Marry-Me Christmas (14 page)

Sam wheeled back to face him. “Why? So you can get your headline by dragging my family’s personal pain onto the cover? Blasting that news all over town, so people can pity her, pity me? No, I don’t think so.” Sam slapped the bread onto the counter, twisting off the tie in fast, furious spins, then yanked open the drawer for a butter knife.

Damn. He should have trusted his gut. Should have let this go. But he’d already asked the question, he couldn’t retrace those steps. “Trust me, Sam. I’ll handle the story nicely. I’ll—”

“Trust you? I hardly know you.” Sam began to assemble a sandwich, layering ham and cheese, spreading mayonnaise on a slice of bread.

The words slapped him. Although, it seemed like he knew Sam better than he knew anyone in his immediate circle. How could that be? He’d been in this town for a matter of days, and yet, he had shared more with her—and felt as if she had opened up to him—than he had shared in his life.

“Nor do you know my family, or what I’ve been through,” she went on, “so I would appreciate it if you would stick to the cookies, the bakery, and nothing else.”

Defensiveness raised the notes in her voice, and maybe if he didn’t have someone else depending on him, he would have retreated, would have let the subject drop. But that wasn’t the case. And he couldn’t afford to let emotion, or sympathy, sway him.

“I need more than just the story of the cookies,” Flynn said, deciding he had to push this. He had no time left, and no options. He knew what he had for an article already—and knew what his readers and his editor expected. And it wasn’t what Flynn had written. “My editor sent me here to get the whole story, and I’m either getting that, or no story.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That I’ll go find another bakery to profile in the Valentine’s Day issue. You’re not the only one baking cookies.”

The icy words shattered any remaining warmth between them and Flynn wanted to take them back, but he couldn’t. He’d played his trump card, and now it lay heavy in the air between them. Her gaze would have cut him, if it had been a knife.

They had done what he’d expected. Severed the emotional tie.

“You’d seriously do that? Just to get the story?”

“Listen,” he said, taking two steps closer, “I’m not here to write some kind of mean-hearted exposé. I know you love your grandmother, I know you want to protect her privacy. But readers want to know what happened to her, too. Heck, the
town
wants to know. Don’t you think people worry, care? Want to help?”

“Why? The people who love her already know. That’s all that matters.”

He moved closer, seeing so much of himself in the way she had closed off the world, insulating herself and her grandmother from everyone else. As if she thought doing so would make it all go away. He knew those walls, knew them so well, he could have told Sam what kind of bricks she’d used to build them. “Did you ever think that maybe people worry and wonder because they care about you, too? That they’ll want to help if they know?”

“Help how?” Sam shot back, her voice breaking. She stepped away from him, pacing the kitchen, gesturing with her hands, as if trying to ward off the emotion puddling in her eyes. “What are they going to do? Send in their best memories to my grandmother, care of the Alzheimer’s ward? It’s not going to work. She’s forgotten me. Forgotten her recipes. Forgotten everything that mattered.” Sam turned away, placing a palm against the cabinets, as if seeking strength in the solid wood. “Seeing her is like ripping my own heart out. You tell me why I’d want to share that pain with the rest of America.” Her voice broke, the rest of the sentence tearing from her throat. “With
anyone
.”

Tears threatened to spill from Sam’s emerald eyes. Flynn told himself he didn’t care. He told himself that he needed to write down what she’d just said, because they were damned good quotes. Exactly the kind his story needed.

Instead, he dropped the pen to the counter, crossed to Sam and took her in his arms. When he did, it tipped the scales on her emotions, and two tears ran down her cheeks. She remained stiff, unyielding, but he held her tight. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t.”

“Okay.” And he held her anyway. She cried, and he kept on holding her, her head against his shoulder.

“She doesn’t know me,” Sam said, her voice muffled, thick. “She doesn’t know who I am.”

“And you’re carrying this all by yourself.”

“I have my aunt Ginny.”

“Sam,” Flynn said, his voice warm against her hair, “that’s not sharing the burden, not really. And you know it. You carry this bakery, this house, your grandmother, all on your shoulders. Why?”

She turned away, spinning out of his arms, crossing back to the sandwiches, but she didn’t pick up the knife or top the ham with a slice of bread. She just gripped the countertop like a life preserver. “Because I have to. Because if I rely on anyone else…”

Her voice trailed off, fading into the heavy silence of the kitchen.

And then Flynn knew, knew as well as he knew the back of his own hand, what the answer was. Because Sam was him, in so many ways. His heart broke for her, and he wished he could do something, anything to ease her pain. But Flynn MacGregor couldn’t fix Sam’s situation any more than he could fix his own. “Because if you rely on anyone else, they might let you down.”

