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His Mistletoe Miracle

Page 6

by Jenny B. Jones


  Grinning, Will poured olive oil into a bowl and threw in some seasonings. “Did I mention the house looks good?”

  “Good?”

  “Okay, incredible. I thought it would be fussy and overkill. But it’s festive, yet masculine. Simple and. . .nice.”

  Nice.

  Yet somehow the bland word felt like a compliment from Will’s holiday-hating lips. Cordelia couldn’t help but feel proud of her decorating feat. His vacation rental had gone from blah to more like a home for somebody who enjoyed his life, loved the people in it, and wanted to celebrate the season.

  “Did you get much writing done today?” Cordelia asked.

  “No.”

  The doorbell rang, and Cordelia nearly wet her pants. “They’re early!” She leaped from the barstool. “I need to change. I’ve got glitter everywhere. Where’s my makeup bag? Have you seen the bag with my clothes? My lucky bra’s in there, and this night definitely calls for hairspray.”

  Cordelia zipped out of the kitchen and bolted down the hall, worried it was the nun tryouts all over again.

  Chapter 10

  Cordelia took one last look in the bathroom mirror and decided it would have to do. She’d forgotten mascara so she’d slathered on some lip gloss, brushed blush across her cheeks and eyelids, and prayed she was presentable.

  The laughter grew louder as she tiptoed down the hall and into the living room. There sat Will and his parents. His mother perched right beside him on the couch, and Cordelia just knew he was itching to skooch over. His dad seemed to be mid-story and paused to laugh, a head-turning chuckle like Will’s. The Sinclairs were some beautiful people with strong features. Mother and son shared the piercing blue eyes, while Will got his father’s thick hair and strong jaw.

  “There she is.” Donna Sinclair caught sight of Cordelia hovering on the fringe and waved her toward them. “The wonderful decorator. Get on in here, Cordelia. I was just bragging on your work.”

  Will rose to his feet and met Cordelia halfway. As his eyes took in her candy cane sweater, his lips curved and he leaned close. “Does your sweater light up?” His whispered words tickled her ear.

  "No."

  "Cordelia…"

  "Maybe just a few blinking lights. In ten rotating patterns.” She tugged at the collar, which now seemed too tight. “But I turned off the sound because I wanted to keep it classy.”

  “I think it’s perfect.” He gave her an encouraging wink. “Just don’t be too handsy. Try to control yourself around my mother.”

  “I heard that,” Donna Sinclair said, moving to the adjacent love seat with her husband. “Stop pestering the girl and let her sit down. Cordelia, we’re so glad you could join us tonight. Will’s been telling us all about you.”

  “Has he?” Cordelia sank into the couch, lifting her backside when it came into contact with a displaced toy soldier ornament.

  Will’s hand inched toward hers as he sat beside her, and he gave her fingers a tug.

  “Doesn't this house look beautiful, Marcus?” Donna asked.

  Will’s father nodded. “We pay big bucks to have our hotels trussed up half this good.”

  “I have Cordelia to thank for that,” Will said. “She owns a staging business, and she's pretty famous in town. You’ll see some of her work on the square.”

  How did Will know she’d decorated downtown?

  After fifteen minutes of pleasantries that mostly included interview questions for Cordelia, they made their way to the kitchen.

  “Smells divine.” Donna Sinclair pulled out a chair at the breakfast nook. “You went to a lot of trouble, Will.”

  “What are we having?” his father asked. “All I’ve had today is fast food.”

  Will walked to the stove and stirred a large pot. “Fettuccine Alfredo." His eyes found Cordelia’s across the room. “White sauce is someone’s favorite.”

  Two helpings and one brownie later, Cordelia sat in the front seat of Will’s car as he drove the four of them toward the downtown square. The lighting of the tree had been delayed this year due to an electrical glitch with some suicidal squirrels, but better late than never. A few years ago the citizens of Sugar Creek had decided to make a name for themselves in the tourist industry, and with Mayor Noah Kincaid’s help, the town was now on its way to being a must-see Christmas destination. The city had flourished with restaurants and B&Bs, and during the month leading to December 25th, visitors and residents could find daily and nightly holiday entertainment, from concerts to ice skating and tours of the Queen Anne style homes that dominated the older part of the town.

