The Holiday Visitor. Tara Taylor Quinn
the seasonal decor—beside the bar. “Who brings you to Santa Barbara for the holiday?” Busywork done, she faced him.
Craig choked midsip. “Who?”
“Can I get you some water?”
“No.” Another slight cough. “I’m fine. What did you mean, who?” Even though he was still emitting half coughs, his gaze was piercing. Too piercing.
“Well…” Marybeth led the way over to a conversational grouping of antique sofas in front of the gas fireplace, burning merrily for the occasion. To go with the air-conditioning she’d also just switched on. “It’s Christmas,” she said, sitting farthest from the tree while Brutus reclaimed his spot guarding their quarters. “I can’t imagine you’re here on business. Or for a beach holiday on Christmas Day. I assumed whoever you’re spending the holiday with didn’t have enough beds to accommodate everyone….”
“I’m spending the holiday with myself.”
He was available. Marybeth glanced at the third finger of his left hand. No wedding band.
No rings on those hands period.
“What about your parents?” The question came without her usual forethought and Marybeth wondered if she should escape to her private quarters, lock herself up or something until the craziness that was consuming her passed.
Grace, the woman who came in to help Marybeth clean, had had a cold a week or two ago. Perhaps she’d contracted some latent germ from the woman and the microscopic mite had suddenly decided to spring to life in her groin area.
“I’m sorry,” she added when he hesitated. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” She stood. “I don’t mean to pry. I’ll just leave you to your evening. Remember, if you leave after seven, to take your key with you. The doors lock automatically—”
All information she’d already given him.
“No!” Craig stood, as well, his jeans and sweater a perfect fit on his tall, athletic body. She loved how his hair curled up over his collar. “Please, don’t go,” he was saying while she ogled him. “Unless you have something else to do, that is. I’d…love the company.”
She had to make breakfast. Sometime before six in the morning. And finish gluing together the clay pot snowman ornaments she was making for the refreshment tables at tomorrow night’s Christmas Eve services.
“I mean, I’ve never stayed at one of these before,” he said, sounding not the least bit awkward. “If it’s not proper, or something, for you to visit with your guests, I understand, I just thought…well, it is the holidays and I’m sure you have a million things to do—family that’s waiting for you.”
That was her opening. Or closing, she meant. Her escape.
“No, actually, I generally mingle during happy hour,” she heard herself admit the very thing she’d decided not to mention. “In case anyone has questions about the area, or needs directions or suggestions for dinner. Speaking of which, there’s a binder here filled with all of the places to eat in town.” She grabbed the familiar, well-used book and handed it to him. “I’ve made notes on the ones I think are exceptional. And discarded a couple that I no longer feel comfortable recommending. You’re welcome to take a look. Only a few will be open on Christmas Day, so you might want to choose early. They’re marked. I should make a reservation for you as soon as possible…”
No man should smell so good. It had to be a sin.
“Okay, I’ll take a look,” Craig said when she stopped to catch her breath. And let her brain catch up with her. “I hadn’t really thought about Christmas dinner,” he admitted, opening the black book. “I’ll probably just spend the day on the beach. Or driving along the coast. I’ve always wanted to do that.”
“The trip up State Route One is remarkable.” There. A good answer. “If you’ve never taken it before, you might want to give it a try. It’s slow going in some parts, but follows the coast. You can go all the way to San Francisco without losing sight of the ocean for more than a few minutes.”
“San Francisco. That’s, what, about three hours from here?”
“Three or four, depending on how fast you drive. And on traffic.” No one liked to be rushed, or run out of time. Which would explain why she wanted to stand there with him for…a long time.
He nodded. And she realized that they’d been looking each other straight in the eye for too many seconds. She was going to look away. To take a sip of wine.
“My parents are both gone,” he said, answering her earlier question.
Her heart filled with compassion. Empathy. “I’m so sorry. Recently?”
And as his golden-brown eyes glistened, continuing to speak to her even before he spoke again, Marybeth knew that this man was special. Different.
“My dad’s been gone a long time,” he said with little emotion. And then swallowed. “Mom died this past year. Kidney problems.”
“Do you have brothers and sisters?” Maybe they were all at spouses’ family homes for the holidays. Maybe they’d invited him and he, not wanting to crash the party, had declined. Maybe he had a sibling here, in Santa Barbara….
The thoughts chased themselves around her mind more quickly than she could keep up with them. She just knew she didn’t want him to be alone. Didn’t want him to have to know how alone felt.
“I’m an only child,” he told her and Marybeth peered across the room. Sipped her wine. Studied the lights on the tree, the patterns in light color repetition. There weren’t any patterns.
“Me, too.” The words were soft, only half spoken, really. She was breaking cardinal rule numbers one through ten. Marybeth did not speak about her private life to her guests. Ever. Or drink with them. Or open her heart to them. Or feel attraction…
“You’re an only child?” The question was quiet, respectful. His head was cocked slightly as he watched her.
When her usual yes, without further elaboration, wasn’t enough, Marybeth knew she was in trouble.
“My parents are both dead.”
She was really reacting to this guy.
Was she just vicariously living Wendy’s feelings for Randy? Suffering from transference?
Was it the holidays?
“Recently?”
She couldn’t stop looking at him. “My mom died when I was a kid. An…accident. Dad passed just this year. He had a heart attack on the tennis court.”
“Completely unexpected.”
She nodded. “I…have a friend, who lost a parent this year, too.” Thoughts of James while she was sitting here attracted to another man made the whole situation that much more surreal.
James should be sitting in her living room, making her tongue-tied and uneven. Not this stranger. She and James had history. Things that could never, ever be duplicated. They understood each other on levels most people didn’t even know existed.
She needed him this week. More than ever.
And he’d refused to meet her. Ever.
“Someone here locally?”
He’d promised, from the ripe age of thirteen, that he’d always be there for her. “No,” she said. “He’s in Colorado.” Or at least his mailing address was.
“With family?”
She had no idea how to answer that. The truth—that she didn’t know if James had any family other than the mother who’d just died, didn’t even know if he was married, or living with a woman, or gay for that matter—would be too hard to explain in light of the fact that she’d just called him a friend.
And