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Emily realized her arrival was a shock, but Heather seemed more dismayed than pleased.
“I didn’t know you had a cell phone,” Emily said. It would’ve saved them both a great deal of frustration had she been able to reach Heather earlier. She’d called the dorm room as soon as she’d landed and Tracy had given Emily a cell number.
“The phone isn’t mine,” Heather protested. “It belongs to a…friend.”
“Ben?”
“No,” she said. “Ben is old news.”
Information she hadn’t bothered to share with her mother, Emily mused. “Where are you?”
“That’s not important.” Heather sounded almost angry. “Where are you?”
Emily rattled off the address, but it didn’t seem as if Heather had written anything down. Charles Brewster’s condo had proved to be something of a disappointment—not that she was complaining. She’d found it easily enough and settled into the guest room, but it was modern and sterile, devoid of personality or any sign of Christmas.
“I’m so eager to see you,” Emily told her daughter. She’d been in town for several hours and they still hadn’t connected. “Why don’t you come here, where I’m staying and—”
“I’d rather we met at the Starbucks across the street from my dormitory.”
“But…” Emily couldn’t understand why her daughter wouldn’t want to come to her. Her attitude was puzzling, to say the least.
“Mother.” Heather paused. “It would be better if we met at Starbucks.”
“All right.”
“Are you far from there?”
Emily didn’t know her way around Boston, but the Harvard campus was within walking distance of the condo. Emily figured she’d find the coffee place without too much trouble, and she told Heather that.
“Meet me there in an hour,” Heather snapped.
“Of course, but—”
The line went dead and Emily stared at the receiver, shocked that her own daughter had hung up on her. Or maybe the phone had gone dead. Maybe the battery had run out… .
With a little while before she had to leave, Emily walked around the condominium with all its modern conveniences. The kitchen was equipped with stainless steel appliances and from the look of it, Emily doubted anyone had so much as turned on a burner. The refrigerator still had the owner’s manual in the bottom drawer and almost nothing else. As soon as she could manage it, Emily would find a grocery store.
Everything about the condo was spotless—and barren. Barren was a good word, she decided. Charles Brewster apparently didn’t spend much time in his luxurious home. In her opinion his taste in furniture left something to be desired, too. All the pieces were modern, oddly shaped and in her opinion, uncomfortable. She suspected he’d given a designer free rein and then found the look so discordant that he left home whenever possible.
There wasn’t a single Christmas decoration. Thank goodness Emily had brought a bit of Christmas cheer with her. The first thing she unpacked was their hand-knit Christmas stockings.
Emily’s mother, who’d died a couple of years before Peter, had knit her stocking when Emily was five years old, and she’d knit Heather’s, too. It just wouldn’t be Christmas without their stockings. She hung them from the mantel, using a couple of paperweights she found in the study to secure them. The angel was carefully packaged in a carry-on. She unwrapped that and set it on the mantel, too. Then she arranged a few other favorite pieces—a tiny sled with a little girl atop, a Santa Heather had bought with her own money when she was ten, a miniature gift, gaily wrapped.
Her suitcases were empty now, but several Christmas decorations remained to be placed about the condo. Emily thought she’d save those until later, when Heather could take part. That way it’d be just like home.
Assuming it would take her no more than thirty minutes to walk to Starbucks, Emily put on her coat, then stepped out of the condo, took the elevator to the marble foyer and hurried onto the sidewalk. Although it was only midafternoon, it resembled dusk. Dark ominous clouds hung overhead and the threat of snow was unmistakable.
Perhaps Heather would suggest a walk across the campus in the falling snow. They could pretend they were back home.
Emily arrived at Starbucks in fifteen minutes and bought a cup of coffee. While she waited for her daughter, she sat at the table next to the window and watched the young people stroll past. Although classes had officially been dismissed for winter break, plenty of students were still around.
A large motorcycle roared past, and Emily winced at the loud, discordant sound. She sipped her coffee, watching the Harley—she assumed it was a Harley because that was the only brand she’d ever heard of. The motorcycle made a U-turn in the middle of the street and pulled into an empty parking space outside the coffee shop. Actually, it wasn’t a real space, more of a gap between two parked cars.
The rider turned off the engine, climbed off the bike and removed his black bubblelike helmet. He was an unpleasant-looking fellow, Emily thought. His hair was long and tied at the base of his neck in a ponytail, which he’d flipped over his shoulder. He was dressed completely in black leather, much of his face covered with a thick beard.
A second rider, also dressed in black leather, slipped off the bike and removed a helmet. Emily blinked, certain she must be seeing things. If she didn’t know better, she’d think the second person was her own daughter. But that wasn’t possible. Was it?
Heather’s twin placed her hand on the man’s forearm, said something Emily couldn’t hear and then headed into Starbucks alone. The Harley man stayed outside, guarding his bike.
Once the door opened and the girl walked inside, it was all too obvious that she was indeed Heather.
Aghast, Emily stood, nearly tipping over her coffee. “Heather?”
“Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?” her daughter demanded.
“It’s good to see you, too,” Emily mumbled sarcastically.
Heather’s eyes narrowed. “Frankly, Mother, it’s not good to see you.”
Emily swallowed a gasp. In her wildest imaginings, she’d never dreamed her daughter would say such a thing to her. Without being aware of it, Emily sank back into her chair.
Heather pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.
“Who’s your…friend?” Emily asked, nodding toward the window.
“That’s Elijah,” Heather responded, defiance in every word.
“He doesn’t have a last name?”
“No, just Elijah.”
Emily sighed. “I see.”
