Lydia tapped her spoon against her plate, Gram fiddled with the tablecloth, and Mum sat strangely quiet adding more gravy to her plate. Merry sighed and stabbed at her carrots. Even though it was quite a yarn, how were they not happy at the news that she was getting to know a decent, seemingly nice guy? Even if it wasn't true?
Ricky saluted her from across the table with his glass of cider. “Good for you, sis. I hope it works out.”
Were her storytelling abilities that dry if this got such a lackluster of reaction from her family? The people who cared most about her happiness and well-being. Did they think she didn’t need them?
“I appreciate the enthusiasm, ya’ll.” Not bothering to mask the frustration, Merry scooped up the last of her mashed potatoes with her roll—carbs be damned.
Now Dad cleared his throat before speaking up, garnering enthusiastic nods from Mum and Lydia. “You're from Pittsburgh, honey. It's ‘yinz.’”
Merry snorted around a laugh at Dad’s correction but the amusement was short lived.
“We’re not not excited for you. We just don’t know him, but we do know Sam fairly well, so…”
She had just dashed their high hopes. Well, it’s my life.
“I’m sure he’s great.” For once, they took the less than subtle hint and the dinner was finished with nary a mention of this Sam, apparently The Bachelor in Residence at church, or the new guy she was still getting to know in some alternate reality. The alternate reality story that would shift her family’s focus off of trying to play matchmaker over the holidays.
Hopefully.
Chapter Three
“All right, guys. Who’s the prankster?” Sam Shepard stood back and surveyed the old storefront set. The thing was older than him. And he couldn’t even get a feel for what he needed to do to it since Mrs. Grainger’s daughter hadn't rewritten the play yet. It was Victorian in style, but if the play was going to be drastically rewritten—he was up a creek.
He was up a creek either way. Some smart aleck had painted, “Single, want to Mingle? Call Sam here” along with his phone number over the set.
Ricky Grainger and Lucas Meyers were howling in laughter from their perches atop ladders sanding away the peeling paint. Sam stalked over to the two lanky youths. Before he could interrogate them, Ricky held up both hands, wobbling precariously. “Wasn’t us, I swear! But whoever it was had the right idea. I keep telling you I have an older sister—now she’ll have your number, bro!”
Sam groaned and rubbed the back of his head. The paint looked almost dry—someone had left it there at last week’s workday when they knew the thing wouldn’t be standing upright for all to see. “All right men, get back to work. We have to finish this tonight.”
Ricky’s little sister bounded over with her group of friends, arms full of Christmas lights needing tested and possibly rewired from the church attic. “Girls, set those upstage. Have you plugged them in yet?”
They dumped the bins overflowing with lights upstage. “These red ones were only half lit.” Scooping up the offending red lights, Lydia trotted over and dumped them in Sam’s arms with a, “Have fun” before skipping over to the boys.
Sam held up the bundle of lights and groaned aloud at seeing how tangled they were. His Type-A personality cringed at the disorganization, but with time and delegating to the hoard of kids the Graingers had rounded up to help get the Christmas play off the ground—Sam would do his church family proud.
So long as the rewriter didn’t completely change the script which would necessitate a whole new stage’s construction. Working carefully to avoid bulbs popping off, Sam slid the whole kit and caboodle around his neck like a necklace. It wasn’t like he didn’t already have enough for the teenagers to give him grief what with his lack of relationship status and phone number brazenly red for all to see under the bright stage lights.
“Sam, dear, would you take a look at my sewing machine? I’m afraid I’ve worked it into a frenzy. It’s rather warm.” Kindly Mrs. Downey appeared like some fairy godmother, beaming up at him and he couldn’t say no. Even though he hardly knew a thing about sewing machines. Mom's passions had included pianos and the stage—not costuming. A tension headache began to swell as he strode down to the woman’s ministry section of the church. His least favorite area. Currently, it was filled wall to wall with mannequins, fabric, and a flock of women who never ceased to try and match him with a daughter, niece, friend or granddaughter. Get in, get out, say as few words as possible, and you may emerge unmatched.