“I…” She stopped, caught her breath. “Yes.”

He let out a half laugh. “We’re two of a kind, aren’t we? Neither one of us wants to put our trust in other people, just in case things don’t last. Only, you have more faith than me.”

“Me?”

“You still live in the fairy tale,” Flynn said, waving at her kitchen, at the Christmas paradise that surrounded them. “And I…I gave up on that a long time ago.”

“You don’t have to, Flynn. It still exists.”

“Maybe for you,” he said, a smile that felt bitter crossing his face. “You can reach out, to the town, you can lean on other people, and you can try to connect with your grandmother, and try to build that bridge.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” She swiped at her face, brushing away the remaining tears. “Last time I went there, she thought I was the maid.”

Flynn might not be able to fix everything for Sam, but he could help with this. A little. Maybe. “This fall I did a story on a chef whose wife had Alzheimer’s,” he said. “It was heartbreaking for him, because the restaurant, everything, had always been all about her. His whole life was about her. When I interviewed him, he didn’t want to talk about the restaurant at all. He only wanted to tell me about this photo album he was making. It had all the moments of their life. From the day they met through the day their kids were born, through every day they spent in the restaurant. He’d go over to her room, every single afternoon and flip through that book. It didn’t bring her back all the way, but there were days, he said, when she would look at him, and know him.”

Sam glanced up at him. “Really?”

Flynn nodded. Even now, months after writing the story, it still moved his heart, and tightened his chest. He remembered that man, the tender way he’d loved his wife, as if it were yesterday.
That
had been the kind of article Flynn wanted to write, but it wasn’t what he’d ended up writing.

Instead, he’d done the kind of piece he’d always done. A story on how a dream had died, along with the woman’s memories, and the man’s inattention, because he wasn’t at the restaurant as often as he should be. Because he was with his wife.

How would it have felt to write the other story? The kind he’d written a few days ago in the back of Sam’s shop?

Sam’s gaze, still watery, met his. “And what kind of story will you write about me? One as sweet as what you just told me?”

He swallowed hard. What could he tell her? The truth would hurt, and lying would only delay the inevitable. So he just didn’t answer at all.

“Thanks for the hot chocolate,” Flynn said, placing the mug on the counter before it got too comfortable in his grasp. “But I have to go.”

Then he grabbed his coat and headed out the door. Because the one thing he couldn’t do was break Samantha Barnett’s heart on Christmas Eve.

“M
ERRY
C
HRISTMAS
,”
Sam whispered, pressing a kiss to her grandmother’s cheek.

Joy stirred, then swung her gaze over to Sam’s. “Is it Christmas?”

Sam nodded, then pulled up the chair beside her grandmother’s bed and took a seat. On the opposite side of the room, Grandma Joy’s roommate snored loudly, under a red-and-green plaid blanket. Sam reached for her grandmother’s hand, then pulled back, not wanting to scare her by becoming too familiar too quickly. “Yes, it’s Christmas.”

“Oh, that’s my favorite day of the year.” Joy sat up in the bed, pushing her short white hair out of her eyes.

“I know.” Sam smiled. God, how she missed those days, when her grandmother would decorate the house and pour every ounce of energy into making the holiday merry. The house would ring with the sound of singing, the halls would be filled with the scents of baking. Both generations of Barnett woman had loved Christmas, and passed that holiday spirit on to Sam. “They’re having a piano player come today, to play for everyone here. For the holiday party.”

Her grandmother smiled. “That will be nice.”

“Do you want me to help you get ready?”

“Of course. I’ll want to look my prettiest for the party.”

Sam tried to keep her spirits up, to not let the lack of recognition dampen her Christmas, but every year she came to Heritage Nursing Home and every year, it seemed to be the same story. There had been holidays, in the beginning, before the Alzheimer’s had gotten so bad that her grandmother had to be hospitalized, when Joy would remember, but then, it seemed as if the entire world became strange, and though Sam kept praying for a miracle, for a window to open, if only briefly—

It didn’t.

But was it possible, Sam wondered, as Flynn had told her, to help push that window open? For a long time, Sam had tried, by bringing in her grandmother’s favorite things from home, and hanging pictures of loved ones around the room, but then she’d given up, frustrated and depressed. Maybe it was time she tried again. In a bigger way than ever before.

“I brought you a gift,” Sam said.

“For me?” Grandma Joy smiled. “Thank you.”

Sam held her breath and put the wrapped package into her grandmother’s hands. What if Flynn had been wrong? What if this was the worst idea ever?

Joy removed the bow, smiling over the fancy gold-and-white fabric decoration, then undid the bright, holiday packaging. She ran a hand over the leather album. “A book?”

