Baby Blue Christmas

by Kristy Tate

  Sophie took it from him, presumably to hand it to Jamie, but also, Luke was pretty sure, to check its temperature. She didn’t trust him. Yet. But she would.

  Jamie, snuggled in Sophie’s arms, slurped on his bottle while Sophie rocked him to sleep. A distant memory tugged at the fringes of Luke’s mind. He tried to pull it out, but he couldn’t. His parents had died in a private plane crash before he’d started kindergarten and his memories of them were mostly from photographs, still framed shots, despite the fact there were also videos and home movies. Mia looked like his mom. He and Matt had taken after their dad in looks as well as temperament. All three had relished adventure to the point of recklessness. The difference between Luke and his dad and brother had been that Luke had nothing to lose. Matt’s death had seemed so pointless—almost as if he hadn’t learned from their father’s mistake.

  “He’s asleep,” Sophie whispered.

  Luke pulled himself out of his bitter thoughts. “Let me get him,” he said before Sophie could try to stand on her bad ankle. His hands brushed against her breasts as he lifted Jamie into his arms.

  “On his back or front?” he asked.

  She seemed thrown off balance by his question. “Oh, his back,” she said after a small hesitation. “He sleeps on his back,” she repeated.

  “What about a blanket?”

  She shook her head. “He doesn’t use one. It makes him less likely to suffocate.”

  He put the baby in the crib, and Jamie flung his arms back like a football referee signaling a goal. He did not look comfortable. “Now what?”

  “Now we turn on the white noise.” She flipped on a tiny device on the dresser. “And we turn out the light.”

  She limped across the room.

  “Let me help you,” he said.

  “I’m good,” she said, although she had pale gray shadows beneath her eyes.

  Luke silently cursed, and scooped her up in his arms. “Stop being so heroic.” He carried her into the bathroom.

  She struggled briefly, but Luke tightened his grip. “What are we doing in here?” she asked.

  “We’re getting your toothbrush.”

  She nodded, pulled open the medicine cabinet, and retrieved her toothbrush and toothpaste.

  “Don’t you floss?”

  She bit back a grin and found the floss. “Can you put me down now?”

  “Not until we get your pajamas.” He wheeled around the tiny hall and made his way into the bedroom dominated by a king-size bed. “This doesn’t look like something my brother would sleep in.”

  “I replaced the bedding,” Sophie told him. “It is, I guess, a little girly.”

  This was the one room in his brother’s house that looked like Sophie. The walls were a softy gray, the bedding was white lace topped with pastel pink and green throw pillows. It even smelled of her.

  “You’ll want to change the sheets if you’re going to sleep in here,” she said. “They’re in there.” She nodded at a hall closet.

  He took her to the closet. Each sheet set was carefully folded and bundled together with a piece of ribbon. It occurred to him that she probably kept everything in her physical life so neatly organized and compartmentalized in a way that she couldn’t with her emotional life. She pulled out a set of cream-colored sheets that smelled of lavender and balanced them on the curve of her belly. “Are you going to put me down now?”

  “Pajamas,” he said.

  “Back in there.”

  A row of silver-framed photographs lined the top of the dresser. He promised himself he would look at each of them more closely after Sophie was tucked into the guest bedroom. There were several pictures of her with Chloe and her parents. Thinking of all she’d lost made him hold her tighter.

  She pulled open the dresser and selected a pink and black striped nightgown. It wasn’t the one he wanted to choose, but he kept his opinions to himself. He walked down the stairs without saying a word and took Sophie into the guestroom.

  “This is weird,” she said. “It’s all backward. I should be sleeping up there and you down here.”

  “This will be better,” he told her. “It’ll be easier for me to hear and help Jamie when he wakes.” He set her down on the bed.

  “I don’t know what we would have done without you,” she said.

  But he knew that wasn’t true. She’d been doing things on her own for such a long time that she didn’t even know how much she needed him.

  Or how much he needed and wanted her.

  #

  Sophie woke to screaming. She’d been dreaming of a snow-filled field, a brittle blue sky, a sleigh pulled by a pair of Clydesdales, and she minded the interruption. At first, she thought the screaming belonged in her otherwise idyllic dream, but slowly she realized it came from the rooms upstairs.

  She bolted from the bed, momentarily forgetting her worthless ankle, and landed hard on the floor. Cursing, she pulled herself up. Worry soon overtook frustration. She made it up the stairs as quickly as she could and pushed through Jamison’s door.

  Sometime during the night, he had turned onto his tummy and now he lay with one cheek pressed against the sheet, his lips parted in a perfect rose, his eyes closed, and his bum pointed in the air. The screaming came from the next room. She closed the door with a fast click, worried Luke’s nightmare might wake the baby.

  She hesitated before she opened her own bedroom door. What if he was naked? He hadn’t brought pajamas with him. He’d been nearly naked when he’d carried around earlier. She flushed with the memory of being pressed against his warm bare chest.

  His screams intensified and so did Sophie’s indecision. What if it wasn’t a nightmare? What if an intruder was pulling out his toenails? Seemed unlikely, of course, but… She mustered some courage and pushed into the room.

