The Wrong Man. Laura Abbot
sugarplums dancing in his head, whatever the hell that meant.
But all he could think of was Lib, and how she’d be good, all right. Not only for Kylie. For him.
THIS WAS A PICTURE-BOOK Christmas. Libby glanced around the living room of the Traverses’ large chalet-style home. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows was a breathtaking view of Whitefish Lake. In one corner stood a nine-foot-tall spruce, decorated from base to top with ornaments made through the years by Doug and his brother and sisters. Aromas, savory and tantalizing, wafted from the kitchen. Doug sprawled on the floor, helping his brother and nephew lay track for an electric train, while his sister Melanie’s four-year-old twin girls cuddled on either side of Libby as she read Dr. Seuss’s “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.”
Bedecked in green tights with a long red-knit sweater, Mary Travers entered the room carrying a bowl of frothy eggnog, which she set on the buffet. Smiling from one twin to the other, she addressed Libby. “You look like a natural.”
“I’ve had plenty of practice at school.”
Mary shook her head, an impish smile playing across her lips. “That’s not what I meant. You look like a mother.”
The illustration of the Whos down in Whoville blurred. “Maybe someday,” she managed to say.
Slanting her head toward Doug, Mary winked and said, “I’ll work on it. Meanwhile, after you get that mean old storybook Grinch in the Christmas spirit, come have a glass of eggnog.”
“You gonna drink eggs?” Margot, the twin dressed in green, stared up at Libby. “Yuck.”
Maddy, the more serious of the two, shook her head. “Not eggs. Nog.” The triumphant look slowly faded from her face. Finally she got up on her knees and whispered in Libby’s ear, “What’s a ‘nog’?”
Giving her a quick hug, Libby answered. “It’s what the Grinch drinks to remember how much he likes Christmas.”
Across the way, Doug caught her eye, a sappy grin on his face. “You gals make a nice picture.”
Brushing aside the implications of the compliment, Libby quickly finished the story, then moved to the buffet and helped herself to the eggnog. Doug came up beside her and put his arm around her. “Having a good time?”
“Yes, I am.” It was the truth. The easy give-and-take of this family and her overwhelming sense of welcome, especially from Mary and her adorable husband, felt heady for a woman accustomed to living alone with her cat.
“Feel like a walk before dinner?” Doug asked.
“Do we dare sneak off?”
He tightened his grip on her waist, then grinned wickedly. “Dare? I think it’s expected.”
“Let’s go, then.”
Outside the air was crisp, and the sun shone weakly through the snow-dusted trees. Doug tucked her arm through his as they started briskly down the road.
“I’m glad you’re here with us for Christmas. That’s the best present you could give me.”
“Your family has made me feel very welcome.”
“They’re crazy about you.”
Flustered, she stopped to adjust her scarf. “I, uh, I like them, too. Your sister Melanie is such fun, and your brother makes me laugh.”
“And don’t forget Izzy.”
Isabelle, Doug’s other sister, had been busy in the kitchen all day. A chef at a pricey Seattle restaurant, she was cooking the Christmas dinner. “How could I forget her?” Libby rubbed her stomach. “I’ve gained five pounds just smelling that food she’s preparing. And I haven’t even eaten.”
Doug gently held her by the lapels of her coat, his expression turning serious. “And what about me?”
“You?”
“Yeah. Do I rate as highly as my siblings?”
She fumbled to keep her answer light. “Well, you’re fun like Melanie and your brother, but as for your cooking…”
He laid his forehead against hers. “I’m not talking about cooking.” He hesitated, his breath forming small clouds in the frosty air. “I guess I’m asking…could you love me, Lib?”
His eyes were close, so rich and deep a brown they took her breath away. Could she? Love him? Suddenly, in that moment, she thought perhaps she could. “I think maybe so, Doug.”
“Good,” he murmured, pulling something from his pocket.
Libby didn’t know what she’d expected, but not the sprig of mistletoe he now held over her head.
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” he whispered, before tossing the mistletoe in the air and kissing her in a way that would have delighted the reformed Ebeneezer Scrooge.
AT HOME LATER that evening, Libby sat, pensive, in the rocker she’d brought from Oklahoma, the only piece of furniture she’d moved. It was the chair in which her mother had cuddled her before bedtime. Mona, a sleek gray cat with a white, diamond-shaped mask, sat in her lap, purring with contentment. The occasional crackle of a log settling and the ticking of the cuckoo clock were the only other sounds.
The perfect Christmas.
Convivial company, delicious food, laughter, plenty of hugs. It was the Christmas she’d always dreamed of—and a far cry from those girlhood holidays after her mother died. Oh, there had been no shortage of gifts. To the contrary. Everything she’d ever wanted had been provided. And that was the operative word: provided. Not given.
At that time Daddy Belton was serving in the Oklahoma legislature. His secretary bought and wrapped Libby’s presents. Christmas Eve at their Muskogee home was traditionally celebrated with a huge open house for her stepfather’s influential constituents and political allies. On Christmas Day, the two of them opened their gifts, Daddy made obligatory phone calls, and then they were served a late lunch by the housekeeper in the drafty old dining room. Libby spent Christmas afternoons alone in her bedroom.
In her youthful naiveté, she had dreamed of creating a real family, complete with a loving husband and a houseful of children. Life, however, had taught her the folly of such dreams.
She nestled Mona closer, drawing her fingers up and down the cat’s ridged back. Today had been both perfect and disturbing. It scared her how badly she wanted to be part of a family like the Traverses. This afternoon she had sensed Doug was on the verge of offering her the fulfillment of her fantasies.
Could you love me? he’d asked. She had been taken aback by the directness of his question. A marriage without love would be empty. Ruefully, she bent her head and nuzzled Mona’s neck. Had she committed herself by giving Doug a definite “maybe”? And what kind of cowardly answer was that?
On the wall, the cuckoo clock repeated its call twelve times—each syllable taunting her. She was “cuckoo,” all right. Doug hadn’t asked the one question she would ultimately have to answer.
Not could she love him, but did she love him?
WEEZER RUBBED her gnarled hands in anticipation. Dark, and still no sight of them. She checked the mantel clock. No point standing at the window fretting. She strode to the fireplace, picked up the poker and jabbed at the bottom log, sending sparks up the chimney. Trent knew how to drive in these conditions. He’d be careful. Yet what if…
Despite Trent’s eagerness to get back to Whitefish, Weezer had picked up on his concerns. Kylie’s aversion to school. Separation from her grandparents and her familiar surroundings. Beyond that, the child had to still be grieving her mother, probably struggling to mask her pain.
Trent ought to know all about that. He’d been skilled at it. From the day that worthless cowboy Charlie Baker walked out on Lila and Trent, the boy had acted as if he didn’t give a damn, practically daring