The Christmas Feast

by Peggy Webb

  He searched his own pockets and came up empty-handed.

  “I’m nothing but a pack of trouble.” She began to cry in earnest, and without a handkerchief, what could he do but kiss her?

  He cupped her lovely face and bent over her sweet lips with the full intention of offering nothing more than comfort and reassurance. The kiss turned out to be something else entirely, something so unexpectedly satisfying that he forgot all about rescuing her.

  Instead she rescued him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her heart against his, then threw her whole self into the kiss.

  He’d never known anything like it. The sensations of giving and taking were so intermingled that he couldn’t tell one from the other. Theirs was a complete merger, not merely a joining of lips but a twining of spirits and souls. Of hearts.

  No. Lance broke off and stepped back. Jolie tilted her head and stared at him, flushed and expectant.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  A huge silence roared around them, and then she settled back on to the bar stool, slightly flushed.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “No harm done.”

  Not yet. If they had continued that kiss, he would have done irreparable harm. He had no intention of leading her to believe that he was the kind of man who could be involved in a romance.

  And if he read her correctly, Jolie Kat Coltrane was the kind of woman who would settle for no less. Certainly she wouldn’t be interested in a brief fling.

  Nor would he. Not with her.

  Her sister had been too good to him. Her family had opened their doors to him for what was normally a family-only holiday.

  But most of all, Jolie was too important. He couldn’t take what he wanted, then walk away. And walking away was exactly what he would do. He was a man who could offer a woman nothing except part-time love interspersed with long periods of fear and uncertainty. He could offer nothing except a borrowed name.

  “Since we’ve finished here, I think I’ll ride around awhile,” he said. He needed fresh air.

  “Great. That sounds like a good idea.”

  Was she anxious for him to leave? Sincere? Hoping he’d ask her to come? For a man who read people all the time, he had a hard time figuring her out, which was exactly why he had to get away. He was losing touch with reality.

  “You can come along if you’d like.” Did she notice how halfhearted his invitation was? Probably. Jolie was no dummy.

  “Thanks, but I have lots of chores I need to do around here.”

  “See you later, then.” Much later. He planned to stay away till he was certain she’d be in bed. He’d had about all the temptation he could stand for one day.

  Lance left the kitchen and didn’t look back. Suited up, he roared off on his motorcycle with no destination in mind.

  Jolie sat on the bar stool listening to the sounds of his motorcycle die away.

  “Okay,” she said.

  She took a deep breath, then another. “Pull yourself together, girl. It was just a kiss.”

  With her hand over her lips she relived the last few minutes. Amazing! A kiss was not a kiss. Some of them were special.

  But then he’d apologized. Jolie had thought she would die. How awful to feel on top of the world one minute and down in the doldrums the next.

  “I just won’t think about it.”

  If she did she would get depressed and go on a crying jag that would leave her nose red and her eyes swollen and her body feeling as if it had been dumped off a ten-speed bike.

  She turned the radio down, then called her mother.

  “Hi, Mom. How’s California?” She crossed her fingers, hoping that Lucy wouldn’t notice she was down in the dumps. Jolie didn’t want to spoil her mom’s last few days with Aunt Dolly. Naturally, her hope was futile. Lucy could sniff out depression more than a thousand miles away.

  “Kat? What’s wrong?”

  The minute her mother asked, Jolie felt a wave of relief, which just went to show how selfish she was. And at Christmas, to boot.

  “You know that man Elizabeth invited here for Christmas?”

  “Yes, her friend from Italy.”

  “He’s not Italian.”

  “Oh, I had hoped he was. Ben and I are thinking of going to Italy next spring and I wanted to get a few language pointers. Does he speak Italian?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “What is there to tell?”

  “I don’t know, Kat. You’re the one who brought him up.”

  Jolie sighed. What was there to tell? Did one kiss mean anything?

  “He’s very nice.”

  “I’m glad. Knowing Elizabeth, I didn’t expect anything less.”