  Will tapped his hands on the steering wheel, and Cordelia felt the tension emanate from him like a radioactive force-field. Pre-dinner conversation had been surface level at best. Things had gotten more personal over pasta, with Will skirting his parents’ attempts at gleaning information from their son. The inquiries into his relationship with Cordelia were deftly handled, and thankfully didn’t require Cordelia to go all Meryl Streep and convincingly step into her role. While Will grew slightly more glib and evasive as the meal wore on, Cordelia found herself unexpectedly enjoying the company of Donna and Marcus Sinclair. She thought they’d be snooty and dripping in diamonds and arrogance, but the couple was warm, entertaining, and shockingly down-to-earth. Donna still clipped coupons, and Marcus had driven the same truck since their daughter Finley had been born. Will acted as if their presence was a slight irritant, but didn’t he hear the pride in his father’s voice as he recounted childhood stories of mischievous little Sinclairs? And his mother could hardly eat her dinner for stealing glances at her son, love softening her gaze as she’d brush a crumb from his sleeve or plop another piece of bread on his plate.

  “This house to the left is one of Cordelia’s creations,” Will said, pointing to a large, two-story historic home owned by the Wilson family. They’d given Cordelia complete artistic freedom, so she’d designed a toy workshop theme for the property, with a functioning assembly line and colors that defied tradition.

  “Your displays are phenomenal,” Donna said. “We really should talk to you about some of our hotels.”

  Marcus untied his scarf. “I’m all for it.”

  Cordelia double-checked her seatbelt because these compliments were liable to propel her to the moon. She was about to dramatically hyperventilate so convincingly, even Meryl couldn’t heave air that skilled. Surely the Sinclairs were just being polite. Did they say off-handed things like this all the time? Cordelia had never been to a luxury hotel, let alone decorated anything close to one. She looked to Will for confirmation that his parents suffered from early-onset dementia, but his eyes were glued to the road.

  “Cordelia, we’re having dinner at our little rental cottage next Friday night,” Donna said. “We’d love for you and Isaiah to join us.”

  “We might have plans.” The windshield fogged, and Will turned on the defrost. “Cordelia has a thing.”

  “My thing got canceled.” Cordelia patted Will’s hand on the armrest. “We’ll bring dessert.”

  “Wonderful!” his mother said. “Have we mentioned how much we like her, Will?”

  “At least a dozen times, Mom.”

  Will had hired Cordelia to help, and that’s what she was going to do. Avoiding his family wasn’t going to get them to leave him alone. It would only worry them more. They’d be headed back home to South Carolina in no time, and Will needed to take advantage of every opportunity to show them he was okay.

  “Son, how’s that book coming along?” his father asked from the backseat.

  It was the second time the question had been tossed out, and Will finally answered. “Fine.”

  The tires whack-whacked along the pocked street.

  The elder Mr. Sinclair wasn’t deterred. “How long will the network hold your job?”

  “Not sure. My leave’s almost up.”

  “Are you going back?” his mother queried.

  “Probably not.”

  “You were at t
he top of your game,” Marcus said. “One of the best in your field.”

  “Yeah, until a bomb nearly took me out.”

  Cordelia wondered if she should run interference. “He’s been working really hard on the memoir.” She actually didn’t know. Will said he hadn’t gotten much done, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t put in the effort.

  “You could manage our European properties,” Marcus suggested. “I’ve got trouble in Paris, and I could use—”

  “I’m not interested in the hotel business, Dad. I just need some time to figure things out. You don’t have to worry about me moving back home and sleeping on your couch.”

  “You know you have a bedroom at our house anytime,” Donna said. “I’d love for you to come stay for as long as you like.”

