Upon a Midnight Clear

by Jude Deveraux

  The hotel's outdoor cookfire had turned the moon into an orange wedge that resembled half a face. Wispy thin clouds slowly drifted across its mouth, then the light streaks of gray were carried on the breeze toward the water.

  Isabel and John sat on the blanket listening to the surf as it washed up the sand and went back down again. The rhythm was gentle and soothing, a sound Isabel enjoyed but seldom heard.

  "Did you get to the beach much when you lived in Los Angeles?" John asked, as if reading her thoughts while tucking her closer within the crook of his arm.

  "Not as often as I would have liked. I never seemed to have the extra time." She rested her head on his shoulder. 'Time is something I'm always chasing. Even now… we don't have much time left."

  As she said it, she was referring to the contest, but in a way, the statement was more of a reflection on them—of how their relationship was drifting closer to being defined one way or another. After the contest, what would happen?

  She didn't want to think about Christmas Day.

  All that mattered was tonight and how wonderful John had made everything for her, the dinner, the dancing, and now the ocean and moon.

  He'd made a cozy place for them in a secluded area where ice plant grew in the dunes that kept them hidden. A natural hedge of tree mallow acted as a wind break, its rosy lavender hollyhock flowers in bloom and fragrantly mingling on the sea air.

  John's strength beside her comforted her. His arm felt right around her. This was the best time she'd ever had. She didn't want tonight to end. She wanted to take the moment farther… to have a memory above all else that she could treasure.

  With her fingers meshed through John's, Isabel ran her thumb over his thick-skinned knuckle. It was the smallest of pleasures, one to be savored. With his free hand, he tilted her face to his.

  "Isabel…" He breathed her name on the lightest of kisses.

  Their lips brushed and danced, much as the two of them had to the music—a courtship of kissing. She needed this. She didn't know how badly until now.

  Their fingers unlinked to give the hands freedom to explore.

  Cupping his face in her hands, she kissed him with everything in her heart, all she felt, but couldn't say. He lifted her legs so that they rested over his knees and he could hold her close.

  The kiss held a lifetime of romance, for in this one fragment of time, she was loved as she never had been. She understood his desire, for she felt the same. In intensity, they were equaled.

  Isabel wanted to give herself to him; vows between them weren't necessary. In this, their own special place, nobody judged.

  John trailed his fingers down her shoulder and over the curve of her breast, erupting sparks of desire through her. As he traced her taut nipple through the thin blouse that hung loosely around her, the kiss changed. It was dizzying, electrifying, deeper, with an intimacy she'd never dared before—all those passionate things she'd heard the girls in the Blossom talking about wanting—all those things she'd never experienced.

  They lay back on the blanket without breaking the kiss, John on his side next to her. They lingered and pleased each other, until Isabel grew weak with need.

  Then John lifted his head. Moonlight bathed him. "Isabel… do you-—"

  She brought her forefinger to his lips to silence him. "I do. Now, let's not talk anymore."

  The surf crashed into the night, but Isabel barely heard it above the thunder of her heartbeat. Clothes were shed and naked skin kindled with caresses and kisses. Hands meshed. Mouths met. Touching became a sensory delight.

  John aroused her senses to a fevered pitch that made her toes curl and had her wrapping her legs around his. Their legs intertwined, they joined and became one. She gasped in sweet agony. The pleasure was pure and explosive, new and different. It made her feel so very much alive… and cherished.

  She clung to him as he made her his. He moved in strong and smooth strokes that sent her toward the edge, that made her lift to him and meet him. She gazed into his face, sweeping across his features: the tight control he exuded by the set of his mouth; the flare of his nostrils; the hooded slant of his eyes as he read into her soul.

  He continued the rocking movements until she couldn't stop the shattering. Surrender came and riveted her, exploding and filling her with splendor. At that moment when everything inside her skittered and became charged, he met her with his own release and held her close, his mouth next to her ear… kissing… breathing.

  Her own breathing labored and spent, Isabel embraced him.