  “I know. She’s perfect.”

  “All my children are perfect.”

  “Only to you, Mom.”

  “My prerogative. Now tell me, what’s going on?”

  Lucy being a romance novelist, her mind ran naturally toward love, but Jolie was having second thoughts about saying anything whatsoever regarding her confused feelings.

  Wasn’t that exactly what the family would expect of her? Confusion, even in an arena where everybody else knew exactly what they wanted—if you believed all the magazine articles about dating and marriage. There was supposed to be some sort of instant chemical reaction you could feel, like getting zapped in the heart with a lightning bolt. Only love wouldn’t kill you.

  Or would it?

  Jolie had felt sparks, but had Lance? She wasn’t about to go blabbing about her feelings until she knew his. She’d only set herself up for another failure in the eyes of her family.

  And so instead of telling Lucy about Lance, she told her about the Bird Lady. Everything, including the large bill Jolie had run up at the boutique.

  “You did the right thing, Kat. Now tell me, did you invite her to Christmas dinner?”

  “No.”

  “By all means, do. The O’Banyon-Coltrane table is always big enough for one more.”

  “Thanks, Mom. Give Ben and Aunt Dolly a hug for me.”

  “I will. Dolly’s thinking of coming back to O’Banyon Manor for the rest of the holidays.”

  “Great.” Jolie mentally added two more people to the Christmas dinner tally, then started dividing casseroles into servings. Six servings per casserole? Eight? Ten? She’d have to ask Lance.

  “Is Kitty home yet?” her mother asked.

  “No. Aunt Kitty and Josh aren’t coming until Christmas Day.”

  “I had assumed she was taking care of dinner. You’d better call the caterer, Kat. Call Bonnie Lumpkin. She’ll do it on short notice.”

  “I’m taking care of it, Mom.”

  “You are? Well, that’s just…great.”

  From her mother’s mouth to God’s ears. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

  After Jolie hung up she wandered through the house, trying to think what she could do. There were no chores, not really. The cleaning service would come tomorrow, and she was on vacation from her job, and since she hadn’t heard a thing about the new job, she was at loose ends.

  She picked up the phone to call Birdie and invite her to Christmas dinner, then thought, What the heck, I might as well drive over there and do it in person.

  She wanted to see how Birdie was doing. Plus Jolie was lonesome. She’d lived the last six years in an apartment in Memphis all by herself with not even a cat to keep her company. And not once had she suffered this all-consuming I’m-so-lonely-I-could-cry syndrome.

  Jolie crammed her hair under a baseball cap, grabbed her purse and set out for Hanging Grapes Haven.

  Though it had started to rain, her spirits lifted the minute she got into her little blue car. She loved going places. Turning the radio up, she drove with one hand and kept time on the dashboard with the other, all the while singing along at full volume.

  She didn’t even notice her audience until he turned the siren on. She pulled over and rolled the window down.


  “Going to a fire, lady?”

  At first she didn’t recognize him huddled in the rain with his coat collar turned up, but then she jerked off her cap and said, “Sam…Sammy Joe Talbert, is that you?”

  “Kat?” The former quarterback of Shady Grove High leaned in the window. “Kat Coltrane! I’d know that pigtail anywhere. Are you still raisin’ hell?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “It sure does. Did you know you were going fifty-five in a forty-mile zone?”

  “I was singing.”

  “Well, hell, when wasn’t you goin’ around with your head in the clouds and forgettin’ everything except havin’ fun? I’m supposed to give you a ticket, Kat.”

  “Ah, Sammy. It’s Christmas.”

  “Hell, you could be put in jail for a smile like that.” He grinned. “Listen, Kat, I’m not gonna ticket you tonight, but slow this thing down, you hear me?”

  “Will do, Sammy. I may be fun-loving, but I’m no fool. Merry Christmas.”

  “You, too.”

  Jolie waved, then drove off, formerly a happy-go-lucky driver not paying attention, now a cautious blue snail.