Peering beneath the machine, he tapped the underside of it. “The little light bulb illuminating the needle, where the fabric goes?” Mrs. Downey nodded, hanging on his every word, and Sam’s heart squeezed. Mom used to look at him the same way when he would help her out with something.
“Looks like it may just need to be replaced. The plug is a little warm too so I'd let it rest for awhile.”
“Oh thank you, sweetie. Isn’t he just the best, ladies? So handy. He’ll make someone a fine husband someday.”
And that was his cue. “No problem. I’m gonna go…”
And with that, Sam took the stairs two at a time back up to the worship center to woodsy sawdust scents far more welcoming than the bevy of heady perfumes that had assaulted him downstairs. Shuddering, Sam walked over to an outlet and plugged in the string of lights still around his neck. More than half were indeed burnt out. Great.
“Why Sam, don’t you look just like a Christmas tree all wrapped in red.” Susanne Grainger walked down the aisle towards the stage at the speed of her teenage daughter, with someone tailing her huffing and puffing beneath a bundle of…
More Christmas lights? Seriously? God had a sense of humor. “Can I take that stuff from you guys?” Sam unplugged the string of lights from around his neck just in case it became a (welcome) noose before jumping off the stage to lighten his unofficial church mom's load.
“Thank you! Honey, this is the young man we were telling you about. Sam, this is my oldest daughter Merry.”
Lifting the pile of tinsel-fringed lights from Mrs. Grainger’s daughter, Sam smirked when a pair of unforgettable blue orbs widened.
Three thoughts flitted through his head before he could form a coherent word:
One: Mom would think this serendipity.
Two: He knew better.
Three: He couldn't help hoping to run into the girl stuck on the side of the road.
And here she was.
***
“Merry, Sam Shepard.”
Glitter stuck to her lips and Merry sputtered around it before raising her eyes to behold this Most Eligible Bachelor in the eyes of her family. And about choked on a piece of tinsel.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me. Mr. Smug Snowman himself from earlier. She blinked hard and he still stood there. Smirking. Like Ricky used to do when he was snitching Christmas cookies. Hopefully this Sam—and her mother—didn’t hear the “Crap” she muttered under her breath. Shoving now-empty hands in her pockets, she cleared her throat to hopefully not step in her own web of fibs she had spun her mother. “Nice to meet you.” Please don’t say anything and blow my cover.
Served her right, though, stepping foot into a church. Small wonder God showed up with His humbling sense of humor.
“Yeah…you too.” His hot cocoa warm voice held a slight note of confusion that almost phrased the statement as a question, but her mother didn’t seem perturbed. If anything, she grew gleeful and Merry bit her tongue. Mum, chill, for the love of Pete.
“Well, I'll leave you to it. Tell the kids there are snacks downstairs. Merry just ask Sam anything you may need.”
Mm hmm. Because I’m not self-sufficient and have never helped get ready for one of these church pageants. Biting the inside of her lip too hard, Merry rocked back and forth on her heels. “Sure thing, Mum.”
Her mother looked back and forth from Sam to her three times before booking it back up the aisle after a sigh as if to say, my daughter is hopeless.
“He
y!” Lydia’s infectious giggle reached Merry’s ears and she peered over the tall stranger to find Lucas Meyers with his arms around her sister and brandishing a paintbrush.
“No purpling!” Merry grinned to soften the sharp reminder for the teenagers to “leave room for Jesus.” Are they dating yet? Perhaps Lydia would be willing to fill her in at home that night over some tea and one of her famous manicures…
“Meyers, up on the ladder to finish the trim, please.” Sam’s admonition was kind, but firm and the youth reluctantly climbed back on the ladder after winking at her baby sister. Merry quelled a shudder. Still weirded her out. It never failed to shock how fast her siblings had entered into the tender puppy-love youth group years at the same time as they figured out their place in the world and in Christ.
“What is purpling, miss snowbound rabbit?” This Sam assumed an “at ease” stance in front of her, but his dimpled grin beneath a five o’clock shadow was broad. And strangely infectious despite how warm her face was getting. He does remember. She wracked her brain to make sure he didn’t divulge their first meeting to any member of her family. “It’s a way of reminding them to ‘keep room for Jesus,’” Merry air-quoted the catchphrase of her youth group days. “Boys are blue; girls are pink. Mixing, getting too close, equals purpling.”