  Moonlight streamed through the window and cast the room in gray shadows. Luke writhed on the twisted sheets, his face red and glistening with sweat. Sophie switched on the light, hoping that would wake him.

  It didn’t.

  CHAPTER

  After one more cautious glance at Jamison’s bedroom door, she hobbled over and leaned against the bedpost.

  “Luke!” she whisper-yelled.

  He moaned and uttered incomprehensible words.

  “Luke!” She grabbed his ankle.

  He twisted away from her and his moaning turned to shouts of panic.

  “Luke!” She matched his volume and shook his shoulder.

  He bolted up, staring at her with wide, vacant eyes.

  She noticed, with relief, that he wore boxers.

  “What are you?” he demanded.

  “Good question,” she said before sitting down beside him. “Are you awake now?”

  “What are you doing in here?” he asked as he raked his fingers through his hair.

  Not exactly the response a woman trying to seduce a man in his bedroom would want to hear, but she wasn’t a woman trying to seduce a man. She edged away from him, even though a part of her wanted to hold him to stop his trembling. “You were having a nightmare.”

  He audibly swallowed and nodded his head.

  “Are you okay?”

  He hung his head and hunched his shoulders. “No, but I will be.”

  “Does this happen often?”

  He grunted an indecipherable negative or assent—she didn’t know which.

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  Again, a noise she couldn’t understand.

  “Do you want me to get you anything?”

  His trembling abated slightly. “Like what? A therapist?”

  She laughed quietly. “I have one of those. Her name is Lauren. You’d like her. Although she doesn’t make midnight calls.”

  He glanced out the window. “It’s almost dawn.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “These dreams…they always happen in the early morning.”

  “So they do happen a lot.” She paused. “Do you want to talk about it?”

/>   He shook his head. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you, not the other way around.”

  “But I’m fine, other than the twisted ankle, and you’re—”

  “Twisted in other ways.”

  “I didn’t say that,” she said, resting her hand on his thigh. Afraid she’d overstepped, she pulled her hand away.

  “Do you want me to take you back downstairs?” he asked.

  “Will you go back to sleep?”

  “Not a chance, but that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t.”

  “I’ll stay with you.”

  “Really?”

  “But not if you don’t want me to.”

  He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. She fought the urge to pat her hair into place or tug her nightgown over her shoulder. She had to look almost as scary as he’d sounded, but that wasn’t what she saw in his eyes. He looked at her with gratitude and an almost heartbreaking relief.

  She crawled across the bed and fluffed a pillow before lying down on it. “What’s your scariest dream?”

  “You don’t want to know,” he told her as he lay down on the opposite side of the bed. “What’s yours?”

  “Well, there’s always the one where I’m back in school and the teacher is handing out a test I haven’t studied for.”

  “That’s your scariest dream?” Incredulousness made his voice rise.

  She didn’t mention any of the dreams where she was naked in church or in front of a crowd. “Once I had a dream I was standing at a podium in front of a giant auditorium and a gust of wind came along and blew my hair off and did a Marilyn Monroe thing to my skirt.”

  His laughter made the bed shake.

  “Your dreams are way tamer than mine.”

  “Well, obviously. Before I woke you, before I came in the room, it crossed my mind that maybe an intruder had broken in and was pulling out your toenails.”

  “Denailing. It’s not uncommon in the Orient.”

  “It’s scary that you know that.”

  “I actually know a lot of scary things.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She felt more than saw him shrug. “I don’t want to talk about me. Tell me more about your dreams.”

  “Okay, once before a big trial, I dreamed that everyone else in the courtroom was an animal. The judge was a lion, the prosecuting attorney was a jackal, and my defendant was a goat. That’s how I knew my defendant didn’t have a chance.”

  “How did your case go?”

  “Oh, we lost…we lost big.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. I did my best, but I…” She swallowed. “I was ready to quit after that.”

  “Is that when you quit?”

  “No. I’d worked for so hard and for so long to get where I was, I couldn’t just walk away from it.”

  “Until you did.”

  “I still practice, but it’s small-fry stuff.” She thought over the legal disputes she’d handled in the past six months. Mrs. Jenkins and her will. The controversial trailer park association. The claims against the town and the historical society. “I like it.” She heard the wonder in her own voice. “It sounds silly, but I actually prefer it.”

  “How does Jamie fit in?”

  “He usually comes with me. Everyone here knows my situation…although I have occasionally left him with Liz.”

  “You’ll leave him with Liz, but not with me?”

  “That will change.” She rolled onto her side so she could study him.

  He blinked at her.

  “It will have to…unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Unless I go away? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That I’ll end up getting bored and leaving?”

  She bit her lip.

  “It’s not happening. I’m staying.”

  She wanted to believe him, although she didn’t. But since she didn’t want to start an argument, she asked him about the renovations to his barn, and while he talked, she drifted back to sleep.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sophie woke in her own bed. The previous night’s encounter seemed like a dream. Only the indentation on the pillow next to her told her that Luke had been there. From the heavenly cinnamon scent floating up the stairs and the banging in the kitchen, she knew he must still be there.

