Do Not Open 'Til Christmas

by Sierra Donovan

  “This is Bret,” he said into the phone, his tone no different than the dozens of other times Chloe had heard him say it.

  Then everything changed.

  In her life, Chloe had seen plenty of people blush, even turn red. But although she’d read it in hundreds of books, she didn’t think she’d actually seen anyone go pale before.

  As Bret listened silently to the voice Chloe couldn’t hear on the other end of the line, he rose from his chair as if lifted by marionette strings. He said only four words: “I’ll be right there.”

  He hung up and rounded the desk. “Sorry,” he murmured, brushing past Chloe as she stepped back. With a quick economy of movement, he made straight for the door of the newsroom, snatching his overcoat off the rack so quickly that the rack tottered.

  Chloe stared after him, a cold knot forming in her stomach. Whatever had happened, their little melodrama suddenly seemed very secondary.

  She went out to the front office and asked Jen, “Who was on the phone for Bret?”

  The receptionist’s light brown eyebrows furrowed. “Winston Frazier. Why?”

  Chloe wrapped her arms around herself. “Bret just left”—his movements had been too purposeful for a bat out of hell—“in a big rush.”

  Jen’s frown deepened. “Let me know when you hear anything. I’ll do the same.”

  The older woman was obviously fond of Bret, and Chloe wondered how much Jen knew about him. But she resisted the urge to ask any prying questions.

  Chloe did the only thing she could think of under the circumstances. She went back to her desk and did her best to write coherently.

  * * *

  Nonresponsive. It was one of Bret’s least favorite hospital words.

  Bret sat beside Winston Frazier in one of the dated vinyl chairs in the waiting area of Tall Pine Hospital’s emergency ward. If it turned out to be enough of an emergency, they’d send an air ambulance to transfer Bret’s father to one of the larger hospitals down the hill. It had come to that once before, resulting in a heart bypass four years ago.

  “I came over to pick him up for lunch, and he was slumped on the couch,” Winston said. “I couldn’t wake him up.”

  Bret nodded. He’d heard it before. Winston’s needle was stuck, replaying the same story. That was atypical for him, the only indication that he was anything other than his old crusty self.

  Winston had seen his dad through a lot, but this was the first time he’d had the dubious honor of being on hand for the initial medical emergency. It looked and sounded a lot like a stroke, but in Bret’s experience, it would take quite a while before they heard any results on the tests the hospital was running right now.

  What Bret wondered, but now wasn’t the time to ask, was how Winston had gotten into his father’s house. David let a lot of things slide, but even in Tall Pine, he wasn’t one to leave doors unlocked. The sight of Winston, in his perpetual button-down shirt, clambering in through a window would have been something to witness.

  Bret hoped one day he’d be able to laugh about it. It all depended on how things turned out today.

  “You were meeting for lunch,” he realized. “You haven’t eaten.”

  “It’s only been about an hour,” Winston said. “It’s not like I’m going to keel over.”

  Bret glanced at the time on his cell. One forty-five. Which made it closer to two hours, he estimated, since Winston found his dad “nonresponsive.” Looking at the time reminded him of something else: the office.

  He’d left a story up on his screen and Chloe basically standing in a cloud of dust. He ought to touch base. He doubted there was much danger of missing any major medical developments at the moment. His dad hadn’t regained consciousness, but his vital signs were stable.

  Bret stood. “I’ll check the cafeteria and see what kind of health food they have in the vending machines.”

  “I told you, I don’t need anything.”

  Bret aimed a meaningful look at Winston. “Maybe not, but I don’t want to wind up looking after two of you.”

  He left the waiting area, but before he went to the cafeteria, he walked outside. The hospital’s eighty-year-old concrete walls made cell reception hit or miss, even with Bret’s service provider. And anyway, Winston probably would have chucked Bret’s phone across the room if he tried to use it to text or e-mail the office. The older man didn’t have a lot of patience with modern technology.

  Outside, the recent snow glared brightly on either side of the carefully shoveled walkway in front of the hospital. Fa-la-la-la-la.

