Christmas Kiss (A Holiday Romance) (Kisses and Carriages) (22 page)

Had the coachman been correct, about the whole holiday having never happened, then he would have no memory of it. Daily he wished he could forget her. Nightly, he was grateful he had not, for at least he was able to fall asleep with a pleasant thought. The
un
pleasant thoughts he saved for daytime, when he could at least distract himself as they poured through his mind.

He pretended to keep himself busy repairing this, that and the other, so when he was seen meddling with the sagging door of his grandmother’s bedroom, none would think it odd. The slab of mahogany was swinging straight in no time, and when he casually stood and walked into the room, pulling the door shut behind him, no one noticed.

Of course it was his home. Of course he could go where he bloody well wished. But on the off chance he survived the breaking of his heart and found himself living amongst these people for fifty more years, he had to at least consider his reputation. And having witnesses to his rummaging about in a witch’s bedroom would do him no good in the end.

None had used the room since the old woman passed, only a week after her twin sister had died, nearly seven years before.

There was nothing noteworthy about the bed, of course. The quilt was covered with tiny purple pansies. The drapes were purple as well. Even from the hallway, and after all these years, the room smelled of her, of the flowers used to make her medicines. It gave the impression that even the quilted flowers were in bloom.

Because of his vantage point, squatting down to examine the door latch, he’d had a clear view of the books his grandmother had stored beneath her bed. Of course she’d always had a book in hand. He just assumed she chose them from the library. But apparently, a select few had never been returned to the shelves.

If they’d ever belonged on the shelves in the first place.

Heathcliff waited for a telltale shiver to warn him away from anything dangerous, but he got no such feeling, not that he could be dissuaded. With a touch of disappointment, he sat upon the bed, reached down between his legs and dragged out the little collection.

Most of them were drawings. It was his grandmother who had introduced him to the pastime. It reminded him that at least he had those drawings of Angeline and Brianna as further proof they’d been there. He lost track of time pouring over the collection, remembering the items and people in the drawings and sometimes remembering watching his grandmother’s hands drawing this line, or that line. Standing next to her, trying to see her subjects as she saw them. Amazed that he did not see the lines on a face that Grandmother somehow saw.

At long last, he had but one book left. As he reached for the cover, those chills struck him on the back of his head and poured down his spine. But he did not stop. He’d dealt with the devil; there was little that could spook him now.

It was another collection of drawings, but these were small, random. A leaf here. A bug there. A remedy for red skin. Directions for drying a certain herb, for crushing another. No doubt the local doctors would be amused. No doubt the village gossips would see it all as proof  Grandmother was a witch.

Halfway through the text, the pages fell open to a chart, a calendar of sorts illustrating the different phases of the moon. But at the bottom of each phase, there were odd notes.

Never plant here.

Never reap here.

Decide nothing this day.

A fine day for crying.

If he chose to ignore that generous flow of chills he’d been subjected to when opening the book, Heathcliff knew, in his bones, there was something important here. Something on that chart was the key to his happiness, written in the loving hand of his grandmother.

He began once again at the top.

At mid-month, under a blank square, beneath the notation
New Moon
, there was an odd comment.

He’ll be about.

Heathcliff’s belly burned. That was it. All he needed to know.

He was a breath away from thanking his grandmother aloud when he thought better of it. Best to keep one’s thoughts to oneself, lest the devil be listening.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Bree was in no mood to go back to work. After telling her family she’d been in a terrible accident in Scotland and nearly died, they didn’t push her. The vice-principals at the deaf school weren’t nearly as understanding. They called every day, and she would have ignored them without any guilt whatsoever if it weren’t for the fact that Shelly and Charlotte were also her best friends.

First, they tried reason. Since she wasn’t suffering from any physical injury, she should return to work to get her mind off the disastrous vacation. Bree insisted she needed a few weeks to wrap her head around things, then she’d come back.

Then they tried guilt. The children were asking for her. They wanted to tell her about their Christmas vacations and she’d better hurry before they forgot about them. Bree argued that no one forgot about Christmas, even if they wanted to...