  She crawled from the bed and gingerly tested her ankle. It throbbed when she tried standing on it, so she kept it in the air. After running a comb through her hair, she gimped her way to Jamison’s room and found the crib empty.

  Luke sang “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” while Jamison beat on his high chair tray with a plastic spoon.

  “What’s this?” Sophie asked.

  Luke whirled around at the sound of her voice and Jamison gurgled and waved his spoon at her.

  “This is breakfast,” Luke told her.

  Sophie’s breakfast usually consisted of Raisin Bran and half a banana, so she was curious to see what breakfast meant to Luke.

  He pulled a casserole dish out of the oven. “This is baked oatmeal.”

  “You can bake oatmeal?” She smiled at his apron that looked like a giant red lobster.

  He gave her a puzzled look. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had an oatmeal cookie.”

  “Well, yes, but…”

  “Is this a cookie? We’re having cookies for breakfast?”

  “Sounds like a great idea, but I think you’ll like this better.” He waved the knife in his hand at a chair. “Sit. I had planned on bringing this to you, but since you’re here…sit. It’ll be just a moment.”

  He turned his back to her and resumed chopping a green apple, a handful of nuts, and a few dried cranberries. Then he scooped out a portion of the oatmeal into a bowl, sprinkled it with the apple mixture, and gave it a splash of milk before setting it down in front of her. “Eat.”

  “Are you going to eat, too?” She poised her spoon above the bowl.

  “Of course,” he said, taking a chair beside her and removing his apron.

  “You’ve changed your clothes.”

  “I’m guessing they’re Matt’s,” he told her. “I found them in the closet in Jamie’s room.”

  She ducked her head. “I haven’t gotten around to cleaning everything out.”

  “Well, it worked out.”

  She lifted a spoonful of the oatmeal concoction to her mouth. “Mmm, heaven,” she murmured.

  Luke ladled up his own serving. “What do you have planned for today?”

  “Santa is coming to story hour at the library,” she told him. “I was going to go with Liz, but now… It’s not much fun when your main mode of transportation is hobbling.”

  “Well, why don’t you stay here and catch up on your reading while I take Jamie to story hour?”

  “But…don’t you have things to do? What about your barn?”

  “I’m waiting for the tile I ordered to arrive. Jamie and I can stop by the hardware store on our way to the library.”

  #

  The farmhouse seemed cold and lonely without Jamison and Luke, even though Luke had lit a fire in the fireplace before he left. Sophie snuggled into her chair and picked up her book. But she didn’t read. She was tired of living vicariously—reading about other people’s lives, other women’s romances. She tossed the book across the room, and decided she wanted a romance of her own.

  Just then, Aidan’s truck turned down the driveway. Everything told her that Aidan was the perfect choice for her. He was smart, funny, and reliable.

  So why did she keep thinking about how good it had felt to be curled up next to Luke? How could she envision spending every morning sitting across from him at the breakfast table? It should take more than a great bowl of oatmeal to win her heart.

  It was a really spectacular bowl of oatmeal, a voice in the back of her head whispered. But Luke was just like his brother, wild, impetuous, and irresponsible. Even if he decided to stay put in Shell Beach —how lo
ng would it take until he was bored and restless? Hadn’t his disappearance after the funeral taught her anything?

  Aidan, she decided, was perfect for her. She hobbled to the mirror in the entryway to make sure she looked like she was the perfect choice for him. Earlier, she’d managed to take a bath, put on makeup, and slip into her favorite jeans and sweater. She thought back to her earlier decision to make Aidan kiss her and decided that now was as good a time as any to test her pheromones.

  But would it be fair to Aidan to try to kiss him if her pheromones were crying out for Luke? I’m stronger than my pheromones, she reminded herself, and plastered on a phony smile before she opened the door.

  With a pair of crutches tucked under his arm, Aidan strode across the lawn while Atticus bounded beside him. What would it be like to have him coming home to her every night?

  “Hey,” he said, grinning at her. “You’re up. I half expected to find you lounging by the fire. But I should have known better. You’re not a lounger.”

  Why did that bother her? Why did his saying she wasn’t a lounger make her want to run and start lollygagging on the closest available La-Z-Boy? She shook herself and amped up her smile.

  “I brought you a gift,” he said, showing her the crutches.

  “Thanks! They’re exactly what I never wanted.” She led him into the living room.

  Atticus jumped onto the sofa and wagged his tail.

  Aidan held the crutches up in front of her. “We’ll need to adjust these. My brother last used them when he tore his ACL.”

  “ACL? That sounds like an activist group.”

  “An anterior cruciate ligament injury occurs when the biomechanical limits of the ligament are exceeded, and is most commonly a non-contact injury involving a sudden stop or twisting movement, such as a dismount from a layup in basketball.” He touched the side of her leg. “It’s right here.”

  Why weren’t there tingles? Why did she spark like faulty wiring when Luke touched her, but not Aidan?

  “Here,” he said after he fiddled with the screws on one of the crutches. “Try this on for size.”

  She slipped the crutch beneath her arm. “Seems okay,” she said.