  The incongruity of the sunshine hit him full force. For the first time since Winston’s call, Bret had a moment alone to react. Maybe that wasn’t a good thing.

  Before he tried to contact anyone, he leaned against the rough, irregular stones of the building’s wall and closed his eyes. He sucked in several deep breaths.

  Not again.

  It was a desperate, two-word prayer, but God would know what he meant. Not another parent. Not at Christmastime, again. God wouldn’t do that to him. Right?

  As if God didn’t have bigger things on His mind than how Bret’s father’s fate might affect Bret personally. This wasn’t about Bret, it was about David Radner. His dad’s disregard for his own health carried risks and consequences. But still. Surely God had a few more plans for David, instead of letting him passively run out the clock?

  Please, he added. Amen.

  A few deep breaths later, he turned his attention to something he had some control over. He sent a message to Chloe’s e-mail: I’ll be out for a few hours. Tell Chuck to write his head off and send the stories your way when he’s done. Give them a good going-over. And I left a story up on my screen. It’s mostly done. See if you can turn it into English.

  He tapped the “send” button and waited.

  Chloe’s reply was quick. Will do. Where are you?

  He’d known that was coming. He bit his lip. Tall Pine Hospital. Family emergency.

  Chloe wrote back: Who?

  Bret’s jaw tightened. My father.

  No more questions, please, he willed.

  He had reasons for e-mailing rather than calling. Number one, he didn’t need to worry about his voice giving anything away. Number two, it gave him an excuse to be brief.

  Number three, it didn’t seem as real if he didn’t say it out loud.

  Her response came back: I hope everything’s okay.

  A platitude, really. The kind of thing anyone would say. But from Chloe, it felt genuine. And thinking about the fingers that had typed it stirred emotions Bret had no right to feel, especially now.

  Bret closed his eyes again and tried to focus on the jagged stones digging into his back. Somehow, during the past few weeks, he’d forgotten about this.

  He’d been fighting to keep Chloe at a proper distance for professional reasons. It was the right thing to do, for him and for her, because it was the ethical thing to do. This way, he wasn’t a boss involved with an employee, and she wasn’t the pretty blonde too many people already took at face value. It was all true. But those reasons were just the beginning.

  Anyone who got close to him became a part of this scenario. The medical crises, the ups, the downs. Especially the downs. Somehow that had never occurred to him before. The point had been moot, since he’d never gotten too involved with anyone since he came home from D.C. Or maybe that was another reason, subconsciously, that his relationships had a way of crashing before they really got started.

  If he kept everyone at arm’s length, no one had to see him like this.

  He gulped in cold air, remembering that other December, seven years ago, when everything had been peeled away and he’d felt like he was walking around without his top layer of skin.

  Tamp it down.

  Keep her out of it.

  Thinking about Chloe in those terms was ridiculous. He barely knew her, really, although something at the core of his being insisted otherwise.

  He visualized the paper,
in its orderly physical columns, and tried to piece together everything that needed to happen to get it on the stands tomorrow. One column at a time. It helped. When he had his thoughts sufficiently gathered, he worked up another e-mail of instructions, this time to the layout department.

  Once he knew he wasn’t going to fall apart, he went back inside to search for cafeteria food.

  And to wait some more.

  * * *

  Chloe relayed Bret’s instructions to Chuck, then made a quick trip to the reception area to give Jen the update.

  She walked back into the office, temporarily at a loss. She’d come in this morning loaded for bear, wasted a lot of energy trying to pin Bret down, and had spent the last two hours trying to write an article since Bret shot out of here. Now that it was written, her circling thoughts had free rein, and she had trouble even reading her own words to check the story over. She had a feeling Bret’s article would sound a lot more like English than hers did.

  “Doing okay?” Chuck offered.

  “I’m fine.” Her father wasn’t the one in the hospital. Thank God.

  One more look at her article, she decided, to get the thing polished up and done before she tackled Bret’s. She sat down at her desk. “Do you have any idea what’s wrong?”

  Chuck shook his head. “He doesn’t really talk about his family. I’m pretty sure his mother’s gone.”

