Trading Christmas: When Christmas Comes / The Forgetful Bride. Debbie Macomber

      Two

      Charles Brewster, professor of history at Harvard, pinched the bridge of his nose as he stared at the computer. His eyes trailed to the clock in the corner of the screen to discover that it was three o’clock. Charles had to stop and calculate whether that was three in the afternoon or three at night. He often lost track of time, especially since he had an inner office without windows.

       And especially since it was December. He hated the whole miserable month—the short days with darkness falling early, the snow, the distractedness of his students and colleagues. Christmas. He dreaded it each and every year. Cringed at the very mention of the holidays. Rationally he knew it was because of Monica, who’d chosen Christmas Eve to break off their relationship. She claimed he was distant and inattentive, calling him the perfect example of the absentminded professor. Charles admitted she was probably right, but he’d loved her and been shocked when she’d walked out on him.

       Frowning now, Charles realized it was happening already. Christmas was coming, and once again he’d be forced to confront the memories and the bitterness. The truth was, he rarely thought of Monica anymore except at Christmas. He couldn’t help it. Boston during December depressed him. In fact, he associated Christmas, especially Christmas in the city, with unhappiness and rejection. It was as if those emotions had detached themselves from Monica and just become part of the season itself.

       Standing up, he strolled out of his office and noticed that all the other History Department offices were dark and empty. It must be three at night, then, which meant he hadn’t eaten dinner yet. Funny, he distinctly remembered Mrs. Lewis bringing him a tuna sandwich and a cup of hot coffee. His assistant was thoughtful that way. On the other hand, that might’ve been the day before. Frankly, Charles no longer remembered. His stomach growled, and he rummaged through his desk drawers for a snack. He located a candy bar, eating it hungrily, with only the briefest consideration of how old it might be.

       It was too late to head home now, Charles decided. If he left the building, Security would be on him so fast he wouldn’t make it to the front door. He’d have to haul out all his identification and explain why he was still here and… No, it was easier just to stay.

       He returned his attention to his work. He’d recently been contracted to write a textbook. He’d agreed to a tight deadline because he knew it would help him get through the holidays. Now he wondered if he’d taken on too much.

       The next time he glanced up from the computer, Mrs. Lewis had stepped into the office. “Professor Brewster, were you here all night?”

       Charles leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hand along his face. “It seems I was.”

       Shaking her head, she placed a cup of hot, black coffee on his desk.

       He sipped it gratefully. “What day is this?” It was a question he asked often—so often that it didn’t even cause the department secretary’s brow to wrinkle.

       “Tuesday, December fourteenth.”

       “It’s the fourteenth already?” He could feel the panic rising.

       “Yes, Professor. And you have three student appointments today.”

       “I see.” But all Charles saw was trouble. If his mother wasn’t pestering him, then it was his students. He sighed, suddenly exhausted. He’d spent the better part of fifteen hours writing his American history text, focusing on the Colonial era, the Revolutionary War and the country’s founding fathers. Much of his work that night had been about the relationship between Thomas Jefferson and Aaron Burr. It wouldn’t be light reading, but he knew his history and loved it. If he met his deadline, which Charles was determined to do, and turned in the completed manuscript shortly after the first of the year, it would be published and ready for use by the start of the 2006 autumn classes. High aspirations, but Charles knew he could meet the challenge.

       “Your mother just phoned again,” Mrs. Lewis informed him. She’d left his office and returned to set the mail on his desk.

       Charles sighed. His mother’s intentions were good, but she worried about him far too much. For years now, she’d been after him to join her in Arizona for the holidays. Personally, Charles would rather have his fingernails pulled out than spend Christmas with his mother. She suffocated him with her concern and irritated him with her matchmaking efforts. Try as he might, he couldn’t make her understand that he wasn’t interested in another relationship. His one and only attempt at romance had practically demolished him. After Monica’s Christmas Eve defection, he’d shielded himself from further involvement. He was content with his life, although his mother refused to believe it. He didn’t want a relationship. Women made demands on his time; they were a luxury he couldn’t afford if he planned to get ahead in his profession. He wanted to write and teach and there simply weren’t enough hours in the day as it was. Frankly that suited him just fine.

       If Ray would do him the favor of marrying, Charles would be off the hook. Unfortunately his older brother seemed to be a confirmed bachelor. That left Charles—and his mother wasn’t giving up without a fight. At every opportunity she shoved women in his path. Twice in the last six months she’d sent the daughters of friends to Boston to lure him out of his stuffy classroom, as she called it. Both attempts had ended in disaster.

       “She wants to know your plans for the holidays.”

       Charles stiffened. This was how their last conversation had begun. His mother had casually inquired about his plans for Labor Day, and the next thing he knew she’d arranged a dinner engagement for him with one of those young women. That particular one had been a twenty-four-year-old TV production assistant in New York; to say they had nothing in common was putting it mildly. “What did you tell my mother?” he asked.

       “That you were occupied and unable to take the call.”

       From the way Mrs. Lewis’s lips thinned, Charles guessed she wasn’t pleased at having to engage in this small deception. “Thank you,” he muttered.

       “She insisted I must know about your plans for Christmas,” Mrs. Lewis said in a severe voice.

       Apprehension shot up his back. “What did you say?”

       Mrs. Lewis crossed her arms and stared down at him. “I said I am not privy to your private arrangements, and that for all I knew you were going out of town.”

       Actually, that didn’t sound like a bad plan. He needed an escape, and the sooner the better. If his mother’s behavior was true to pattern, she was about to sic some woman on him. As soon as Mrs. Lewis had made that comment about traveling, the idea took root in his mind. It would do him good to get out of the city. He didn’t care where he went as long as it was away from Boston, away from his seasonal misery. Someplace quiet would suit him nicely. Someplace where he could work and not worry about what time or day it happened to be.

       “Hmm. That has possibilities,” he murmured thoughtfully.

       The older woman didn’t seem to know what he was talking about. His students often wore the same confused look, as if he were speaking in a foreign language.

       “Traveling.” The decision made now, he stood and reached for his overcoat. “Yes.”

       Her gaze narrowed. “Excuse me?”

       “That was an excellent idea. I’m leaving town for the holidays.” All he wanted was peace and quiet; that should be simple enough