything more romantic in her life. “Isn’t this just so…so perfect?”
“What?” Oliver demanded, leaning against the mattress.
She scowled up at him, then understood that he really didn’t get it.
“Hey, anyone interested in Chinese?” Oliver asked.
Chapter Thirteen
Fruitcake—love it or hate it—is about the ritual of a family recipe. The longer the ritual is repeated, the more it becomes part of what is “done” at the holidays. With that in mind, there are only two fruitcakes that matter to me, and I eat them over the Christmas holidays every year. One is the recipe of my Grandma Prendergast, which my dad now makes at Christmas. It never turns out exactly the same as Grandma’s did, but it tastes good because it reminds me of her at the best time of year—when I’m with family. I eat it spread with butter, just the way Grandma served it. The other belongs to my mother-in-law, who labors over her version for weeks on end. In addition to the obvious fact that everyone should eat what their mother-in-law serves, hers are actually moist.
—Kevin Prendergast, executive chef,
New York Marriott Marquis
Bright and early the next Tuesday morning, Oliver pounded on Emma’s apartment door. When she didn’t immediately answer, he peered inside her front window. He saw her run into the living room and stare back. Smiling, he raised a small white bag and a large cup of coffee.
If she needed any inducement to unlock her door, that was it. She was dying for a latte.
“You sweetheart,” she said, letting him into her apartment. Boots was at her feet, the ready protector. She’d been pronounced healthy and was scheduled to be spayed right after Christmas.
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