  Chloe took a sip of cold coffee and stared at her screen. The words looked like gibberish. She forced her eyes to the top of the article and started reading again, line by line.

  In the next few hours, Chuck churned out five stories with mind-blowing efficiency, and Chloe cleaned them up, managing not to groan out loud over the misused punctuation. The execution was messy, but the words themselves were clean and direct.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” she said.

  “Necessity. I don’t second-guess. I need to be out of here on time. Kids grow up fast.”

  Chloe nodded wordlessly. She’d picked up bits and pieces about Chuck’s wife, and it sounded like the girls had lost a great mom. But he was determined not to let his aunt, a woman in her sixties, take over Annie’s role completely.

  A few minutes before five, she had a text from Bret. On my way back in. Chloe relayed the message to Chuck.

  “Good.” Chuck pushed back from his desk, but didn’t reach for his coat. “Need anything from me?”

  It seemed like everything in the office was code these days. Chloe had the feeling Chuck was really asking her whether she wanted him to stay. If it weren’t for her, she was sure Chuck would have waited long enough to talk to Bret.

  “I’m good,” she said. “Thanks.”

  Chuck picked up his coat. “Give Bret my best,” he said, and left.

  He seemed to understand a lot more than he was saying.

  Chloe eyed the congealing coffee in her mug and got up to make a fresh pot. It was a safe bet that it wouldn’t go to waste tonight.

  Bret walked in ten minutes later. With a characteristic nod, he hung his overcoat on the rack. His posture was intact, but his face looked weary and shadowed.

  “How’s your dad?” Chloe looked up from the screen she hadn’t really been reading.

  “Fine. Thanks for asking.” The corners of his mouth tugged up faintly, but Chloe wouldn’t have called it a smile. “False alarm. More or less.”

  He returned to his office. Chloe poured herself a fresh cup of coffee that, for once, she didn’t really need. A few minutes later, an e-mail from Bret landed in her in-box.

  Stories look fine. Have a good night. You’ve earned it.

  It wasn’t unusual for Bret to e-mail her from the next room, regardless of his mood. But after a day like this, she couldn’t just leave. She went to his office and stood inside the doorway—not too far this time—and waited for him to acknowledge her.

  He looked up from his screen. Blank, expectant, and tired.

  “There’s fresh coffee,” she said. “Is there anything else I can do to help?”

  “You already have. Thanks.” His eyes went back to his screen, a pretty clear dismissal.

  She shouldn’t press. She’d already put her hand in the cage once today, and she still couldn’t seem to leave it alone. “What happened?”

  With a heavy sigh, Bret pulled back from his computer. “Extreme hypoglycemia. It looked like a stroke at first. But it just means maintaining a proper diet. We’ll see how that goes.” His lips twitched. “I got them to keep him overnight, so we don’t chance going through the same thing tomorrow morning.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Sixty-six. I have a sister in Cincinnati who’s eight years older than me. I came along a little late in the game.”

  Old age wasn’t something she’d pictured yet for her parents. “My folks are in their fifties.”

  “Enjoy it while you can.” His voice was dull and flat.

  Okay, that did sound like a dismissal. Reminding herself of her turtle shell, Chloe started to turn away.

  “Chloe.” Bret’s voice was quieter.

  She turned back. He rubbed the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “I’m sorry. That sounded terrible. All I meant was—”

  “I know what you meant.”

  For a moment, his expression was unguarded, the pain in his eyes clearly visible. Pain, fatigue, and maybe something else.

  Before she could put a name to it, the shutters went up again. “Okay.” His eyes returned to the screen. “Like I said, false alarm. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I can probably get out of here in about a couple of hours if I buckle down.”

  “Bret—”

  “Chloe. I’m all right.”

  She glimpsed his eyes again. Hurting. Exhausted. “Okay,” she said. “Good night.”

  She ached to do more, but clearly that was off the table.

  That conversation, that ridiculous conversation that she’d started this morning, seemed like years ago. What had she hoped to accomplish? What Bret wanted, what he needed, was for her to be a reporter. No more, no less. She could do that.

