by Lisa Plumley
They spotted Rachel and her mother simultaneously. Both leaders abandoned what they were doing and veered toward them.
The woman arrived first. “Christine, hi! It’s so good to see you. We can really use a talent like yours on the committee for the town Christmas tree. Are you still scrapbooking?”
Rachel’s mother nodded, immediately launching into genial chitchat with her old friend. Before Rachel could get much further than reading the name JUDY WRIGHT on the cheerful woman’s handwritten name tag, the male leader reached her.
“Hello!” he boomed, enveloping her hand in a fast and certain handshake that left her wobbly. “Tom Wright here. You must be wanting to volunteer. Excellent! What’s your name, hon?”
Startled by his take-charge demeanor, Rachel didn’t reply at first. He seemed familiar somehow, and charming in a rough kind of way, but she couldn’t quite place him. Big smile, green eyes, salt-and-pepper hair, firm grip on his clipboard…
“Don’t pester her, Tom.” Judy Wright rolled her eyes. “That’s Rachel Porter. Don’t you remember her? The Porters only lived down the street from us for thirty years.”
“I know, Judy. I’m not blind.” He straightened his weight belt self-consciously. “I can see a pretty girl just fine.”
“Humph. I’ll just bet you can.”
“Some people know how to appreciate a good thing when it’s standing right in front of them.” He puffed out his chest.
“Well, some other people know how to be thoughtful. Like me.” With a sniff and a lift of her chin, Judy took Rachel and her mother by the elbows. “Come on, ladies. I’ll bet you’re starving! We’ve got cookies and coffee right over here.”
While Rachel belatedly registered the fact that she’d just met Reno’s and Angela’s feuding parents, Tom and Judy Wright, they sailed toward the refreshment table, dodging groups of hardworking volunteers—some untangling Christmas lights, some painting holiday signs and banners, some making repairs to what appeared to be the official Kismet Christmas decorations. The whole place felt like Santa’s workshop—time-warped to 1952.
Murmured conversations followed their progress across the room. So did several smiles, along with greetings for Rachel’s mother. Waves and shouts of “Hi, Christine!” echoed all around. Their movement slowed as conversations lengthened. Several people waved at Rachel, too, smiling as they recognized her.
The coziness of it all enveloped her. She felt glad to be here, glad for her mom, glad to have this experience to share with her—despite the awkwardness of coming face-to-face with the unraveling marriage of two people whom she’d liked on sight.
Remembering what Angela had revealed about her parents’ quarrel—brought on by Tom Wright’s post-Thanksgiving “blank check” Christmas gift and Judy Wright’s predictably hurt reaction to his plan to save them “all the trouble” of buying each other gifts—Rachel felt truly sorry for the pair. Clearly they’d lost the knack for communicating with each other. More than likely, both of the Wrights felt misunderstood right now.
“Hey!” Someone grabbed Rachel’s arm and tugged. “You can’t just steal my volunteers. I found this one.”
Rachel turned to find herself in Tom Wright’s grasp—and in Judy Wright’s grasp, too. Unbelievably, they both gave a pull.
“Well, she’d rather work with me, wouldn’t you, Rachel?”
“I, uhh…”
“Nonsense! She’s got vision. She’s a world-famous celebrity stylist from Los Angeles!” Tom leaned closer, speaking to Rachel in a conspiratorial whisper. “Your folks made sure we saw you on those red-carpet TV shows and in the magazines.” Then louder to Judy: “She should work on the cool side of things—my side. The floats are bigger and better than the decorations.”
“Cool? You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Judy spoke past Rachel’s nose, her voice quivering. “I’m the one who recognized Rachel. She used to pal around with Angela, but I doubt you remember that. You were too wrapped up in your own little world all the time to notice anyone else, weren’t you?”
“No, I wasn’t!” Tom stiffened. “I never am. Or I wouldn’t have given my Christmas gifts to everyone early this year.”
“Early? Early! Of course you’re early when you’re just cracking open your checkbook. I hope you didn’t strain anything. Or is that what that girdle around your waist is for?”