Wait—what had this still-smug man called her? “And, um—rabbit?”
“Like the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. Running late.” His laugh was cute. So were his now-ruddy dimpled cheeks. Not exactly seductive or intriguing like some mysterious, tall, dark, and handsome hero from a novel would sound. But boyish and genuine. How had she missed that when they took that spill in the snow? Probably because you were running late and not so nice. Her conscience rankled obnoxiously, and she sighed. Her parents had raised her too right. “I’m sorry about earlier. I was running late, but that was no excuse not to be grateful…start over?" Then I can tell you not to mention to my mother about my little snowbound incident?
The man shifted the bundle of Christmas lights to rest more securely in his flannel-clad arms and walked to the stairs leading to the stage’s outlets. “Only if you help me with this mess of Christmas lights and,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially and Merry couldn’t help but smile, “Watch out for purpling while the kids do the heavy work, then sure…”
“We can start fresh Miss Merry.”
***
“How long have you been coming to Grace Chapel?”
Sam glanced up at where Merry Grainger sat with her feet perched up on the row of seats in front of her, red pencil twirling in her hand now instead of being chewed in concentration. This was the tenth consecutive question from her as he worked on lights, she on the script—and chaperoning. Other than her name, and her family—she was still a complete mystery to him. One who kept the conversation up expertly. So much so she appeared interested and sociable.
But she was guarded. And he wasn’t about to give up on getting those eyes to warm to aqua from their current icy blue-gray.
“About three years now. And not that I don’t enjoy a good interrogation every now and again…” Sam laughed out loud at the woman’s roll of the eyes—a sarcastic look but it was strangely adorable on her. “I kid. I kid. But c’mon.” Sam turned to face her completely now and the string of lights twined tighter around his hand. “What’s your story?”
“My mother hasn’t given you my résumé yet?” she muttered.
“Just trying to be friendly. No ulterior motives of my own or your family’s.” He raised his hands in mock surrender—which got her dimples winking. And now it felt like the Christmas lights were twining around his heart. You just met her, dude. Chill. Out. “Promise.”
“Speaking of my family…” Merry bit her lip, stood and craned her neck before coming to sit across from him on the floor, script forgotten. “I may not have told them we already met once. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”
“Wasn’t gonna but now I’m intrigued.” He tossed a pile of lights in her lap and she laughingly groaned as she attempted to work out the knots more complicated than a spider web. At least spider webs were symmetrical and organized and had a purpose. But Christmas lights—they looked nice. That was it. But if it got him more time with this perplexing redhead—he'd detangle every single strand. And replace all the bulbs.
“I may have told them that how we met, ah, earlier, was how I met the guy I'm dating. An imaginary man made up of the last few dates I've had and their better attributes.”
Wow. Creative. Sensing how the rest of Merry’s rushed explanation would go, Sam bit down on the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing as the woman in front of him grew increasingly rosy-cheeked, gesturing grander with every word. “And if you weren’t this perfect guy from church I wouldn’t have had to make up an imaginary guy to dissuade my family from setting me up with you!”
This was a first. Was she frustrated with him before she even knew him? That didn't bode well. “Wow, okay. Sorry?”
Merry grimaced and he lost sight of those eyes as they returned to the light detangling. Now this woman was made up of more unanswered questions than they had begun the evening with after her mother’s introduction. If he didn’t put her at ease, the rest of the evening would crawl by—and it would be his fault.
“Listen.” Sam gently tugged on the lights between them—they were working on the same strand. No wonder they weren’t getting anywhere. “We’re both adults, Merry. You could’ve just told your family you didn't want to be set up. And I’m sure you have a lot more pressing things on your plate than dating.” There, he’d let her off the hook. She relaxed, but just barely. “As it is, we have a lot left to do and probably should check and make sure there’s no purpling. Now c’mon,” Sam extended a hand and this time, she took it to stand up. “Let’s get the job done.”