  Chapter 9

  “Play that song again, Jacky.”

  Lance put the harmonica back to his mouth, then played “Swing Low Sweet Chariot” for the fifth time while the Bird Lady sat beside her Christmas tree with her head cocked to one side and a faraway look in her eyes.

  He hadn’t meant to come to Hanging Grapes Haven tonight, but he was glad he had. Birdie was thrilled and kept patting him on the arm and calling him Jacky, which was all right with Lance. Even he didn’t know who he really was.

  Watching her enjoy the simple pleasure of a mouth harp, Lance thought about growing old without a family, without friends, without even a name except a made-up one a stranger had given him. The blues settled over him and wouldn’t go away.

  But this time it was a soul-deep ache that felt as if it might settle in permanently unless he did something about it. Like what?

  Find out who you are.

  Birdie began to sing, “Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home....”

  Like her, he had no family to call home.

  Find out who you are.

  He played on while her voice lifted, cracked but surprisingly clear: “I looked over Jordan and what did I see? A band of angels comin’ after me....”

  Sooner or later the angels would gather them all, but who would claim Birdie? Who would claim him?

  Find out who you are.

  As Lance finished the song, a flesh-and-blood angel appeared in the doorway—Jolie, her long braid hanging wet underneath a baseball cap flattened by rain, her smile lighting up the room.

  “Hi, everybody.” Sashaying in with the walk Lance found irresistible, she kissed Birdie on the cheek. “How’s my favorite Bird Lady?”

  “How come you and Jacky didn’t ride together?”

  Something flickered across Jolie’s face that he couldn’t read. “Heck, he’s scared to ride with me. I’m hell on wheels. Almost got thrown in jail on the way here.”

  Was she kidding or not? Keeping his voice neutral, Lance asked, “What happened?”

  “I was speeding, but I talked Sammy out of giving me a ticket.”

  Speeding? In the rain?

  Hell!

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” he said, still feigning only moderate interest. “You could talk saints out of their haloes.”

  She beamed at him. Why had he said that? Beaming was bad for his ragged nerves. Even worse for his libido.

  “Well…” She turned her back on him. “Birdie, I just popped in to invite you to Christmas dinner at my house.”

  “Can I wear my red cowboy boots?”

  “You can wear anything you like. I’ll come by and get you around two. Is that okay?”

  “Will Jacky come, too?”

  Jolie glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll be there,” he said.

  “Okay, good, that’s settled.” Jolie gave Birdie a hug. “Gotta run.”

  “Wait,” Lance said, but she was already out the door.

  Wait for what? Another kiss?

  Definitely not!

  Still, his instincts urged him to leave, urged him to hurry.

  “Birdie, I have to go, too.”

  “Just one more song? Please.”

  After one verse of “Silent Night,” he gave Birdie a quick hug, then hurried out to his motorcycle. There was no sign of Jolie.

  How many roads were there from Pontotoc to Shady Grove? Would she take the one he was familiar with?

  Trusting she would, Lance buckled on his helmet and set out in pursuit. She couldn’t have gotten far, but even going faster than he normally would in the rain, he still didn’t see her car.

  “Hell.” With all his instincts kicked into high gear, he took a curve, then increased his speed. There she was, just up ahead. Filled with relief, Lance chastised himself for getting so dangerously close to caring about her.

  He’d gone against his better judgment and taken foolish chances, which just proved that his decision to remain unattached was not only sane and sensible but right.

  The rain poured in earnest, but Lance didn’t stop to dig out his raincoat. He didn’t want to lose sight of Jolie again.

  The sign for Shady Grove came into view. Almost there. He’d dry off as soon as he got Jolie safely home.

  And breathe again.

  Then, helpless and terrified, he watched her car hydroplane, and prayed she could wrest control from the treacherous, watery stretch of road.

  Her car straightened, seemed to be settling down, but then resumed its crazy careening.