“This,” Tom sniffed, “is a weight lifter’s support belt.”
“Ha! Do you use it to support your gigantic ego?”
Wincing, Rachel exchanged an uncertain glance with her mom. Sensing their opening, they disentangled themselves in synchronized silence, then ducked to the side of the room as Judy and Tom continued to debate. The other volunteers watched with avid interest while Rachel and her mom went for coffee.
“This is the first time they’ve spoken in days,” confided a gray-haired woman—MABEL FENSTER, according to her official volunteer name tag—as she poured some weak Folgers. She winked, then smiled at the bickering couple. “I think it’s a good sign.”
“A good sign?” Rachel’s mom shook her head apprehensively. “Tom and Judy aren’t even being civil to one another. I’ve known the Wrights for a long time. This is a real shame.”
Rachel chanced another glance at the couple. They stood nearly nose to nose now, anguish plain in their weary, good-looking faces. It was evident that this wasn’t what either of them had hoped for from their day at the Elks Club—which only made their argument now all the more heartrending.
On the other hand…
“They want to make up,” Rachel declared as she accepted a black coffee and a Christmas cookie. “They want to put their whole argument behind them. Can’t you tell?”
“Honey, this isn’t L.A.” Mabel tsk-tsked. “We don’t buy into all that Hollywood-style feuding and making up. It’s not on-again, off-again like Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton.”
Both older women sighed dreamily.
“It’s just on…then off,” her mother agreed. “At least with regular folks. We see it happen all the time, especially once people hit retirement age. They get in each other’s way, find out they don’t have much in common anymore, then…pfft.”
“No, I mean it! They came here hoping for a reconciliation.” Rachel gestured with her cookie. Mmm. Not only did it taste delicious, but it looked pretty, too, frosted with white and blue icing and topped with silver dragées. She snatched another one. “Look at them. Look closely. You’ll see what I mean.”
“I see arguing. Tom almost snapped his clipboard just now.”
“No, really look.” Rachel turned her mom more squarely to face the couple. Mabel followed suit. “Tom is wearing that weight belt to draw attention to his physique—which is actually pretty terrific for an older guy. And he’s got on a gold chain, which—however tacky—probably passes for dressy around here, right?”
“Yes, but that’s just a midlife crisis in action, not a reconciliation waiting to happen.” Her mother tugged her arm. “Come on. Let’s go join that table. They’re making those adorable little reindeer out of clothespins and googly eyes.”
“No, I mean it!” Rachel insisted. “This is part of why I’m good at my job. I understand people. I know what their innermost desires are. I help them fulfill them through their clothes.”
“Really? That’s a lot to infer from a weight lifter’s belt and a gold chain,” Mabel said. “Maybe that’s just what Tom had handy this morning. It doesn’t necessarily have any deeper meaning. I just grab what’s in my closet that’s not too tight or too pilled or too moth-eaten or too stained and go.”
Her mother—God help her—nodded in agreement. Didn’t anyone around here realize how much fun and purpose clothes could have?
Rachel did. Because of that, a sense of purposefulness kicked to life inside her—along with a burgeoning sense of hope that she hadn’t experienced in weeks. Maybe even longer.
“Look at Judy,” she urged. Mmm. Now that she’d started, she cou
ldn’t get enough cookies. It felt like ages since she’d experienced a flavor that didn’t come packaged with soy protein and extra vitamins. “See what she’s wearing? That clinches it.”
“A pantsuit?” her mother asked.
“A pantsuit and a pair of earrings and high-heeled shoes.”
“I didn’t notice those shoes.” Absently, Mabel peered at Judy Wright. “They’re very skimpy shoes. And very high. Her toes must be freezing.”
“She wore them to catch her husband’s eye, I guarantee it. People speak volumes through their clothing,” Rachel said. “Plus that pantsuit is at least twenty years old. She’s clearly using a nostalgia clothing item to evoke good memories.”
Her mother frowned. “You get all that from old blue wool?”
“All that and more,” Rachel confirmed. Her heart melted toward the Wrights as she gazed across the room at the squabbling couple. “The only trouble is, they’re both amateurs. Someone needs to help them get their messages across, so they can get to the making up they both want.”
