Home For the Holidays

by Lisa Plumley

  “So will you do it?” Nate prodded. “Come on, Reno.”

  “Yeah, Reno.” Angela grinned. “Will you do it?”

  He had no idea what they were talking about. Something about Nate, the airport, and Reno’s reputation in town. But it was all mixed up with meanderings about Rachel Porter’s sexy (and snow-inappropriate) miniskirt, her long, long legs…and everything that had happened between them a day and a half ago.

  There was only one thing to do. The thing Reno always did.

  “Yeah, of course I’ll do it,” he said.

  “You will?” Nate’s entire face brightened, from his square jaw to his blond buzz cut. He slapped Reno on the shoulder—a left tackle-size blow that would have toppled a lesser man. “That’s awesome! Oh, sweet! You’re the best, I swear.”

  He crossed his fingers over his heart, then kissed his fingertips and blew the kiss away. It was, quite possibly, the cheesiest, lamest gesture anyone in The Big Foot had ever made.

  But Reno was glad to see his friend happy. He and Nate had been through a lot together, from high school football to NFL training camp to girlfriends, business troubles, and more. There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for Nate.

  “Glad to help.” Whatever it was, he could handle it.

  “I can’t wait!” Grinning from ear to ear, Nate stood. His height and musculature incited people at nearby tables to lean out of the way. “This calls for another round. On me!”

  Gleefully, he lumbered away, head bobbing to the music.

  “Wow.” Smiling, Reno leaned toward Angela. Later he’d deal with her reentry into the dating world—and what a huge mistake it might be. Right now…“Okay. What did I just agree to do?”

  Trapped on the sofa between Bidie Niedermeyer and Susanne Fowler, Rachel took another gulp of her mother’s favorite home-style holiday punch: rainbow sherbet floating in 7-Up. She shuddered. Maybe if she poured some Stoli in it?

  “Tell us, tell us, dear! What’s J-Load really like?”

  Who? Oh. Right. “Um, I don’t work with Jennifer Lopez.”

  “Then who’s that foreign girl they’re always talking about in Us Weekly?” Bidie asked. “The one with the big bazongas?”

  Alayna would have loved to hear herself described that way.

  “That’s Alayna Panagakos, Mrs. Niedermeyer. From the group Goddess?” Rachel glanced around. The usual nods of instant recognition did not hit her. That’s right. She was in the heartland, surrounded by people who took The View seriously. To elaborate, she added, “She’s Greek. Oh, and a man-stealing, backstabbing devil whore, too, but in Hollywood these days—”

  All conversation stopped. The only sounds were the crooning melodies of her mother’s Perry Como Christmas CD on the stereo and the hilariously oblivious crunching of Mr. Fowler eating cheese balls spread on the “fancy” kind of Ritz crackers.

  “Kidding!” Rachel forced a laugh, trying not to meet her father’s appalled gaze. “Alayna’s wonderful. She’s one of my best friends in fact. Almost like a sister.” At least she had been. “We live next door to each other in Malibu. On the beach.”

  Or at least they had. Until Alayna’s latest tantrum.

  “Oh, like Barbie’s Malibu beach house!” Mrs. Fowler said.

  “Tell us more!” Mrs. Niedermeyer urged, her eyes bright above her sequined patchwork holiday sweater with working mini Christmas lights on the shoulders. “We’re all so proud of you.”

  “We always knew you’d make something of yourself.”

  “Something wonderful! With those sewing skills of yours—”

  “Well, I don’t sew much these days.” Unless I’m making an impromptu revenge outfit. Rachel faced the Hendricksons, longtime friends of her parents who’d leaned forward to hear more. “But I am intimately involved in the fashion industry.”

  “No sewing?” Mrs. Fowler looked sad. “That’s a shame.”

  “Rachel sets trends!” her mother piped up. “You know those stovepipe pants? My little girl got people wearing those again.”

  Well. Rachel could hardly take all the credit for the resurgence of skinny jeans. But with everyone who mattered to her parents gathered in the same room, waiting to hear about her incredible, successful life in Hollywood, she couldn’t bear to disappoint. But she couldn’t bring herself to lie either.

  Right now, pretending to be the same person she’d always been would be the hugest whopper of all.