  But Will wasn’t done with his father. “Things aren’t the same. I can’t just step out of a prison cell and put on my tie for the camera. I can’t pretend that I can go back to how life was.”

  His mother leaned toward her son. “You take your time.”

  “I thought your book was coming out this spring,” Marcus said. “The publisher sent photographers to our house last week to get some more pictures of the family. Didn’t he do that months ago?”

  "It's been pushed back.”

  “Good things are worth the wait.” Cordelia unwrapped a peppermint, the cellophane loud as a fire engine in the cramped car.

  “You can’t heal if you pretend like everything’s okay,” Marcus said. “We just want to help.”

  Will turned the car a little too sharply to the left. “Duly noted. Now drop it.”

  A few minutes ticked by before Donna piped up once again. “Cordelia, dear, tell us about your family.”

  Oh, no.

  Let’s hop from one land mine to another.

  Couldn’t they discuss therapy options for Will? There was equine therapy, hot yoga, eating till you lost all respect for yourself. Or maybe they could revisit the idea of her handling some of their decor.

  “Well.” Cordelia searched for words that didn’t make her sound pitiful and unworthy of a lobby renovation. “I’m an only child, and my mother lives in Sugar Creek. My dad passed away when I was a child.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Donna said. “I know that must make the holidays hard.”

  “Not anymore,” Cordelia said. “I adore every holiday.”

  Will turned down the heat. “She’s got a whole sweater collection to prove it.”

  “What does your mother do?” Marcus asked.

  Grateful for the dark of the car, Cordelia pushed past the old embarrassment. “She’s an inventor."

  “How wonderful,” Donna said as her son parked the car, “Has she invented anything we might recognize?"

  This part was always anticlimactic. "No, she's never really gotten anything off the ground.” And rarely tried anymore.

  “I’m sure your mother’s excited to spend time with you at the holiday.” Donna sighed happily. “Being with all three of my children and their loved ones is all I could ask for.”

  Cordelia said nothing and retreated into the silence like Will.

  They walked the festively lit streets of the square, listening to the merry sounds of the high school orchestra. Giant snowflake lights hung overhead, Christmas trees blinked every few feet, and Santa Claus smiled for photos near the giant Douglas fir that he’d illuminate within the hour.

  Donna stopped as a mule-pulled sleigh parked beside them. “I’ve read about those sleigh rides that take you to see lights and the decorated Victorian homes,” she said. “Let’s all jump in.”

  Will grabbed Cordelia’s hand just as another sleigh arrived. “We’ll take this one.”

  “But I thought we could all ride together,” his mother said.

  “Donna, let these two have some fun.” Will’s father slipped his arm around his wife. “You can keep me warm.”

  “At least take some of my homemade cocoa.” His mother extracted a big thermos from her Mary Poppins purse. “One for each couple.”

  “Thanks,” Will said with not nearly enough appreciation for melted, liquefied chocolate. He then helped Cordelia into the front sleigh, throwing a blanket over their legs as they sat down.

  “One ride?” Cordelia shot a quick text to the babysitter to check on Isaiah. “Couldn’t you have sucked it up for one single spin about town?”

  Will exchanged a few niceties with the driver, then turned his attention to Cordelia. “I just spared you more of the Sinclair inquisition. You’re welcome.”

  She glanced back at his parents in the sleigh behind them and waved. “They’re watching us.”

  Will reeled Cordelia to him, tucking her beneath his arm. She closed her eyes for a few heartbeats, allowing herself the fantasy that Will was her boyfriend and this was the romantic night out. They were surrounded by carolers, lights, her decorated trees, and everything Cordelia loved about the most important holiday.

  But Will wasn't her boyfriend, and at some point, he would finish that book and leave Sugar Creek. Cordelia was a means to an end for Will, and he was just a paycheck for her.

  "Your family seems concerned about you,” she said as they turned onto Davis Street.

