Mistletoe And Murder. Florence Case
herself, along with her plans to find Tripp.
When Ginny returned with a soda and a box of expensive chocolates to share, she didn’t mention Shamus or the bombing again, and Mallory was relieved. She loved Ginny like a sister and didn’t want anything coming between them. So when her cell phone vibrated in her pocket, she told Ginny she was going to her room for a nap, waited until she got far enough down the hall so Ginny couldn’t see and checked the number.
It was Shamus.
THREE
In a moment of insanity, Shamus had agreed to meet Mallory the next day on Holiday Avenue, named on purpose because its shopkeepers had persisted in decorating for every holiday for so many years it had become a tourist attraction in the state. From his table in the rear of the coffee shop where they’d chosen to meet, he had a good view through the windows.
He saw bright lights on Christmas trees in shop windows, a couple of people with charity buckets ringing golden bells and a tall Santa with a thick white beard that looked pretty realistic. He also saw trouble—Mallory, who was parallel-parking her SUV in a space not too far from where he was sitting.
He had hoped his lack of response to her calls would annoy her enough to give up on him, but really, what was he thinking? This was Mallory. For some strange reason, she seemed willing to take all he had to dish out—and cheerfully, too.
When she’d called to say she was going to look for Bud Tripp, Shamus’s blood had run cold. Whether Tripp was a victim or the bomber, searching for him would be dangerous. He had to dissuade her from helping Tripp and his daughter, no matter what she’d promised Tara Tripp on the phone.
If Mallory refused to listen, he’d feel obligated to watch out for her, and he wanted no part of that. None. On the other hand, he couldn’t take it if something happened to someone else he—no, not liked. Admitting to himself he liked Mallory would create a bond they didn’t have. He just didn’t want something to happen to someone else he knew because of him. Nothing more, nothing less.
He held back a sigh. Why was God doing this to him? Why couldn’t He let him just live out the rest of his life paying for not being there for his wife when she died? That’s what he wanted. Instead, God had given him—Mallory.
Compared to dealing with her, misery was easy.
Poor Shamus looked absolutely miserable, so Mallory stopped at the sales counter long enough to get some plain coffee for herself and two large sugar cookies with green and red sprinkles, which the clerk bagged along with napkins. The very sight of the decorated cookies made her happy. It didn’t get any better than Christmas—and surviving a bomb blast. She would convince Shamus of that, too.
Carrying her snack to his table, she put it down and gave him her most cheerful smile that made most people light up like a Christmas tree.
Shamus’s bulbs, apparently, were all burned out.
“Merry Christmas!” she said. “Before I forget again, thank you for saving my life.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. His black-velvet eyes were still guarded, but at least his tone wasn’t as frosty as usual. “I take it you’re okay?”
“Fine.” Bruised and sore, but she was alive, so who cared? “How about you? I heard you were limping after the blast.”
“Muscle pull. It worked itself out.”
“You’re a real hero. Carrying me while you were hurt.”
He shrugged. “I was happy to do it, Mallory.”
“I hope you still feel that way after we talk.”
“Yeah, so do I.” He sipped some of his coffee while she slipped out of her jacket and put it on the chair to his right, which she chose so she could have a view of the place. Despite what she’d said to Ginny yesterday about not being afraid, she wasn’t stupid. She planned on being careful, just not paranoid.
She needed to forget all Ginny’s worries about Shamus. He’d saved her life. His little jab about only doing so for selfish reasons had stung for a few minutes, but he had saved her life. That was all that mattered.
Sitting down, she faced him and rubbed the arms of the Victorian red pullover sweater she had knitted herself for warmth, glad she wore it. His silence felt chilly.
She’d just have to be the one to break the ice.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to be here talking to me, Shamus,” she said. “I’m used to it. My probationers are never happy to see me, either.”
“I can’t imagine why not.”
There was a hint of teasing in his voice. Teasing was good. “They’re usually not happy because I get information out of them they don’t want to give.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You’ll be happy to know I’ve changed my mind about going after Tripp myself.”
He remained silent, his expression guarded, as always.
“Aren’t you going to say ‘I’m glad’ or ‘That’s good’ or something?” she asked.
“I’m waiting for your punch line. You’ve changed your mind about going after Tripp yourself, but…” He flexed his wrist outward, expecting her to fill in his verbal blank.
“This is me you’re talking to. There are no ‘buts,’ I promise. Ginny convinced me it would be too dangerous to go after him alone.”
“So she’s going with you?”
“Shamus,” she chided gently. “I’m not going to search for him. But I would like an update from you on what’s going on with my probationer. All Detective Sullivan said when he questioned me Saturday was that Tripp had escaped the blast after dropping a knapsack in the building, and whether it was the one he was wearing when we saw him or a different one is unknown. Are the police any closer to finding him or his daughter yet?”
Shamus started to say something, but shook his head instead. “What makes you think I would know that?”
“What? You don’t?” She twisted her mouth into a smirk. “They do let me supervise lawbreakers, Shamus. I might be cheerful and caring, but I’m not stupid.”
He grinned. Full-out and natural. She sucked in a breath at the sudden pull on her heart.
“So there is cynicism under all that sweetness,” Shamus said.
She shook her head resolutely. “No cynicism in me. I believe in staying positive no matter what. I’m not letting life take away my happiness.”
She didn’t add “like you did,” but she might as well have. His grin disappeared, and his eyes hardened.
“I hope you never have to eat those words, princess. Because I don’t think you realize just how bad life can get.”
“I’m not a princess,” she told him. “I grew up working-class poor with a distant father who started drinking and became emotionally and physically abusive when I was eleven. And—does this sound familiar?—he focused on the bad in life and nothing anyone ever did made him happy to this day, even though he’s stopped drinking.”
Shamus’s eyes narrowed at the sides. Before he had seemed guarded. Now he had that intensity back she’d seen right after the bomb had exploded and she’d opened her eyes while in his arms.
Oh boy, she didn’t need to be thinking about that intensity.
“What changed your father when you were eleven?” he asked.
“You promise not to think less of me if I tell you?”
His lips parted as if he was surprised by the question, but his gaze never changed. “I don’t think there’s anything you could say that would change my opinion of you, Mallory.”