Christmastime Courtship

by Marie Ferrarella

  There was a Christmas tree in the center of the room. Not just a run-of-the-mill Christmas tree but one that looked to be at least ten feet tall. Overwhelming, the tree appeared to only be half-decorated.

  The rest of the Christmas ornaments were scattered all over the room—in and out of their respective boxes—waiting to be hung up.

  “It looks like a Christmas store exploded in here,” he commented, scanning the room in total disbelief.

  “I haven’t had a chance to finish,” Miranda explained. “I don’t have much time left over every night to hang up decorations,” she tossed over her shoulder as she made her way to the kitchen. “I’m usually pretty beat by that time.”

  Miranda was back in less than a minute with a dog bowl filled with fresh water and set it down in a corner by the coffee table.

  “There you go, Lola, drink up,” she told the animal. “Dinner will be coming soon.”

  Despite himself, Colin was surprised. “You’ve got a dog dish.”

  She paused for a moment to pet the dog’s head. She viewed it as positive reinforcement. “Like I said, this isn’t her first time here. And I believe in being prepared.”

  Obviously, he thought. Colin looked back down at the decorations that covered three-quarters of the living room floor space.

  “Are these all your decorations?” he questioned incredulously. He’d seen Christmas trees in shopping centers with less ornaments on them than were scattered here.

  “Well, if I’d stolen the decorations, it’d be pretty stupid of me to bring a police officer into my house to see them, wouldn’t it?” she asked. Not waiting for a response, she told him, “Half these ornaments belonged to my parents. I’ve just been adding to the collection over the years.”

  “And the ten-foot tree?” Colin asked, nodding toward the towering tree. Most people opted for a smaller tree, if they had one at all. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d put up a tree for the holidays.

  “That was theirs, too. I inherited it. My mother decided that she needed to scale back and get a smaller tree. I couldn’t see throwing away a perfectly good tree,” she told him. Since he was asking about the tree, she said, “You can help me hang up a few of the ornaments after dinner if you like.” Seeing the wary look on his face, she added, “But you don’t have to.”

  The next moment, she turned back toward the kitchen.

  “If I’m going to make that dinner I promised you, I’d better get started,” Miranda announced. And then she caught him off guard by asking, “Would you like to keep me company?”

  Thinking that she might ask him again to hang up ornaments if he chose to remain in the living room, he said, “Yeah, sure, why not?”

  Miranda grinned. “That’s the spirit. How are you at chopping vegetables?” she asked, moving toward the refrigerator.

  “Depends on how you want them chopped,” he answered drolly.

  “Into smaller vegetables,” she answered, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “I just want to be able to cook them faster.”

  Placing a cutting board and large knife on the counter in front of the police officer, she took three kinds of vegetables out of the refrigerator and deposited those in a large bowl. She put the bowl next to the cutting board.

  “Have at it,” she told him.

  Colin regarded the items on the counter. “You didn’t mention that I’d have to make my own dinner,” he said.

  “Not entirely,” Miranda corrected. “It’s just a little prep work,” she explained. “I figured you’d want to join in.”

  Cooking was something he usually avoided. Takeout and microwaving things was more his style.

  “And exactly what made you ‘figure’ that?” he asked.

  “Easy,” she answered. “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who likes standing around, doing nothing while he’s waiting.”

  “I wasn’t planning on standing, I was planning on sitting,” he told her.

  “You’ll be sitting soon enough,” Miranda promised cheerfully—in his opinion, nobody was this damn cheerful. What was wrong with her?

  Turning away from the counter, she opened the pantry on the side and took out a medium-sized can from the bottom shelf. He assumed that whatever was in the can was going to be part of dinner. He watched her placing the can under a mounted can opener. Once the can was opened, he was surprised to see her emptying the can’s contents into a bowl that was beside Lola’s water dish.

  She was feeding the dog.

  “I take it that wasn’t part of our dinner,” he quipped drily.

  Picking up the large knife, he made short work of the carrots he found in the large bowl.

  She grinned at him. He deliberately looked away. “Not unless you have an insatiable fondness for ground up turkey liver.”

  “I’ll pass,” he told her.

  “Hopefully, Lola doesn’t share your lack of enthusiasm,” she said, glancing over her shoulder toward the dog. The dog was eating as if she hadn’t been fed for days, a fact that Miranda knew wasn’t the case. She smiled as she watched. “Looks like she doesn’t.”

  Lola was making short work of the liver that had been deposited in her bowl. Within seconds, the liver was almost completely gone.

  A moment later, licking her lips, Lola looked up at her. She made no noise, but it was obvious what the dog wanted.

  “Sorry, that’s it for now, Lola,” Miranda told her, walking away. “Play your cards right and you might get something later after we have our own dinner.”

  “If I were you,” Colin commented as he went on chopping vegetables, “I’d consider myself lucky if she didn’t destroy half those ornaments you have strewn all over the floor.”

