The Promise of Christmas. Tara Quinn Taylor
too much.
And just like that, ten years of sane and peaceful living disappeared as though they’d never been.
“You don’t have to sound so surprised by that,” she chuckled, trying desperately to find the quiet place inside herself that Juliet had helped her discover.
“I guess I am surprised. You…your…” His eyes scanned the short skirt of the tailored suit to her long legs. Those legs, not to mention the rest of her body, had brought her shame and embarrassment during her adolescence—feelings made worse by a promiscuous period in college. With a lot of help, mostly from books, she’d learned to feel pride in them—sometimes. Please, God, don’t let there be a run in my hose.
“Yes?” she asked, with a small grin that on another woman probably spoke of self-assurance and playfulness. On Leslie, it was a carefully learned response—all part of the game of “let’s pretend” that she’d devised when she’d reinvented herself.
“You grew up.”
“We all do, eventually.” She came around to the front of her desk. As she leaned against it, her jacket fell open to reveal just a bit of the snug red pullover she had on beneath it. She’d worn her blue-and-red Sorrelli jewelry today and the expensive Swarovski, Austrian crystal gave her confidence, reminded her that she was a woman who deserved to be happy and who wasn’t afraid to go after what she wanted.
She’d hot-flashed for days after buying her first piece of the designer jewelry. She’d gone back twice to return the beautiful pair of earrings, and each time had heard Juliet’s voice in the back of her head, reminding her that she was worthy.
Today, tucked away in the jewelry armoire in a corner of her large master suite at home, was Sorrelli jewelry in every color and style she could find.
“I’m sorry. Did you say something?” she asked. Kip had taken a step toward her, watching her, while she’d been busy searching for inner peace.
“I said you did it better than most.” He was coming closer.
She blinked and smiled wider to prevent herself from cracking into a million little pieces.
“Grew up, I mean.” He was right in front of her, his lips smiling. Close.
Aha. He was still making small talk. Meanwhile she’d started thinking about what it would be like to kiss him. How could she still be entertaining the thought, the fantasy, that had practically consumed her in high school?
“Yes, well…” She stood, slid away from him before he could touch her and practically jumped to a safe position behind her massive teak desk. “I’ve been known to get things right sometimes.”
All the time really, at least professionally. But then, professionally was the only way anyone knew her.
Except Juliet, of course—although, technically, even that relationship was professional.
Juliet, where are you when I need you?
“I know this is a surprise, my showing up like this,” Kip said, hands hanging down, crossed in front of him. “And I apologize for that—”
“No!” she said too quickly, eager to make up for the fact that she’d just turned away from him. “Don’t be sorry. I’m…glad to see you!” How she’d been able to speak in that tone, and to keep her smile, was beyond her.
“The thing is…I’m—” He stopped, his expression becoming almost morose as he glanced away, and Leslie’s smile faded.
“I’m assuming you’re here representing Sporting International.” Taking the offensive gave her strength. “And I want to assure you—and your owners—that…”
Leslie’s voice dried up in her throat as Kip turned back to her. “I’m not here on business, Les.” She didn’t recognize the low intensity in his voice. Kip had seldom been without a hint of teasing in his tone. With her, anyway.
He thrust his hands into the pockets of his slacks.
“What then?” Leslie picked up a random file from the corner of her desk. She didn’t want to know. No matter what it was, she didn’t want to know.
“I— There’s no easy way to…”
The file said Berkeley on it. Typed in all black caps on a yellow label. Nancy color-coded everything. Yellow for potential clients, blue for—
“Cal’s dead, Les.” Kip took his hands from his pockets and reached out to her. His eyes, for the second she couldn’t keep herself from meeting them, were moist and warm. Pulling her in. “There was—”
“No,” she said with all the authority her success had earned her. “I just spoke with him two days ago. He’s rock-climbing in the Rockies. I know, because he wanted to fly out here first, but I have a couple of big meetings this week, a New York turnaround, so there was no way I could…”
She repeated the usual excuse of business commitments with the regret she’d mastered over the years.
“There was an accident,” Kip said, coming around her desk. She felt his fingers through the sleeves of her jacket. He couldn’t touch her. She couldn’t let him. Didn’t he understand that?
She stood motionless, wondering about color codes. And coping.
“His foot slipped. It was trapped between two boulders. When he yanked to free himself he flew backward, somehow got tangled in his line…”
Yes? And? You don’t die…of entanglement. Cal wasn’t dead. He owed her something. She wasn’t sure what. But he couldn’t die without somehow making it up to her…
“He was already gone by the time they got to him,” Kip said. “They said it was pretty much instant.”
“He strangled himself?” she asked. A strange twist of justice? No! Leslie recoiled from her own thoughts. Her brother was one of the most caring men she’d ever known. For years he’d been the one she looked to for security.
“He hit his head.”
Oh. That could be serious. But dead?
“Les?” Kip’s grip on her arms tightened. He drew her closer. She didn’t want him to hold her, but rested her head on his chest for just a second anyway. So she could think. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
He was sorry for her. She couldn’t have that. Leslie nodded, gripping the front of his shirt with both hands. “I’m sorry you had to do this.” She found a way to speak. “He was your best friend. I know you’ve got to be in shock….”
His only reply was a single movement of the chin that rested on top of her head. And the brief sob that shook the body so close to hers. Leslie tried to stand outside herself and watch. As she searched frantically for the still, calm place that brought her peace, she felt a sympathy sob coming on. Just one. For Kip.
After that, she didn’t remember much.
“DEARLY BELOVED, we are gathered here this Thanksgiving Day to mourn the passing, celebrate the life of, and be thankful for having known Calhoun Olmstead Sanderson, a young man who…”
Dressed all in black, suit, shirt, tie, shoes, Kip stood between the two Sanderson women in a small corner of the barren and brown cemetery in Westerville, Ohio, warding off the chill. That gray November day God had been considerate enough to postpone the cold spell that would consume the state of Ohio for most of the next several months. It was a balmy forty-eight degrees. It could have been below freezing for all Kip noticed.
“…At the age of twelve young Calhoun lost his lawyer father in a drive-by shooting and from that point on took up the reins of man of the house, often voluntarily forgoing his own teenaged pleasures to serve the needs of his small family—mostly, at that time, babysitting his nine-year-old sister, Leslie…”
The jolt next to him was his cue. Kip slid an arm around the