“Of sorts. It’s a story.” Sam swallowed. “About you. And…” She took in a breath. “Me.”

“Us?” Confusion knitted Grandma Joy’s brows. She looked down again at the thick brown cover, then opened the book and began to turn the pages.

Page after page, Joy and Sam’s lives flashed by in a series of images. A young Joy working at the bakery with her husband in the first few days after it opened. More pictures of her, as a new mother, with baby Emma in her arms, then handing out baked goods at a church fund-raiser, then, at Emma’s wedding. Joy paused when she reached the picture of herself holding a newborn Sam, her face beaming with pride. Her fingers drifted lightly over the image of her grandbaby. “So beautiful,” she whispered.

Sam could only nod. This was too painful. Flynn had been wrong. How could she possibly sit here and watch her grandmother not remember the most important days of her life?

Joy turned another page, to images of Sam in kindergarten, then the second-grade class play, then to older pictures of Sam, after her parents had died and she had gone to live just with her grandparents. Middle school science fair, high school awards nights, and so many pictures of Sam working with Joy at the bakery, others at church on Easter, in front of Christmas trees. Joy paused, over and over again, mute, simply tracing over the pictures, her fingers dancing down faces.

Sam shifted in her chair. She was tempted to leave. She couldn’t watch this for one more second. She half rose, opening her mouth to say goodbye, when her grandmother reached out a hand.

“This one, do you remember it?”

Sam dropped back down. “Do I remember…?” She leaned forward and looked into the album. It was one of the last pictures of her and her grandmother, before her grandmother had been admitted to Heritage Nursing Home. They stood together, arm in arm, in front of the bakery, beaming. Still a team then, thinking they’d run things together. A good day, one of the few Joy had had left. “Yes.”

“My sister Ginny took the picture.”

Sam’s breath caught in her throat. “Yes, she did.” Six months before everything had changed, when Aunt Ginny had come up for a visit, not realizing that things would get so bad so fast later and Sam would be forced into taking over the bakery, but Sam didn’t mention that part. There were certain things she was glad her grandmother had forgotten.

Her grandmother smiled. “It’s a beautiful picture.”

Sam exhaled, deflating like a balloon. “Yeah. It is.” And now she did rise, tears clogging her throat, burning her eyes. She couldn’t spend another Christmas being mistaken for a stranger. Her heart hurt too much.

This was why she couldn’t stay in Riverbend. This was why she couldn’t give her heart to anyone else. Because she didn’t have it in her to see it fall apart, crumble so easily. Not again.

“It’s so beautiful,” Grandma Joy repeated, “just like my granddaughter.” She reached out a hand—long, graceful fingers exactly like Sam’s—and grasped Sam’s wrist before Sam could walk away. She stared at Sam, for a long, long time, then she smiled, her eyes lighting in a way Sam hadn’t seen them brighten in so, so long. “Just like you, Samantha.”

“Did you…did you just say my name?” Sam asked.

“Of course. You’re my granddaughter, aren’t you?”

Sam nodded, mute, tears spilling over, blurring her vision. She sank down again, this time onto the soft mattress, and reached out, drawing her grandmother into one more hug.

And when Grandma Joy’s arms went around her, fierce and tight, Samantha Barnett started believing in Christmas miracles again.

Betsy was singing.

If Flynn didn’t know better, he’d have sworn a cow was dying in the front parlor of the bed and breakfast. He headed downstairs on Christmas morning, going straight for the coffeepot. In the parlor, the few remaining guests were gathered around the piano, joining Betsy in a rousing and agonizingly off-key rendition of “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”

From the dining room, Flynn watched the group. He stood on the periphery, never more aware he was on the outside. How long had he lived like this? Outside of normal people’s lives?

Living another kind of normal. One that he now realized was far from normal.

The front door to Betsy’s opened and Sam walked in, her arms laden with boxes from the bakery. Flynn put down his coffee and hurried over to help her. “I thought you were under Doctor Earl’s orders not to work on Christmas Eve.”

“I baked these ahead of time. And besides, it’s not Christmas Eve anymore, it’s Christmas Day. So merry Christmas.” She gave him a smile.

A smile? After the way things had ended between them yesterday? Flynn didn’t question the facial gesture, but wondered. Why the change?

“But you
are
working, even on Christmas?” he said.

“I’m delivering, not working.” She thought about it for a second. “Okay, yes. But only for a little while. And, I had an ulterior motive.”

He unpacked a box of Danishes, laying them in a concentric circle on a silver-plated platter. It reminded him of the first time he’d done this, right after arriving in town. That seemed like a hundred years ago, as if he’d met Sam a lifetime ago. Before yesterday, he’d thought…

Thought maybe there was a chance they could have something. What that something could be, he wasn’t sure, because he lived on the East Coast and she lived in the Midwest, and their worlds were as opposite as the North and South Poles.