  In the distance, headlights cut through the gloom. Another car was heading straight toward her, set on a collision course.

  Lance relived the awful moment he’d watched a burning building bury his partner.

  “No!” he screamed. “God, no!”

  Jolie’s car swerved right and landed nose down in the ditch as the oncoming car passed safely by. In the aftermath of tragedy, the stillness seemed peculiar and absolute. The only sound was Lance’s blood rushing in his ears.

  Leaving his bike on the shoulder of the road, he stumbled down into the ditch. It was too dark to see through her window; it was raining too hard to know what lay inside the car.

  “Jolie!” No response.

  Lance jerked the car door open and his heart froze. Slumped over the wheel, she gave no sign of life.

  “Oh my God, Jolie…”

  He checked her pulse and found a strong, steady beat. Thank heavens. “Jolie, can you hear me? Jolie?”

  She groaned and raised her head off the steering wheel. “Where am I? What happened?”

  “You skidded off the road… Wait, don’t move. Do you hurt anywhere?” He leaned across her and turned on the interior lights. There was a small gash on her forehead, but nothing else that he could see.

  He brushed her hair back from her forehead and was relieved to see that the skin was barely broken. Nothing that would require stitches.

  “I’m okay.” In the closeness of the car he was vividly aware of her, of her warm breath fanning across his cheek, of the perfume she wore, of the softness of her skin underneath his hand.

  All he could think was I almost lost her.

  The car that had passed them turned around in a driveway up the road and headed in their direction. Its headlights cast a halo around her head, so that she appeared to be some sort of disheveled Christmas angel.

  His Christmas angel. His tomboy in knee pads, his sprite in a pigtail. His love.

  Whoa. Where had that come from? He was overreacting to the accident, that was it. Had to be.

  The man from the car hurried toward them. “God, we saw what happened. It like to’ave scared my wife to death. These curvy country roads can be tricky in weather like this.” Big and friendly-faced, his glasses streaked with rain and his navy-blue blazer clinging to him in wet patches, he stood at t
he edge of the road. “Bill Watkins. You folks need any help down there?”

  “Yes, we do,” Lance told him. “I’ve got to get her to the hospital. Call 9ll.”

  “I’m okay. There’s nothing but a little scratch,” Jolie insisted.

  Ignoring her protests, Lance lifted her from the car.

  Sitting in the visitors’ waiting room of Shady Grove Hospital, Lance played the moment over and over. He’d lifted her from the car and held heaven in his arms. The shock of awareness was so great that for a moment he’d stood in the bright lights from Bill’s car, paralyzed. He hadn’t wanted to let her go. Ever.

  Standing up now to pace, he glanced at the big round electric clock on the wall. It was after ten. How long had the doctor been with her? Thirty minutes? An hour?

  It seemed like an eternity.

  What if she had internal injuries? Lance had seen it happen. A person could appear perfectly fine, walk away from a wreck talking and acting normal, and then die of internal hemorrhaging before you could get him to the hospital.

  That couldn’t happen to Jolie. He wouldn’t lose her. He couldn’t.

  Lance grabbed a nurse passing by. “Can you tell me Jolie Katherine Coltrane’s condition?”

  “The doctor’s still with her.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “You’ll have to wait and talk to the doctor.”

  Lance wanted to punch the walls. With a terse, “Thank you,” he hurried toward the coffee machine before he made a complete fool of himself.

  The lukewarm coffee did nothing to relieve his anxiety. He tossed it into a garbage can, then hurried back to the waiting room. If she got through this…when she got through this, he was going to be a changed man. He was going to talk to her, tell her—

  “Mr. Estes?” The doctor had silver hair and a name tag that read Harold Clayton, M.D.

  “Yes. I’m Lance Estes.”

  “You’re her next of kin?”

  Oh God, was she dead?

  “No, I’m the one who brought her in. Her relatives are all out of town. How is she?”

  “She has an abrasion on her forehead, that’s all. She might have a slight headache.”