“Uh-oh,” her mother said. “I recognize that look.”
“It’s the same look you probably had back in Hollywood,” Mabel added, “when you put Alayna in that dress with the—”
But Rachel didn’t want to hear any more about Alayna and her former life in L.A. Right now, she had a more important mission. A mission of goodwill. A Christmas mission.
“And that someone,” she announced, “is going to be me.”
Sucking in a deep breath, Rachel put on her most engaging smile. Then she headed purposefully past the red and green floats, the mistletoe banners, and the gigantic faux-holiday candles (colorfully wrought in ye olde plastic) to help two clueless people say what they really meant—without the dubious assistance of one gold necklace, one vinyl belt, and one pantsuit that might have been filched from Murphy Brown’s Closet of Enormous Shoulder Pads (circa 1989).
It was the holiday season after all. Helping those less fortunate was the very least she could do.
Chapter Twenty-One
Belly-crawling in his attic, Reno wedged himself in near the eaves, then flung out his arm. With his fingertips, he snagged the edge of a cardboard box—the last of his arsenal for enacting total domination of the holiday lights competition—and pried it loose from the rafters. After one mighty shove, it skated across the unfinished floor, then landed near his elbow.
Satisfied, he gave the box another push. It came to rest a few feet away from the exit—a floor-to-ceiling pass-through to the hallway, reached via foldout ladder. From the pass-through, the sounds of Christmas music and conversation wafted upward.
The smells of bacon and eggs drifted upward, too, making his mouth water and encouraging him to hurry up with the box. He’d been so busy getting everything ready for the Kismet municipal Christmas celebrations that he’d fallen behind with his own personal decorating scheme. At this point his supplies—and a few new items—still littered the house and garage, piled in various stages of organization.
If he really hauled ass, he could still crank out his usual holiday lights extravaganza—say, something capable of taking out the Kismet power grid for an hour or two—and put that sneaky bastard Hal in his place. Reno had the know-how, the brawn, and the experience. Now all he needed was time—time to win that Bronze Extension Cord award and bring it home where it belonged.
Some thumping and bumping drew his attention to the pass-through. His dad appeared in the opening. “Scrambled or over easy?”
“Scrambled.”
“Right-o.” Whistling, his dad went back down the ladder.
Angling his head, Reno listened. Ever since last night, his dad had seemed unusually cheerful. Reno didn’t know what was behind the change. Maybe he’d finally bench-pressed one eighty. Or he’d gotten the new Ab Roller he’d ordered and was high on exercise endorphins. Whatever the cause, Reno was glad.
Down from the attic, he spotted Kayla hunched at the kitchen table, making homemade pipe-cleaner garlands for his Christmas tree. She’d arrived this morning with her mom, toting supplies in a reusable grocery bag and brimming with plans.
He ruffled her hair, glancing down at the results of her work. “Hey, thanks for the help, kiddo. How’s it going?”
“Pretty good, Uncle Reno.”
“That looks like a tricky maneuver.”
“It’s not so tough. See?” Sticking out her tongue, Kayla showed him how to attach a short piece of green pipe cleaner to the growing chain of red, white, and green she’d already made. She twisted the ends to close the loop. “You try now.”
Reno did. His niece beamed at him, giving him that silly, mushy feeling he always had whenever she was around.
Someday he figured he’d have kids of his own. But right now, nobody could measure up to Kayla. He cared about her, had fun with her, even worried about her. Speaking of which…
“Hey, Kayla.” Casually, Reno formed a few more loops to lengthen the garland. It pooled across the table and onto a chair. “Whatever happened at school with Madison and Olivia?”
“Nothing. We’re fine now.”
“Oh yeah? You sound pretty blasé about it.”
At the other end of the dining room table, Angela fussed with the place settings. She arranged some breakfast plates atop the set of holiday-themed placemats she’d brought, then added cutlery really slowly. Reno could tell she was dying to hear about Kayla’s friends—the brats who’d voted her off the lunch table.