“I didn’t mean…that is, I’m sure you’re a great guy and all…” Merry half laughed, half sighed and muttered what she probably thought he couldn't hear: “Ugh, insert foot into open mouth.”
Sam couldn't help laughing again—he hadn't laughed like this in a while. Usually inserting foot into mouth was his job. “No harm, no foul. We’re both pretty great and there’s a lot of work to do. But for the record—writing the whole pretty girl falling into a guy’s arms during a snow storm would make a pretty great beginning.” Great. Now I sound like a sap.
Sam could feel Merry’s eyes on him more than once after a barrage of teenagers descended with snacks and hot cocoa to renew their energy before finishing the set. At one point Ricky put his iPod on shuffle, and eighties classics streamed through the worship center as they finished working. It felt like a musical already. One Mom would’ve loved.
Why had he agreed to this? And at the holidays? Resisting the urge to bang his head against a wall, Sam caught his reeling thoughts and focused on making sure the sets were put back safely in storage now that they were blank canvases for whatever Merry Grainger dreamt up.
And as soon as the sets were done—he would have nothing more to do with this play.
Not if it reminded him so much of her. And too many memories to count. He couldn’t afford such distractions.
When Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing sounded, the entire place burst into song. Sam kept his less than stellar voice under wraps, enjoying the show the teens put on as they worked hard. But when a flash of red flew by him, dragged by her tall younger sister, Sam almost dropped the box of lights he had finally detangled.
Merry was singing. Actually singing, tossing her hair back and forth and harmonizing with Lydia to the classic jam. She even used a paintbrush as a microphone.
And she sounded amazing.
Despite the organized chaos, his number and relationship status previously emblazoned on the set by obnoxious teenagers, he couldn’t stop smiling. In spite of the fact being around this theatrical production at the holidays was surprisingly bittersweet.
Serendipity, Mom? He was meant to be here. And the bittersweet
ache faded as the electric guitar faded and a piano intro that could only be Springsteen sounded.
If he had signed up to work alongside the men’s ministry tonight—he never would have met Merry. And that just didn’t seem right.
Shoot. He was staring. At Merry. Who was, thankfully, busying herself back in the seats with her papers and pencil. But Ricky Grainger caught him. He even broke away from a brunette girl he had been shadowing all night to hop off the stage and sprint towards Sam.
“Do you want my sister’s number yet?”
So this family had fewer boundaries than he had imagined. “Ricky. Jeez—we just met.” Plus, Sam could easily imagine the sputtering outrage of the kid’s older sister if she overheard.
The lanky seventeen-year-old shrugged, brushing his blond Bieber-hair out of his eyes. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. Are you coming for Thanksgiving?”
He wasn’t going to. The Graingers had been his last invitation he had on his list to bow out of.
But now…
“What time’s dinner?”
Chapter Four
Inhaling the frigid air, Merry put one hand on the doorknob, turned, and pushed it open. Stepping inside to the instantaneous shushes of her youngest siblings who had the end of the parade streaming loudly from the TV.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” She pecked Lydia quick on the cheek and ruffled Ricky's hair to their squawks of protests that they were too old for such things. Much as they all got on each other's nerves—they were two of the six people Merry didn't know what she would've done without, especially the last few years.
There it was again—that slippery, cool whisper of regret and longing and sadness all rolled into one. Memories of the Last Holiday she had had a boyfriend—and still had Grandpap around—had almost kept her in bed just hours earlier. But she had pulled herself up by her red, cowboy bootstraps, triple checked the work she'd need to do on the weekend at the library, and left her apartment.
Slipping her scarf and cloak onto the banister, Merry snuggled deeper into her old hand painted Turkey Day sweatshirt. Mum could be heard banging around in the kitchen, and Merry just breathed it all in. Her favorite room of the house smelled of the unique, once-yearly holiday kaleidoscope of aromas: a turkey turning golden in the oven, yeasty homemade rolls rising, and warm, cozy cinnamon from multiple family heirloom pie plates and casserole dishes.
Wrapped in Red: A Three Rivers Romance Novella Page 2