  The fire of completion spread to her heart. How easy it would be to say the words: I love you. But in the moment of passion… they might sound trite and expected. So she kept her silence and let her love for him fill the tears of joy that spilled out from the corners of her eyes.

  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  John steered his horse, with a pack mule strung behind, into Isabel's yard. As the tall weeds cleared his view, he saw the cabin and Isabel. She stood on the porch with a small cup of white paint, brushing snowflake patterns on her windowpanes. Her back was to him, and his gaze roamed the length of her as she worked.

  Rich black hair coiled in a bun at her nape. He relived the sensation of sifting through the silky strands with his fingers… touching her satiny skin… kissing her… holding her… making love to her.

  They'd returned to town that afternoon with holly berries in the baskets on his horse—but not nearly as many as they could have collected if they hadn't spent the night in each other's arms. The hours on Ventura beach were the best in his memory. He'd wanted to tell her so, but he'd held back. Admitting the truth had never been easy for him.

  She'd given herself to him freely and he could only hope she had no regrets. He didn't. Nor did he expect her to fall into a sexual relationship with him. That wouldn't be fair for either of them, and he surely didn't want Isabel to think that's all he cared about.

  Although she'd once had house and hearth, she hadn't had it with a man who was right for her. John could be the one who showed her what marriage ought to be—if she let him.

  But a single question continued to hammer in his mind, making him keep silent. Would she have him if he told her he loved her? Fearing she wouldn't caused him to be cautious.

  When she heard his horse, Isabel turned and smiled. "Hello."

  He gave her a smile back, stopped, and dismounted.

  What he had tied on the pack mule was obvious, so he just came right out and said what had to be said about the fir tree that had taken him two hours to get and bring back. He felt a little self-conscious about it now, hoping the gift wasn't too presumptuous. "Isabel—" he shucked his Stetson and tucked it beneath his arm "—I noticed you didn't have a Christmas tree in your window. So I got you one."

  "Oh…" She set the paintbrush aside and stepped down from the porch to look at her present. Walking to the mule, she lifted her hand and ran her fingers down the fir's blue-green needles. Her eyes shone with genuine gratitude when she turned toward him. "This is such a surprise. Thank you."

  To his chagrin, his neck heated. Damn.

  "You'll stay and help me decorate it?"

  "Sure."

  It didn't take John long to set the tree up in her front room—actually it was the great room. The cabin only had two: a large living area with a kitchen, and a bedroom off to the right. He could see the end of the plain poster bed with its quilt of colorful squares. He let himself wonder what it would be like to wake up in that bed with Isabel snuggled beside him.

  The front door had been left open and sunshine spilled through the doorway as he worked to secure the tree in a bucket of rocks. No problem getting the rocks. Her yard was full of them. He'd noticed she used them to decorate the pathway to her door and the edges of her flower beds.

  Pouring water into the bucket and giving the tree a slight shake to make sure it wouldn't topple, he stood back. "It's all set. You can put the doodads on."

  Isabel lifted a gar
land of angels and snowflakes cut from white paper out of a crate. She handled them with care, gingerly giving him one end to hold. "You stay there and I'll walk around the tree."

  He felt a little foolish. He couldn't recall ever having trussed up a Christmas tree before and having it mean something special.

  "Put your end right there," she guided.

  Tucking the last angel into the highest limb, the garland was in place. He stood back and examined the cut paper. "Who made that? "

  "I did," she declared proudly. "When I was fourteen. My mother suggested the project, and both Kate and I sat at the table and began cutting out strips of paper." She made a few adjustments in the garland. "What about you? Did you and your brother ever do any Christmas things?"

  John's brows rose in thought. "Nope. Tom and me, we're different. We don't stay in touch too good."

  "I know. I should write my sister more. Maybe we ought to make a New Year's resolution."

  "Maybe." Only he was into Tom for a hell of a lot of money—that's why he rarely wrote. He didn't want to have to own up to never being able to pay him back.