  All she’d wanted was to escape reality for a while. How had it followed her all the way to her dinky, touristy hometown?

  “Oh, come on. That’s work talk, and this is a holiday party!” Rachel exclaimed. Brightly, she put her hands on her thighs, then pushed upward, cutting a swath among her parents’ friends. “This is supposed to be a tree-trimming party, right?” For some reason, when her parents had learned she was coming, they’d waited for her to help with the tree. As if she were eleven again. “Who wants to decorate a Christmas tree?”

  “Ooh!”

  “Why, that sounds like fun.”

  “Where are the ornaments?”

  Everyone scattered, ready to create some Christmas cheer.

  In the midst of the hubbub, Rachel released a sigh. Party guests milled around her, momentarily—and purposefully—distracted from all talk of L.A., fashion, or even sewing.

  She hadn’t lost her touch for everything useful. Apparently she was still pretty good at L.A.-style razzle-dazzle—at useful misdirection. Satisfied, she grabbed her punch cup, trying to appear as if she were dying for a refill of Candyland punch.

  Halfway across the living room, she glimpsed her father. Before everyone had arrived, he’d lugged a cardboard box full of ornaments from the closet in her old bedroom—which had basically been converted into a sewing room/guest room/giant junk drawer. Now Gerry Porter stood surrounded by middle-aged couples, all of them oohing and ahing over the decorations as they lifted each gaudy, careworn, or kitschy item from the box.

  Catching her eye, her dad nodded at her.

  Rachel’s stomach clenched. Just like that, she realized the truth. Her father knew! He might not know everything (honestly, how could he?), but he knew something. He knew something was wrong, and he’d probably spotted her misdirection, too. Damn it.

  With a gulp, Rachel escaped to the kitchen. She glanced at the clutter, at the spare cheese balls with their “elegant” coating of chopped walnuts and parsley, at the empty two-liter 7-Up bottles, at the shopping bag full of reindeer-themed wrapping paper in the corner, and the countertop with its lined-up bottles of decorator sprinkles ready for Christmas cookies.

  “Rachel, honey? Hurry up,” her mother called from the living room. “We’re unpacking the ornaments you made in grade school.”

  With a groan, Rachel leaned against the refrigerator.

  “Rachel?” her father called. “Bring in more punch, please.”

  She’d come home to Kismet to escape. Instead it felt as if everything was coming at her at warp speed here—wrapped in Christmas paper and covered in bright blinking lights. Ho-ho-ho.

  “I’ll bet she’s making an important phone call,” came Mrs. Fowler’s gossipy voice. “To someone in Hollywood!”

  Instantly, chatter overtook the room and flowed to Rachel. They were off again, talking about her celebrity clients and her “Barbie house” in Malibu. Mrs. Hendrickson offered the opinion that everyone was “too naked” in L.A., while Mr. Hendrickson countered that they could afford to be “with that nice weather.”

  “Oh look!” her mother exclaimed. “Here’s the souvenir ornament Rachel sent us when she first went away to become a famous designer. It’s a tiny star, like on the Walk of Fame!”

  “Come see this, Rachel,” her father demanded.

  “Umm, I’ll be right there,” Rachel called.

  Then she set down her punch cup, grabbed a scarf from the hook by the kitchen door, and (for the second time in four days) made her getaway. To anyplace but here…in Christmas Town.

  Chapter
Thirteen

  In the dim light of The Big Foot, Reno fixed his sister with an unswerving look. “I mean it. What did I agree to do?”

  All Angela did was keep laughing, shaking her head.

  “Hurry up!” Glancing over his shoulder, Reno spotted Nate on his way back to their table with more root beer and Budweisers. And a big smile. “He’s almost here. Come on.”

  “This is just like you. Agreeing to help before you even know what’s going on. Seriously, Reno. When are you going to realize that you don’t have to take care of everyone?”

  “What a ridiculous question. What did I agree to do?”

  For a minute, his sister gazed at him with an almost regretful expression. Or maybe she was just contemplating her upcoming date with that dreamy-eyed prick guy. Who knew?

  “Angela!”

  “Okay, fine.” She scooted her chair closer and leaned in. “You just agreed to set up Nate with Rachel Porter.”

  Reno frowned. “On a date?”