  "Of course they are. That's why they're here. Since I've been back, my mom calls on average ten times a day. My dad texts and emails by the hour. My brother flies out to Atlanta to see me once a month. They send me self-help books, Bibles, prayers, articles in which I’m mentioned, inspirational memes from the internet.”

  "They care about you. They love you. I was expecting this overbearing, obnoxious family, and instead here's this mom and dad who are just trying to understand their son and help.”

  “I don't need their help.”

  “They seem to think you haven't dealt with what happened.”

  “What they think is that I should be over it by now. That I should forget it ever happened.”

  “That's not what I heard. I heard—”

  “Believe me, that’s what they mean. They don't understand why I'm not back on the news, back in the trenches, and living the life that I used to."

  The air turned colder, and Cordelia pressed deeper into his side, drawing from his warmth. “Do you want your old life?”

  “I want to be happy again.” His hand idly played with hers. “I want to be able to sleep at night. But even my old life had something missing.”

  “Do you think the book can help you find it?"

  "The book is a job. That’s something I think you understand.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You worked as an accountant.”

  “And?”

  “That's not what you want to do though, is it?”

  She waited for the firm denial to hit her lips, but it just wouldn’t come.

  “That’s what I thought,” Will said.

  “Accounting is much more reliable than the design and staging business. It’s a good job.”

  “I’ve seen you work this week. Crunching numbers is not where your heart’s at.”

  What did he know about her occupational choices? “I have a house payment, responsibilities, and a foster son. My accounting job makes sense. It's dependable and a steady paycheck with benefits. Decorating is something I could still do on the side.” Though less so with foster children.

  “Is that what you want?”

  How had this gotten turned around on her? He was the one with the issues. “What I want is for you to hand me the cocoa.”

  The sleigh stopped to listen to a group of musicians singing “Deck the Halls.”

  “I’m sorry for tonight,” Will said. “I think I used to be fun.”

  His eyes looked as storm-tossed as the dark clouds above them. “You’ve been through a lot, Will. The bombing, your capture, and imprisonment.”

  “Anytime I think about how bad things were I remember that I made it out alive. But because of me, so many of those kids didn't.

  “They didn't die because
of you. You can't blame yourself for that.”

  “The terrorists knew I was there. I was a famous person, from a famous family. A high-profile guy who didn't like to acknowledge that, so we had minimal security. So yeah, their death’s on me. Families are broken because of me. Survivors are maimed because of my negligence. I pulled three kids from the wreckage, but couldn’t save one more.”

  “You were there to help. Education radically changes lives and futures. Do you honestly think you could’ve stopped a terrorist?” She held his hand with a ferocity, wishing she could transfer truth right through her skin. “You have to know it wasn't your fault.”

  “I love your innocent outlook on things,” Will said. “But about this, I'm afraid you're wrong.”

  Chapter 11

  Two nights later Will stood on Cordelia’s front porch and rang the doorbell. The night air smelled of fireplace chimneys and a fool’s errand.

  What was he doing here? They’d ended their night at the square with an awkward, stilted goodbye, and he hadn’t seen Cordelia since.

  And he’d missed her. Her and that little squish of a baby.

  Getting no response, Will knocked with his gloved fist, feeling like a nervous high schooler. And why? He was Will Sinclair. He had reported from battlefields and confronted evil dictators.

  This was Cordelia.

  Kind, compassionate Cordelia, who was one step away from having woodland creatures swarm her feet and cardinals light on her shoulder.

  The door swung open and she held up a wait a minute finger, the phone to her ear. “I said I would stop by, and I will. Now go pick up that prescription the doctor ordered.” She rolled her eyes as she bounced Isaiah on her hip. “Come in,” she whispered and motioned Will inside. “Mom, I’ll see you this week, and we’ll look at your bank statement, okay? First National isn’t out to get you, milk prices aren’t highway robbery, and I’m mostly certain your new neighbor isn’t a Russian spy. I’m hanging up now. Love you.” She punched a button, huffed out a breath, and pressed her head to Isaiah’s. “My mom gets her passport stamped on the crazy train way too often.”

 

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