  Miranda looked unfazed. “Lola’s a good dog. She doesn’t destroy things. Her philosophy is live-and-let-live,” she told the policeman, taking out a large package of boneless chicken breasts from the top shelf in the refrigerator.

  “How do you know that?” he challenged.

  “I can just tell,” Miranda answered, sounding a great deal more confident than he would have been, Colin thought.

  Opening the package, Miranda proceeded to cut each of the individual breasts into tiny pieces with the shears she’d taken out of the utensil drawer. The pieces fell into a big pot that she’d put on the larger of the two front burners.

  Watching her, Colin came disturbingly close to cutting one of his fingers with the knife that he was wielding. Sustaining a nick, he pulled back his finger just in time and then, swallowing a curse, he asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Getting dinner ready,” she answered simply, turning up the burner beneath the pot. Turning, she saw the tiny drop of blood. She took a napkin and attempted to dab at it, but he was not about to cooperate. “Do you want a Band-Aid?”

  “No. I’ll live.” Taking the napkin from her, he wrapped a small piece of it around his finger only to keep the blood from mingling with the vegetables. “What is dinner?” he asked.

  “Stir-fry chicken and vegetables over rice—unless you’d rather have something else,” she offered, dubiously watching his injured finger.

  The chicken pieces were already beginning to sizzle in the pot. “Seems a little late for that now,” he told her.

  Undaunted, Miranda shook her head. “It’s never too late.”

  Colin got the distinct impression that the woman actually believed that—and that she applied it to life.

  “Stir-fry chicken is fine,” he told her. He was not about to have her start something from scratch. Who knew how long that would take?

  His response was rewarded with a smile that reminded him more and more of sunshine each time he saw it.

  The fact that it did bothered him to no end because he wasn’t used to having thoughts like that. His was a dark world and he had
gotten accustomed to that. This new element that had been introduced into his world disturbed the general balance of things and he wasn’t sure what he was going to do about it if it persisted.

  “Good,” Miranda responded, stirring the chicken so as to make sure that both sides were browned. “Because that means that we’re more than halfway to getting dinner on the table.”

  There was that word again.

  “We.”

  He wasn’t in the habit of thinking of himself as part of a “we.”

  Granted that he was part of the police department, but he was a motorcycle cop, which meant by definition that he operated alone. He was a loner and didn’t worry about having anyone’s back. “We” brought a whole different set of ground rules with it and he wasn’t comfortable with those rules.

  Coming here had been a bad idea, Colin thought. And yet, he wasn’t abruptly terminating his association with this living embodiment of Pollyanna, wasn’t walking out of her kitchen and her house. He was still standing here, in that kitchen, chopping vegetables like some misguided cooking show contestant.

  Something was definitely wrong with him, Colin thought, exasperated.

  “Perfect!” Miranda declared.

  Taking the large bowl filled with the vegetables he’d just chopped, she deposited the entire contents into the pot. She stirred everything together, then poured in a can of chicken broth, followed by several tablespoons of flour.

  Stirring that together, Miranda proceeded to drizzle a large handful of shredded mozzarella cheese into the mixture and added a quarter cup of ground up Parmesan cheese.

  Watching her, Colin frowned. “That isn’t stir-fry chicken.”

  “That’s my version of stir-fry chicken,” she clarified and then told him, “Give it a try before you condemn it.”

  “I’m not condemning it,” he retorted. “I’m just saying that it’s...different.”

  “And that’s what makes the world go around,” she told him with a smile.

  Stirring the pot’s contents again, she lowered the heat under the pot and turned her attention to making the last additive: the rice.

  Measuring out two cups of water and pouring them into a small pot, she told Colin, “I do have a can of beer in the refrigerator. You’re welcome to it and you can retreat into the living room if you like.”

  He glanced toward the living room and saw the German shepherd she’d brought from the shelter. As if on cue, Lola raised her head. He felt as if the dog was eyeing him, waiting for him to step into the room.

  To what end?

  He wasn’t afraid of the dog, but why borrow trouble?

  The next moment his mind came to a skidding halt. Why borrow trouble? That was a phrase he remembered his aunt used to like to say. He felt something pricking his conscience. He hadn’t been to see his aunt for several months. He supposed he should stop by and pay the woman a visit. After all, it was getting close to Christmas and Aunt Lily was the reason he’d moved back to this city in the first place.

  His aunt would probably approve of all this, he realized.

  She’d approve of the decorations lying all over the living room, of the animal shelter dog hovering over the empty dog dish—and most of all, she’d probably really approve of this do-gooder-on-steroids who was fluttering around the kitchen, preparing some strange concoction that very possibly might just wind up being his last meal.

  “Colin?” Miranda asked when he made no response to her suggestion.

  Aware that he had just drifted off, he blinked and focused his attention on Miranda. “What?”

  “Would you like that beer?” she asked again, nodding toward the refrigerator.

  He glanced over his shoulder toward the living room again. The German shepherd was still looking straight at him. Colin shrugged indifferently.