  “No, on a fishing trip.” After a deadpan look, Angela rolled her eyes. “Yes, a date! At school today, Nate told me that Rachel Porter was his dream girl.” She fluttered her eyelashes girlishly, then grinned. “He’s crazy about her.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  Uh-oh. Not again. Nate was as prone to falling in and out of love—often without the object of his affection even knowing about it—as most men were to sniffing their dirty laundry in case they could eke out another wearing. It was one of his quirks, lovable but potentially problematic. Like brewing his coffee beans twice, reusing razor blades, or buying auto parts for his beat-up old Chevette from a secondhand supplier.

  “But Rachel Porter is all wrong for him. She hates small towns, especially Kismet. She doesn’t like trucks. Or Care Bears. Or Christmas. She’s a diva with a capital D.”

  “Care Bears?”

  “Never mind. It’s…complicated. See, the other night when I went to pick up Rachel at the airport, we got stranded. Remember? We were stuck for hours. There wasn’t much to do, so—”

  Angela gasped. “Reno, no. You didn’t!”

  Uncomfortably, he squirmed. “It’s not what you—”

  “Hey, the conquering hero returns with the brewskis!”

  With a jovial smile, Nate arrived at their table, thunking down new drinks, and bringing Reno’s confession to an immediate halt. Which was probably good. Trying to ignore his sister’s accusatory expression, he turned to his friend.

  “Listen. About that Rachel Porter thing. I’m not the best guy to fix you up with her.”

  At Nate’s crestfallen expression, Reno felt worse than ever. “I mean, matchmaking? That’s for wusses right? Guys who go to spas and run teddy bear factories.” He mustered up a grin. “I’m no Christmas cupid. You’re better off without her.”

  “Yeah,” Angela put in. “Maybe Reno is right. After all, you haven’t seen her for a while. Who knows where she’s been?”

  Angela’s knowing look suggested that who she’d been with was a more important question. But, true to form, his sister was going to make Reno come clean himself. Before he could…

  “She’s been in L.A.” Indignantly, Nate squared off against both of them. “I Googled her. She’s a famous celebrity stylist now.” Eagerly, he nodded. “And she looks better than ever.”

  “A celebrity stylist? Wow, that sounds really glamorous!” Angela aimed a curious glance at Reno. “I wonder why she left a life like that to come back to Kismet?”

  “We’ll probably never know. And looks aren’t everything.”

  At Reno’s blunt pronouncement, Nate shook his head. “I don’t want Rachel Porter because she’s a smoking hottie. There’s more to it than that. I’ve dreamed about her since high school.”

  “All the more reason for you not to be disappointed now.”

  With that said, Reno slugged back more beer. There was no way he could fix up Nate with Rachel Porter. She’d take one look at poor hapless home ec/industrial arts teacher Nate and break his heart. He couldn’t do it. Nate meant more to him than that.

  The woman didn’t even like Christmas. Come on.

  Nate looked puzzled. “Are you saying you won’t do it?”

  Angela smirked. “But you promised, Reno.”

  The hell? They were ganging up on him now?

  “But you always help out.” Nate sounded utterly baffled. He stared at Reno, then his eyes narrowed. “Unless…I know what it is. You want her for yourself! You saw her at the airport and drove her home, and she was amazing and sweet and wonderful and smart and talented, and you want her for yourself. Admit it!”

  Oh, man. This just got worse and worse. With another guilty slug of his beer, Reno glanced at his friend. He should admit what had happened between him and Rachel and be done with it. It wasn’t a crime. It wasn’t even that scandalous. He wasn’t sure why she’d sworn him to secrecy, but…

  Hell. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let down Nate, but he also couldn’t let him be hurt. He couldn’t blurt out the secret of what he and Rachel had done, but he also couldn’t stay silent. At least not for much longer. He’d almost told Angela….

  “I don’t want Rachel for myself.” It was a harmless lie, Reno figured. What were the odds it would come back to bite him? “And she wasn’t all that sweet either.” Except sometimes. “The truth is, she’s not the right kind of woman for you, Nate.”

  “Says you.” Nate scoffed, lifting his Budweiser. “You always think you know what’s best for people.”

  “Amen.” Angela nodded. The traitor.

  “You’re the one who wants my help!” Reno protested.