“That’s because it’s all over with. I did what Rachel said to do, and Madison and Olivia wanted to be friends again.”
“You told Rachel about what happened at school?”
His niece nodded. “At the Christmas tree farm, when we had hot cocoa together. Remember? We had a heart-to-heart.”
At Kayla’s breezy, mature tone—doubtless an imitation of Rachel’s—Reno stifled a grin. Soberly, he nodded. “That’s good.”
“Yeah.” Kayla fisted more pipe cleaners, then set to work twisting and looping. “Rachel told me that sometimes people are mean to other people because they feel bad about themselves. That’s kind of sad, right? Rachel said if Madison and Olivia couldn’t be nice to me, they weren’t real friends anyway.”
Reno’s gaze shifted to Angela. “That’s what I said.”
Kayla shrugged. “I guess Rachel said it better.”
“I guess she did.” Smiling, Angela added juice glasses to the place settings. “So everything’s okay now?”
“Yup.” The garland grew longer. And longer.
“What did you do?” Reno asked. “Did you go back to the store and get the Junior Pussycat Dolls outfit?”
That solution sounded about Rachel’s speed to him. A die-hard California girl like her would probably tackle every problem with a fashion strategy. Or with rebelliousness. Or both. Rachel wouldn’t see a thing wrong with tiny hoochie clothes—the kind his niece inexplicably adored. Getting them for her would explain Kayla’s unending devotion, too.
Who wouldn’t like a woman who could fulfill a person’s unspoken wishes just by dressing them in different clothes? A woman who could identify what someone wanted and needed, then give it to them? That was Rachel Porter’s job description.
“Nope. No pint-size Pussycat Dolls here,” Rachel said.
At the sound of her voice, Reno turned.
Rachel stood in the dining room doorway beside his father. Curiously, the two of them appeared as close as old friends. He didn’t think they’d met since Rachel’s return to Kismet—or at least his dad hadn’t mentioned it—but it wouldn’t be surprising if Rachel had added one more member to her fan club. People in Kismet were one step away from propping her up on one of the sparkly Christmas floats and naming her queen of the season.
Of course if they did, Rachel would probably moon them all, flash the crowd her fists of rock, then laugh the way she’d done as a goth caddie at the Kismet Country Club during high school.
“Hey,” he heard himself say. Dream
ily.
That was the best he could do?
“Hey,” she replied, unwinding her scarf.
A beat passed while Reno searched for wit. Eventually, dazzled by her presence, he settled on, “You made it.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Right. Me either.”
“I hope not. You live here.”
Her smile made his heart lurch. Just like in a cheesy movie, Reno felt himself grinning at her bundled-up form as the whole room narrowed to only the two of them, lit by a romantic (okay, a compact fluorescent) glow, and soundtracked with “A Charlie Brown Christmas” music from the Vince Guaraldi Trio. There wasn’t any Care Bear fur in sight, and Rachel wasn’t wearing those crazy-making tights of hers, but he couldn’t seem to drag his attention away. He didn’t know what to make of it.
His father snapped his shoulder with his kitchen towel, startling Reno into alertness. Looking exasperated, Tom waved his towel toward the living room. “Nobody heard the doorbell except the guy who’s slaving away in the kitchen? Sheesh.”
“Sorry, Dad,” Angela said. “I was busy setting the table.”
“I was engrossed in Kayla’s story,” Reno added.
He couldn’t quit looking at Rachel. Somehow she seemed different today. Softer. Calmer. But still sort of punked out, with that wild dark hair of hers and those sexy boots. He’d never again, it occurred to him, look at another pair of black stiletto boots without remembering her.
But since stiletto boots were about as common as aardvarks in Kismet, that probably wouldn’t be an issue past this Christmas. The realization left him inexplicably disappointed.
“It’s not a problem, really.” Companionably, Rachel patted his father on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Tom. I wasn’t ringing the doorbell for long. I’m probably early anyway. I guess I’ve finally readjusted to eastern standard time. Go figure.” She slung a sewing bag from her shoulder. It landed with a thump in a nearby chair. “Where are the costumes?”