  Bret had more on his plate than she realized, and she wasn’t helping. She needed to stop fussing over that-thing-that-never-happened.

  In short, she needed to grow up. And do her job.

  Chapter 15

  A pretty silver locket for her mom. Click.

  A sports watch, with lots of bells and whistles, for her dad. Click.

  Gift cards for Todd and Joel, because they liked to pick out their own gifts. Click. Click.

  Chloe sat on the couch with her laptop Sunday night, finishing her Christmas shopping. It seemed like she’d spent most of her December in front of a computer screen, one way or another.

  She’d made the time to go shopping on Evergreen Lane yesterday, where she’d found nice presents for Tiffany, Kate, and Sherry. She’d even found a silly key chain for Chuck. But she’d been buying presents for her family ever since she’d been old enough to shop, and it was getting harder and harder to find special gifts she hadn’t already thought of for them.

  Hemingway tried to help. Purring loudly, he started to stroll across her laptop. Chloe scooped him up and planted him back on the couch beside her, only to have him try again from the other side. After being thwarted three times, he rubbed his nose insistently against Chloe’s elbow, which almost made her order ten gift baskets for Aunt Janice.

  It had taken no effort for Tiffany and Kate to wheedle Hemingway into their home. Now Chloe had become his go-to person. Maybe because her hours were more predictable, or because she sat still on the couch longer. Maybe because she always had that thing opened up on her lap, taking her attention from him. Or maybe just because it made her lap warm.

  Whatever the reason, she was grateful to have him around, pesky paw pads and all.

  Chloe rubbed behind Hemingway’s ears as she looked up from the screen. She took a few moments to focus on the flashing lights of their little tree, and to listen to the Train Christmas CD she’d pu
t on.

  Christmastime was passing her by faster than a sled with a slick coat of wax on the runners. Working full-time during the holidays always made it hard to celebrate. Working more than full-time for the Tall Pine Gazette, trying to pretend things were normal at the office with Bret—that was even harder.

  Bret. Without even trying, she’d thought of a dozen gift ideas for him. She was sure he’d prefer she didn’t give him anything at all. Unable to resist, she’d finally bought a coffee mug. Surely that was safe. But she probably wouldn’t have the nerve to give it to him. Long after she moved on from the Gazette, wherever she ended up, she’d likely find herself sipping from a mug that read DEADLINES AMUSE ME.

  Like it or not, in spite of all her efforts, she’d fallen for her boss. She didn’t really know how Bret felt at this point, except that she obviously made him intensely uncomfortable. If she hadn’t tried to talk about their kiss that day, maybe he would have forgotten about it already.

  She knew she wouldn’t have.

  With a guttural moan that made Hemingway look at her askance, Chloe closed her laptop. Tiffany and Kate wouldn’t be home from work for a couple of hours; she resolved to take that time to put her stress on hold.

  She gathered Hemingway up in her arms. Now that he had her full attention, he squirmed as if he suspected some kind of trick. But she could be persistent, too. Chloe held him up to her shoulder and stroked him as his raspy purr filled her ears. He quickly forgot he’d been trying to escape.

  She lay back on the couch, and Hemingway settled on top of her in the classic sphinx pose. She breathed in the scent of the tree and let the music flood her ears as Pat Monahan sang about tinsel and lights.

  “Merry Christmas, buddy,” she said. “You like music, too, don’t you?”

  He meowed through a purr, giving her a whiff of cat food. But hey, he seemed to know she’d asked him a question.

  She rubbed the soft fur around Hemingway’s ears until she fell asleep.

  * * *

  “Thanks, Mona,” Bret said as he paid his lunch tab at the Pine ’n’ Dine.

  The brown-haired waitress smiled shyly from behind the register as she took his money and made change. So Ramona Billone had graduated high school and was now waiting tables at the Pine ’n’ Dine. Another one of those Tall Pine rites of passage, like that apartment complex. You got out of school and either went on to college or worked at one of the local eateries. Bret remembered being waited on by Ramona’s sister Kelly a few years back.