Then they tried blackmail. Bree had taught a mute girl a long time ago and her father now wanted to make a large donation to the school. She had to at least show up for the gala in his honor since Bree was the reason his daughter had found her voice. While the story was gratifying, it only reminded her of Heathcliff and Angeline—a memory she wanted to avoid for the time being. But she couldn’t risk ticking off the rich father and giving him a chance to change his mind, so she agreed to go. Besides, she might not be ready to go back to teaching quite yet, but she remembered who she was and her true calling in life. That was worth a little celebration at least.

Her give-a-shitter was fixed. But now her eyes were defective, leaking all over the place at the drop of a hat. She just hoped she could compose herself long enough to get through the gala without drowning anyone.

Her parents were rather proud and insisted on going along. When her mother came out of her room, she frowned awkwardly, like she was trying to keep from creasing her makeup.

“You’re not going to wear sunglasses are you? It’s dark outside.”

Bree bared her teeth at her reflection in the entry mirror and wiped her red lipstick off a tooth. She softened the look a little to smile at her mother.

“Rays from the moon give me a headache. Migraines, I guess, from the accident.”

She used the word
accident
like a passkey. It got her mom to take a step back and give her a little room to recover. The woman didn’t need to know it was her heart that needed recovering, not her body. The look her mother gave her that night, however, promised that passkey wasn’t going to work much longer. But Bree was safe for the momemt; the woman wouldn’t let anything ruin an important event. One would think Brianna Colby had been nominated for an Oscar.

Tomorrow, her sunglasses would probably wind up missing and it would serve her right. She needed to stop pushing her mother away. She needed to move on. She just couldn’t imagine how.

Mother got in the backseat with her. “I don’t want you to have to sit back here alone,” she said.

Bree was pretty sure Mother was pretending they had a chauffeur—Bree would put her mom’s delusions of grandeur up against the finest. Dad kept rolling his eyes and winking at Bree in the rearview mirror. He was probably thinking the same thing.

The gala was being held at the art gallery next door to the school and when he pulled up in front of the doors, he jumped out and ran around to open Mom’s door. Bree played along too, scooting across the seat to follow her out.

“Very red carpet, darling,” her dad whispered in her ear. “You’ve made her night.”

Tears sprang to Bree’s eyes unexpectedly—which she totally should have expected. Any emotion at all brought on tears, even if she was just happy her mom was happy.

“Stop that,” her mom whispered and slipped her hand around Bree’s elbow. “Cry tomorrow. All you want. But tonight, you’re a Colby.”

And whether it was due to a lifetime of training or her willingness to keep up the pretense for her mom, Bree swallowed her tears and straightened her spine. Together, the Colby women teetered on high heels and took their good pearls on a grand circuit of the gallery.

“Bree!” Charlotte tried to pull her aside, but Mother wasn’t about to let go of her. It was a control thing, but Bree realized it was just another of her mom’s delusions. On the inside, Bree was in control. Whether or not she lost it in a fit of tears every night was her prerogative.

Thankfully, Charlotte stopped tugging before all three of them wound up on the floor. “Bree, honey,” she said. “Have you seen the new exibit? In the green room?”

“No. I haven’t. And why are your eyes bugging out?”

Mother laughed and looked around like she was worried someone might have overheard.

“My eyes are bugging out,” Charlotte said between gritted, smiling teeth, “because the subject of the art is—”

“Charlotte! He’s here.” Shelly slinked up behind Charlotte and noticed Bree. “Has she seen it yet?”

“No,” said her friend. “But she’ll have to wait.” To Bree she said, “We can’t just leave him twiddling his thumbs. Come on.”

Again, Charlotte pulled, but Mother was like an anchor dragging the ocean floor and the four of them moved sedately around the perimeter of the room whether they wanted to or not. Bree didn’t care. The phrase
twiddle his thumbs
only reminded her of the signal Heathcliff was thinking about kissing her and she couldn’t feel anything but numbing pain.