And then he’d gone and driven a wedge between them yesterday. Had made it clear where his priorities lay—with his job.

If there’d been another choice, Flynn would have grabbed it in a second. Another choice…

He looked at Sam, her face bright and happy, her hair seeming like gold above the red sweater she wore, and wished for a miracle. It was Christmas, after all. Maybe a miracle would come along.

Uh-huh. And maybe Santa would just sweep on through the front door, too. Best to abandon that train of thought before it derailed his plans to leave.

“Ulterior motive?” he asked.

“You left last night before I could give you your Christmas gift.”

That drew Flynn up short. “You bought me a
Christmas gift
?”

“Well, I had to sort of improvise, and your gift is, ah—” she looked at her watch “—not quite here yet, because what I bought you is still in my Jeep, which is on the side of the road.”

“You bought me a gift yesterday?” He couldn’t have been more surprised if Santa himself had marched in and handed him a present.

“Of course. It’s Christmas. Everyone should have a gift on Christmas. I was going to give it before you—”

Even though he knew he shouldn’t, even though he’d just vowed a half second ago to stay away from her, Flynn surged forward, cupped her face with both his hands and kissed her. “Thank you.”

She laughed. “You don’t even know what I got you. You could hate it.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s the thought that counts.” She had thought of him. Thought about whether he would have a merry Christmas. Who had worried about his Christmas? Ever? Flynn couldn’t remember anyone ever doing that. Most holiday seasons, he and Liam had been between homes, shuffled off by the system to some emergency place, a temporary landing, before they’d be off to the next family. But no one had latched on to the boys who rebelled, who didn’t connect, fit in with their little blond-haired boys and girls.

The fact that Sam, a woman he had met a few days ago, would go to so much trouble, for him, blasted against him.

He might not be a little kid anymore, and no longer cared if there was a gift under the tree, or heck, a tree in his living room, but to know that someone had taken the time to plan a gift like that…

It touched him more than he had thought possible.

A fierce longing tugged at him, and the urge to leave dissipated. Instead, he found himself wanting to stay. Here, in this town. This crazy, Christmas-frantic town.

“Are you speaking in trite phrases now, Flynn MacGregor?”

“I, ah, think this town is rubbing off on me.”

Sam laughed again. “You must be catching pneumonia or something.”

“I’ve caught something,” Flynn said, tracing Sam’s lips with his fingertips. Wanting to kiss her again. Wanting to do much more than that, but painfully aware that they were in Betsy’s dining room.

“Come on in, Flynn, Sam!” Betsy called. “And join us!”

Sam’s eyes danced with a dare. “Are you feeling truly festive?”

He cringed. “Singing with Betsy might be pushing it.”

Sam grabbed one of his hands and pulled him toward the parlor. “It’ll be good for you, Flynn.”

And as he stood by the piano a moment later with an assortment of strangers, his arm wrapped around Sam’s waist, joining in on “Jingle Bells,” a swell of holiday spirit started in Flynn’s chest and began to grow, as if the music itself was pounding Christmas right into him. Somehow, he seemed to know the words, or at least snippets of them, to every song. Perhaps he’d absorbed them over the years, some kind of holiday osmosis, and he added his baritone to the rest of the singers. Sam leaned her head against his shoulder, and for those moments, everything seemed completely perfect in Flynn’s world.

A truth whispered in his ear, one he wasn’t prepared to hear.

He loved this woman.

Loved her.
It didn’t matter that it had happened in four days, four weeks or four years. The feeling ran so deep, and so strong, Flynn could no longer ignore it.

For the first time in his life, he wanted depth, he wanted a real relationship, no more convenience dating, the kind of flighty relationship he’d had with Mimi. She was surely off in some foreign country, probably flirting with someone else, which didn’t bother Flynn one bit.

He had everything he wanted right here with him.

Never before had he fallen in love, but he recognized the emotion as clearly as his own name. His arm tightened around Sam’s waist, and he vowed that as soon as the song ended, he would pull Sam aside and tell her.

Another set of chimes joined in with the piano. It took a moment for anyone to realize the sound was coming from the doorbell, and not Betsy’s feet. “Oh, someone’s here,” Betsy said. “I hope whoever it is, sings tenor!”

“I’ll get it,” Flynn said, releasing Sam to cross the front parlor, head into the hall and down to the door. He expected one of the guest’s relatives. Or maybe Earl, here to chide Sam about making a delivery on Christmas Day.

But when Flynn pulled open the door, he found a gift no one could have fit under a tree. And one he wasn’t so sure was glad to be here.