  “I’m perfectly capable of impressing Rachel Porter on my own.” Nate leaned back, a grin spreading over his face. “I’ve changed a lot over the years. All I need is a boost from you, the resident big shot. Just to get me started, that’s all.”

  Ugh. Resident big shot. Nate had had to go and bring that up, hadn’t he? It wasn’t as though he and Nate hadn’t both been town heroes when they’d been drafted into the NFL. The trouble was, Nate had come back to Kismet three weeks into Scorpions training camp, after being booted from the team. Reno had come back years later…a Super Bowl superstud in the eyes of everyone.

  Trapped, Reno gazed at Nate. The truth was, he’d already agreed. He was not a guy who went back on his word.

  “All right. The first time I see Rachel Porter around town,” Reno promised, “I’ll make sure the two of you have a chance to meet and spend some time together.”

  Since the odds of him seeing Rachel Porter again—by her own admission—were exactly zero, what was the harm in that?

  In the end, Rachel chose her ultimate destination because it was the least Christmassy looking place on Main Street.

  Also because her nose was getting numb. She seriously thought frostbite might be setting in. Despite her artistically wrapped scarf, she still wore only a cute skirt, top, and tights—hardly thermalwear.

  In hindsight, she realized she probably should have had a few more qualms about stepping into The Big Foot.

  It wasn’t the loud local music. That couldn’t compare to a club on Sunset, where her teeth felt pried from their sockets after ten minutes. It wasn’t even the patrons. They weren’t any scarier—despite their obvious love of flannel—than some of the edgier artistic folks she encountered every day. Nope. It wasn’t even the preponderance of country-style décor—deer heads and stuffed fish mounted on the walls—that alarmed her.

  It was her reaction to seeing Reno Wright that did her in.

  But first…

  “Ohmigod! Rachel Porter! Is that you?”

  At the sound of that excited feminine voice, Rachel turned from her place at the bar, where she’d been waiting for the bartender to figure out her request for a nice, body-and soul-warming saketini—evidently a drink that went beyond exotic out here in Nowheresville. Coming straight toward her was a woman her own age, dressed in wide wale corduroy pants and a tu
rtleneck sweater, with shoulder-length brown hair and a smile.

  Well, when in doubt, friendliness was always best.

  “Um, hi! Yes! It’s me, Rachel!” Plastering an answering smile on her face, Rachel went in for an automatic air kiss. One side. Two sides. A whiff of…crayons? There. “How are you?”

  Appearing somewhat baffled—whoops, probably because of the L.A.-style air kiss—the woman put her hand to her cheek. “Um, I’m fine. You look great. Wow. I heard you were back in town.”

  “Yep. Here I am!”

  “I can’t believe it. Look at you!” Shaking her head—then glancing over her shoulder into the depths of The Big Foot with an unreadable expression—the woman gave a tsk-tsk. “I should have known you would wind up looking amazing.”

  “And you! So…um, comfortable.” Rachel smiled, racking her brain for a name to go with the face. “That’s great.”

  An awkward silence descended. Except for the ear-bleeding music. And the rowdy laughter. And the clanking billiard balls.

  “I’m Angela Wright. Third-period geometry. Remember?”

  Relief coursed through Rachel. “Of course. I’m sorry, Angela. It’s been a crazy week.” Contrite, she hugged her. “Let me buy you a drink! What would you like?”

  “Oh, I can’t stay. I was just on my way out.” Looking genuinely sorry, Angela sorted through her purse. “I’m a mom now. I have a daughter, Kayla. She’s with her grandma right now, but tomorrow’s a school day, so I can’t stay out late.”

  A daughter. Wow. Angela had really settled down and made something of her life. Despite her corduroys and turtleneck, she seemed truly happy. Also down-to-earth and approachable. Warm.

  Genuineness had been a quality Angela had always possessed, Rachel remembered. That, and a knack for getting library passes from their KHS teachers—all of whom had loved her.

  Wait a minute. That’s where she knew Angela from! She’d been Rachel’s source for get-out-of-class passes so she could smoke in the girls’ bathroom (a habit she’d since kicked), get in trouble, and hang out with her latest boyfriend. Filled with nostalgia for her younger, rebellious self, Rachel smiled.