  Feeling guilty and wanting to say something nice about his younger brother, John added, "Tom's got a sporting goods store in Harmony, Montana. Does a pretty good trade. Sells hunting stuff. Sporting gear—your big animal gewgaws. No golf clubs, though. Tom never did like the game."

  "How is it that you know golf?"

  "Well," he put his weight from one foot to the other, "I knew this cattle guy." John didn't mention that he'd rustled calves off him. That was during the prime of his troublemaker ways when he still lived in Texas. "He was a rich baron type, a tycoon. Played it out in the pasture. Showed me how." After he'd caught John red-handed and hadn't turned him in to the sheriff, he made him work off the price of the calves as a hand for a whole damn year. But it had given John a sense of morality he hadn't learned at home.

  Isabel produced paffs of cotton wool, and John changed the subject.

  "What's that? "

  "Pretend snow. Here, you can put some on." She laid a few tufts in his palm, their fingers connecting, which ignited in him the desire to take her into his arms and kiss her.

  But he didn't readily move, too intent was he on watching her as she hummed a festive tune and placed cotton wool in strategic places on the branches.

  In that instant, he could imagine spending the rest of his Christmases with Isabel—decorating the tree and house, sitting together and lighting the tree candles and enjoying the smell of pine as it filled the room. Morning would come and they'd wake up to wrapped gifts chosen with affection and love… perhaps have a child to toddle beside them…

  John shook his head and drew in a breath. It was a hell of a tall dream, one that he'd be lucky to have.

  "Now we'll need that," she said, breaking into his musings as she pointed to the box behind him.

  He turned and reached into the crate and took out stars cut from flattened tin cans. They hung those, and afterward, she went to the counter and gave him a string of popcorn and dried apricots.

  "I was going to put these on the porch, then I remembered the birds. So there went that idea. But now I have a tree. You can put this on."

  He did, taking care to string it evenly so as not to mess up her tree. Finally they wired on small tin candleholders and placed the candles in them.

  Standing back together, his arm slipped over her shoulder. "Well." She sighed with awe. "It's a lovely tree, don't you think?"

  He only had eyes for the woman beside him. "I think you're lovely, Isabel."

  Then he took her into both arms, held her close, and kissed her. Melting into his embrace, she spoke against his lips, "Tonight, when the contest is over, we'll light the candles together."

  "Together." The word turned into another kiss that sealed the promise.

  An old midnight moon gazed down at the crowd standing in front of Bellamy Nicklaus's gingerbread-styled house. The clock had struck twelve, but that seemed an eternity ago to Isabel. She stood next to John, periodically biting her lip and standing on tiptoe to see if she could catch a glimpse of Bellamy through his front window.

  Everyone had turned in their berries and he'd taken all the bundles, baskets, and sacks inside to have "Mother" count and string them. How she could manage to do all that in a short time baffled Isabel.

  The tree in the yard glittered with a multitude of lit candles. Flickering red flames reflected off the sparkling trimmings that had been hung. Thankfully the air was still to keep the candles burning.

  "How much longer, do you think?" Isabel asked John for at least the dozenth time.

  "I don't know, Isabel. Soon, I hope."

  Through the press of people, she reached out and found his hand, gripping it within her own. And they waited some more.

  Finally the door opened and Bellamy came out.

  Isabel stared at him with renewed reverence. Santa Claus. Saint Nicholas. How many Christmases had she tried to stay up to get a peek at the elusive man in the red coat? Funny how at the age of twenty-eight, when she'd stopped believing, she could now see him.

  For a short few heartbeats, Isabel closed her eyes tight and whispered in her head: I believe. I believe in you. I believe in Saint Nicholas.…

  Then she slowly opened her eyes to find Bellamy looking directly at her and giving her a… wink! She smiled, broadly. They'd done it! They'd won! She knew it!

  Voices fell quiet as Bellamy came to the front of the porch steps, where Yule and Tide stood like soldiers on either side. Bellamy gave them each a smile, then said, "What was that fruit again?"

  "Pineapple," Yule reminded.

  "Ja, pineapple," Tide nodded. "Good fruit"

  "Juicy; " Yule added.