“Ah, Brianna.” Brady Homer, one of her fellow teachers moved toward her, carrying two glasses of champagne. He offered one to her mother. “Did you hear what happened to David?”

Charlotte frowned at him for interrupting their parade, but she was all ears.

Bree could only shake her head and wait.

“Some guy paid him a lot of money...to agree to
fight
him.”

“David? David Wordsworth?” Her voice was working again.

“Yes. David.”

Bree laughed. “David is not a fighter.” He wasn’t a lover, either, as it turned out, but she kept that little remark to herself.

“Oh, he is now. He took the money. I always thought, deep down, he was a greedy bastard.” Brady clinked glasses with Bree’s mom and took a drink.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Why would anyone want to pay David for anything? No offense, Bree.”

“Oh, it wasn’t just for fighting,” Brady said. “The contract also said he had to leave town. For good.”

Bree felt a headache coming on just trying to understand.

“So when do we get to watch this fight?” Mother asked.

She knew her mom disliked David—vehemently—but the woman detested violence more. Or, maybe not.

“It’s all over. David’s gone.” Brady suddenly looked worried. “Sorry, Bree.”

Bree smiled. “Don’t cry for me. I’ve been over him for a while now.”

Brady looked relieved. “I should hope so, what with the new exhibit and all.”

Before Bree could ask him what in the hell he was talking about, Charlotte had them moving again. Mother, in her glee over David, forgot to slow them down and suddenly they came to a clumsy halt below the Venetian glass chandelier in the main gallery.

Shelly dinged a crystal flute with a spoon and the room quieted. The only sound left was that of a recorded instrumental and the friction of clothing and bodies.

Bree looked around the crowd, trying to figure out which man might be their new patron. She’d interacted with most parents, so she was hoping someone would look familiar. But then her eye caught on an Armani suit not ten feet away from her. The man wore a long black ponytail down the middle of a broad back and Bree couldn’t help but compare him to Heathcliff McKinnon, a man she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about for at least another week. Then he turned, and she laughed. She was going to need that therapist a lot sooner than expected because she was projecting the image of Heathcliff onto this poor guy who someone had dragged to their little gala. Probably some woman who wanted to show off what—or whom—she’d gotten for Christmas.

Bree looked away, then looked back to see what the guy really looked like. But her mind was stilling messing with her. She laughed again—the only voice in the room—then felt like she’d better apologize to the guy, since he was watching her lose her mind.

“I’m sorry,” she started to say.

“I’m sorry. Ye look familiar. Have we met?” He frowned at her, like Heathcliff used to.

She recoiled in horror, but her mom was there, still holding her arm. There was no time to explain to the woman that her daughter’s sanity was slipping fast and she needed to run away.
Because he’d even sounded like Heathcliff.

Bree could only shake her head.

He put a finger to his lips, like he was trying to place her. Then he smiled and held up that finger. “Just a moment,” he said, then started searching the pockets of his jacket.

Charlotte stood behind her. Mother squeezed one arm while Shelly blocked her in on the other side. There was nowhere she could run. Bree could only stand there, like an idiot, while the guy closed the distance between them. She felt the impact of each step in her bones.

He unfolded the black cloth he’d taken from his pocket, then put it over her head! She didn’t dare reach up to see what it was.

Wait a minute.

Out of another pocket, he pulled something neon pink. That, too, he stretched and put over her head. Then something green with little purple flowers.

“Heathcliff,” she breathed. “You can’t be Heathcliff.”

And suddenly the room lost all sound. The murmurs that began when he’d first stepped forward were gone. Charlotte’s breath in her ear. The tinkling of music that had been playing in the background, all gone.

“I kept calling out to ye, love. Beggin’ ye to come play with me upon the moors, but ye never came. So I had to come to ye.”

“But how?” She still didn’t reach out to him, didn’t dare touch him, afraid the illusion would disappear and she’d be standing there making goo-goo eyes at a fat balding man she would recognize from a teacher’s conference.