“I don’t think you do,” Heather said pointedly. “You should’ve told me you were coming to Boston.”
“I tried,” Emily burst out. “I talked to Tracy five times and left that many messages. Tracy said she’d let you know I’d phoned.”
“She did… .”
“Then why didn’t you return my calls?”
Heather dropped her gaze. “Because I was afraid you were going to send me on a guilt trip and I didn’t want to deal with it.”
“Send you on a guilt trip?”
“You do that, you know? Make me feel guilty.”
Despite her irritation, Emily did her best to remain calm. Now she understood why her daughter had insisted they meet at the coffee shop. She didn’t want Emily to make a scene, which she admitted she was close to doing.
“I left five messages,” Emily reminded her.
“I know—but I’ve been staying with friends and didn’t realize you’d phoned until Tracy got in touch with me.”
Staying with friends? Yeah, right. Emily’s gaze flew out the window. Her daughter and that…that Neanderthal?
“I love him,” Heather said boldly.
Emily managed to stay seated. “If that’s the case, why don’t you bring him inside so we can meet?”
“Because…” Heather hesitated and then squared her shoulders as if gathering her courage. “I didn’t want him to hear what you’re planning to say.”
“About what?” This made no sense whatsoever.
“None of that matters. I’m leaving town with Elijah. In other words, I won’t be in Boston over the holidays.”
Emily shook her head slightly, wondering if she’d heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Elijah and I and a couple of other friends are riding down to Florida.”
“For Christmas?” Emily knew something was wrong with her hearing now. There simply had to be. “On motorcycles?”
“Yes, for Christmas. And yes, on motorcycles. We’re sick of this weather and want to spend our holiday on the beach.”
Emily was completely speechless.
“You don’t have anything to say?” Heather asked angrily. “I figured you’d have lots of opinions to share.”
Emily’s mouth opened and closed twice while she gathered her thoughts. “I traded homes with a stranger, traveled across the country and now you’re telling me you won’t be here for Christmas?” Her voice rose on the last word.
Heather’s eyes flashed. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’m of age and I make my own decisions.”
Emily’s jaw sagged in dismay. “You mean you’re actually going to abandon me here—”
“You didn’t bother to check your plans with me before you boarded that plane, did you, Mother? That’s unfortunate because I’ve made other arrangements for Christmas. As far as I’m concerned, this problem is all yours.”
“You said you had to work.” That clearly had been a blatant lie.
“There you go,” Heather cried. “You’re trying to make me feel guilty.”
“If you’d been honest—”
“You don’t want me to be honest!” Heather challenged.
The truth of it was, she was right. Emily would rather not know that her daughter was associating with a member of some motorcycle gang.
“Go then,” Emily said, waving her hand toward the door. “Have a wonderful time.”
Heather leaped out of the chair as if she couldn’t get away fast enough. “You can’t blame me for this!”
“I’m not blaming you for anything,” she said tiredly. Heaven forbid her daughter should accuse her of throwing guilt.
“This is all your own doing.”
Emily stared silently into the distance.
“Nothing you say is going to make me change my mind,” Heather insisted, as if wanting her to argue.
Emily didn’t imagine it would. She felt physically ill, but she held on to her dignity. Pride demanded that she not let her daughter know how badly she’d hurt her.
Rushing out the door, Heather grabbed the black helmet, placed it on her head and climbed onto the back of the motorcycle. Elijah with no last name was already on the bike and within seconds they disappeared down the street.
Emily’s opinion of this coming Christmas did an about-face.
This was destined to be the worst one of her life. Not only was she alone, but she was in a strange town, without a single friend. And her daughter had just broken her heart.
Five
“For heaven’s sake, what is this?” Charles stood outside the gingerbread house in the middle of Santa’s village feeling total dismay. There had to be some mistake—some vast, terrible mistake. Nothing else would explain the fact that after flying three thousand miles, he’d landed smack-dab in the middle of Christmas Town, complete with ice-skating rink, glittering lights and Christmas music.
He closed his eyes, hoping, praying, this nightmare would vanish and he could settle down in a nice quiet prison community. When he opened them, it was even worse than Charles had imagined. A little kid was staring up at him.
“I’m Sarah,” she announced.
He said nothing.
“I lost two teeth.” She proceeded to pull down her lower lip in order to reveal the empty spaces in her mouth.
“Is this where Emily Springer lives?” Charles asked, nodding toward the house. He was uncomfortable around children, mainly because he didn’t know any.
“She went to Boston to spend Christmas with her daughter,” Sarah informed him.
“I know.” So he was in the right town. Damn.
“She keeps the key under the flower pot if you need to get inside.”
Charles cocked his eyebrows. “She told you that?”
“Everyone in town knows where the key is.” As if to prove it, Sarah walked over to the porch, lifted up the pot and produced the key, which she proudly displayed.
A one-horse open sleigh drove past, bells ringing, resembling something straight off a Christmas card. It didn’t get any more grotesque than this. Ice skaters circled the rink in the park directly across the street from him. They were dressed in period costumes and singing in three-part harmony.
Rolling his suitcase behind him and clutching his laptop, Charles approached the house. It reminded him of an illustration, too cozy and perfect to be true, with its scalloped edging and colorful shutters. The porch had a swing and a rocking chair. Had he been Norman Rockwell, he would have found a canvas and painted it. Charles sighed heavily. This must be his punishment for trying to avoid Christmas.
“My mom’s bringing you cookies,” Sarah told him as she followed him up the steps.
“Tell her not to bother.”
“She does it to be neighborly.”