  “No,” he answered. “I can wait until dinner’s ready.”

  “Well, guess what?” she said, looking very pleased. “Your wait is over. Dinner is ready and about to be served.”

  Good, he thought, blowing out a breath. The sooner it was served, the sooner he could leave.

  Chapter Nine

  Miranda waited for what she felt was a decent interval but the silence continued to stretch out as she and Colin sat opposite one another at the small dining room table.

  It was giving every indication that it would go on indefinitely. Even Lola remained quiet, sitting under the table close to her feet.

  Finally, feeling the need to initiate some sort of a conversation between them, Miranda looked at her incredibly quiet guest and said a single word.

  “Well?”

  Colin glanced up at her and then back down at the meal he was presently eating. He assumed she wanted him to make some sort of a comment about the dinner she had served.

  “Not bad,” he told her.

  “Coming from you, that’s heady praise,” Miranda commented, amused. “But I wasn’t asking if you liked the dinner.”

  “Seemed like it,” he answered. And then Colin put down his fork and gave her his full attention. For a supposedly easygoing woman, she certainly didn’t make things easy, he thought. “Then what were you asking?”

  “I wasn’t asking about anything specially. I was just asking for something—anything you might want to talk about. You know, most people make conversation when they eat.”

  He had no interest in what “most” people did. “I usually eat alone,” he told her.

  “It shows,” she answered.

  Okay, this had gone far enough. He’d let her feel as if she’d paid him back for the debt she’d mistakenly thought she owed him. But now this was over. It was time for him to go.

  Putting the napkin on the table, he began getting up to leave. “Look, I—”

  Miranda cut into whatever he was about to say and gave in to her curiosity by asking him, “Why’d you become a police officer?”

  The question came out of the blue and caught him off guard.

  He stared at her for a long moment, trying to make heads or tails of what was happening here. Was she actually asking him that or was there some kind of other motivation at work here?

  “Is this an interview?” he asked sarcastically.

  “I’m just curious, that’s all,” Miranda answered. “Being a police officer is all about ‘protecting and serving,’” she said, referring to the popular credo. “You don’t look all that happy about protecting and you just don’t seem like the type who wants to serve.”

  He would have said the same thing, but life had a strange way of taking twists and turns. “What I am is someone who doesn’t want to be analyzed,” he told her curtly.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like I’m invading your space, I’m just trying to understand you.”

  Her answer made no sense to him. “Why?” he challenged suspiciously.

  “Because I’d like to be friends and friends understand each other.”

  “Friends?” Colin echoed, stunned as he stared at her. “We’re not friends.”

  “Not yet,” Miranda pointed out in her easygoing manner.

  “Not ever,” Colin corrected sharply.

  He was resisting. Well, she hadn’t thought this was going to be easy. “Everyone needs a friend,” she told him.

  He didn’t appreciate the fact that she thought she had his number. She didn’t. And if she believed that she did, she was way out of her depth.

  “I don’t,” he snapped. Storming to the front door, he yanked it open.

  “Yes, you do,” she persisted softly.

  If he stayed here a second longer, he was going to wind up saying things that he’d regret saying once he calmed down.

  So he bit off, “Thanks for dinner,” and left, letting the door slam behind him in his wake.
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  Miranda stood there, looking at the door for a long, long moment.

  Maybe she’d pushed too hard. He was a man who needed to be eased into new situations, into accepting that being alone wasn’t the answer.

  About to turn away from the door, it occurred to her that she hadn’t heard the sound of a car starting up—or pulling away, for that matter.

  Curious, she opened the door and found herself looking up into the face of a man who was struggling to come to terms with the fact that maybe he had allowed his temper to flare and then spin out of control much too quickly.

  Frowning, Colin mumbled, “I forgot to finish my beer.”

  “I didn’t clear the table,” she told him, then asked, “Would you like to come back inside?”

  He inclined his head and rather than say “yes” he just followed her back into the house.

  Still not ready to apologize or say that he shouldn’t have just stormed out the way he had, Colin just asked, “Anyone ever tell you you’re too pushy?”

  Miranda pretended to consider his question as she walked back into the dining room.

  “No,” she answered. “Not that I know of.”

  He snorted shortly. “Then you’re either not listening, or you’re dealing with people who don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

  “But you don’t have that problem,” she guessed, a smile quirking her lips.

  Colin scowled. “My only problem seems to be you.”

  “I’ll work on that,” Miranda promised. And then she nodded toward his empty dish. “Would you like some more?” she asked.

  “No, just the beer,” Colin responded, sitting down again.

  But Miranda wasn’t finished being his hostess. “I have some ice cream in the freezer if you’d like to have dessert,” she offered.

  “Just the beer,” he repeated.

  “Just the beer,” Miranda echoed, backing off for the moment. She smiled at him as she sat down again opposite him.

  Colin shook his head. He’d just yelled at the woman and she was smiling at him. He just didn’t get it. Blowing out an annoyed breath, he sat back and regarded her in silence for a long moment.