  "Sweet," Tide countered.

  "You're making me want some," Bellamy said with a nod. "I think we ought to stop by Pago Pago on the way tonight and get us some."

  "Ja, "Yule agreed.

  "Ja," Tide seconded with a broad grin.

  "Folks," Bellamy began, addressing the gathering, "I'm glad you came out to see who would be the winner of the contest."

  Nods and glances to one another prevailed.

  "I don't want to keep you in needless suspense, but Mother said it will take her just a minute more. I wanted to remind you about the spirit of the contest." He stepped through the crowd, and as it parted, Isabel noticed he'd changed out of house slippers and wore knee-high black boots polished to a brilliant gleam. He still wore knickers, though, and the funny hat with the pom-pom on the crown.

  "The key to eternal happiness is clear to some of us. Not so clear to others," he said, walking with his hands clasped behind his back and looking into the faces around him. "How to find prosperity is a question that different people will give different answers for—when there is really only a single answer that will do."

  Winding his way toward the mercantile owner, Bellamy stared directly into his eyes. "Reaping rewards doesn't mean cheating another. I saw the chaos that the contest created: berries being used as commodities; brother pitted against brother, friend opposing friend." He continued on, stopping at Saul, the bartender for the California Republic. "Drinkers going drinkless because berries couldn't buy liquor. Now that one I'm not so inclined to frown on."

  He moved on, coming toward Isabel and John. She pulled in her breath and squeezed John's hand. With a pause, Bellamy lit up his face with a smile for them. Even in the dimness, his eyes twinkled and his cheeks looked rosy. "There are some who believe," he said, holding Isabel's gaze with his own. "And then there are some who don't believe," he continued, this time pointedly staring at John.

  Isabel felt his fingers go tense in her grasp.

  "Believing is a mysterious thing. We only believe in what we think is capable of happening. Not what we want to happen. Why is that?" He absently scratched his full white beard and strolled forward. "And believing in ourselves is the last thing we do when we don't have the spirit of the season."

  Once b
ack on the steps, he turned around. The door behind him opened and Mrs. Nicklaus came outside, whispered in Bellamy's ear, then went back into the house.

  "Well, folks," Bellamy announced with glee. "It's official."

  A murmur rose in the crowd. Then came a shuffling of feet. Hatted heads fit close together. People leaned forward in anticipation.

  Bellamy chuckled, that rolling laugh that made his tummy shake. "The prize goes to Isabel Burche and John Wolcott."

  Isabel let out her breath and laughed—a short and choppy sound mixed with relief. She quickly turned to John, who looked down at her with an easy smile. "We did it," she whispered.

  "Yeah, we did."

  She desperately wanted to fling herself into his arms and kiss him soundly on the mouth. But she refrained. Later—when they lit the tree candles—she'd tell him she loved him, and everything was going to be wonderful!

  Amid the groans of disappointment, Bellamy went on, "To the winners, as I promised in my flyer, the prize is unlike anything you've ever known."

  Money! Lots of money! Isabel exclaimed inside her head.

  Mrs. Nicklaus came outside once more. High in her arm, she carried a domed wire birdcage. Inside two birds anxiously flitted. Their coloring was creamy gray and green, and once they landed on their perch, their heads touched.

  "Mother and I have had these birds since they left their broods. One's a male and the other's a female. They're lovebirds." He beamed at them, giving Isabel another wink.

  This time Isabel's optimism took a plunge. Lovebirds? Where was the prize money?

  "They can't be separated. Without the other, one will wither. But as a couple they're strong and healthy. Full of spirit."

  Taking the cage from his wife, he came toward Isabel and John. "It's my pleasure to present you with the lovebirds as your prize for the contest."

  A few snickers resounded, then some moans of aggravation. Several people began to walk away.

  Isabel didn't want to take the cage, but since John wasn't holding out his hand, she was obligated. Lifting the cage high enough to peek inside, she gazed at their winnings. The tiny birds flapped their wings and circled one another, then went back to the perch to nuzzle beaks.