Christmas At Timberwoods (3 page)
Read Christmas At Timberwoods Online
Authors: Fern Michaels
“What does that have to do with anything?” Angela shook her head. “Good God, isn’t there someone in this family who’ll listen to me?”
Sylvia remained unmoved, adjusting the position of the diamond watch on her wrist.
“Oh, forget it. Just forget it,” Angela said furiously, grabbing a decorative pillow and throwing it against the wall. The silk split at one seam and a few feathers drifted out onto the powder-blue carpeting. “Admit it, Mother. You’re afraid to hear what I have to tell you because you know that once you hear it you’ll have to do something, and that will take precious time out of your oh-so-organized day!”
Sylvia looked at the feathers on the carpet as if they were going to burn a hole in it. Anger and frustration tensed her features. “I shouldn’t have given you money. For that little stunt, sweetie, you’ll get nothing more for a month.”
Angela spun around. “And they say my generation is all messed up. God, they should throw you under the lights and see what makes you tick!”
“Just take the money and get out of here,” her mother snapped. “Find a roommate or something. And let me know when you get a real job. Freelance design doesn’t count.”
“It’s a start—”
Sylvia shook her head disdainfully. “You can’t live on it. That art degree was a waste. As far as I’m concerned, you owe us for that.”
“Really, Mother? Why?”
“Oh, you can start with the care and feeding of all your deadbeat friends—you brought home every stray and loser in the dorm every chance you got.” She gave her daughter a contemptuous up-and-down look. “When was the last time you had a bath? You look like a stray yourself.”
“Shut up!”
“Why don’t you just leave home? Go ahead,” Sylvia taunted. “Just drive off in that cute little Porsche your father was nuts enough to give you—”
“Stop it!” Angela groped across the table for the five bills to throw them, too, but as her fingertips touched them, she suddenly became distracted. Her gaze was fixed on a bottle of bourbon that was resting too near the edge of a low shelf near Sylvia’s elbow. “Look out!” she shouted, reaching toward her mother.
Sylvia reflexively jumped back from Angela’s outstretched hand, bumping the shelf and sending the bottle crashing onto the bar directly below. The neck of the bottle splintered, spraying a shower of glass and amber liquid over the skirt of her designer suit.
“Oh no! It’s ruined!” she shrieked. Suspicion narrowed her eyes and stretched back her lips. “Did you—? Oh my God. You made that happen, didn’t you?”
Angela shook her head. “No . . . no, I just knew it was going to fall. I tried to push you away.”
Sylvia stared at her daughter, her expression wavering between belief and disbelief. Then she looked down and surveyed the damage. “You knew that bottle was going to fall over . . . you made it happen.”
“You can’t have it both ways, Mother. Either I knew it was going to fall or I made it fall. Which do you think?”
“You did it. You deliberately did it to keep me from being on time for my meeting.”
She waved her hand. “Now I have to change. Get out of my way.” She pushed past Angela, heading for the stairs to her bedroom.
“Are you going to listen to me or not?” Angela demanded, trailing her mother. When she reached the master bedroom she found that Sylvia had closed and locked the door. “Just hear me out. Is that too much to ask?” There was only silence from the other side of the door as she spoke again. “This actually isn’t about me. It’s about Timberwoods Mall. Something bad is going to happen there.”
Inside the walls of her luxurious green-andwhite bedroom, Sylvia was hastily changing into another of her designer suits. In spite of herself, she couldn’t shut out the sound of Angela’s voice. She was going on and on about her vision of some kind of disaster at the shopping mall. A series of shudders traveled the length of her spine. Her daughter’s urgent tone was unrelenting. Sylvia imagined her crouched outside the door, gloating, reveling in upsetting her mother for no reason. Only Angela called them visions. The psychiatrists had assured Sylvia they were nothing but bad dreams, some like scenes out of horror movies, but dreams nonetheless. It had long been decided that Angela obsessed over them in an unhealthy way.
Sylvia’s hands trembled and an expression of anguish spread across her features. Why couldn’t she have a nice, normal daughter? One who was interested in the good things life had to offer. Clothes, travel, boyfriends . . .
She massaged her temples with long manicured fingers. No matter what the shrinks said, she didn’t think it was normal for anyone to have dreams like those Angela called her visions. Somewhere, deep in her soul, she wondered if Angela didn’t actually cause things to happen. Like the bourbon bottle falling . . .
The heartrending sound of a sob filtered through to Sylvia, and long-suppressed instincts of motherhood stirred deep within her. There had been a time when the two of them were the model mother and daughter, going places and doing things together. Sylvia recalled taking Angela shopping for that special party dress. And then, another time, for Angela’s tenth birthday she’d invited eleven little friends, bought a cake and party decorations. She’d even hired a clown to perform magic tricks. She smiled at the memory of all those perfect girls in their frilly dresses, their hair in ribbons. Those had been the good times, Sylvia thought, when her daughter acted like everybody else’s daughter, like little girls should act. Sugar and spice and everything nice.
When had Angela changed? When had she become so . . . belligerent, so . . . strange? Sylvia tried to think of a specific incident, something she could point to and say that was what did it, but nothing came to mind.
And so now here they were, mother and daughter, still living in the same house but worlds apart. Poor Angela, she really needed someone who understood her, someone who had all the time in the world to talk to her and listen to her. Sylvia toyed with the idea of going to her daughter, but she had no idea what to say to her or how to calm her fears. Instead she reached for her purse, swung open the door and rushed past Angela, fleeing the house.
Hearing the purr of the Mercedes in the driveway, Angela knew she had been deserted again. She tore through the rooms of the house. Looking for someone, needing someone. Anyone! Gleaming cherrywood tables winked back at her, mocking her confusion and loneliness. Her narrow face was streaked with tears and flushed with frustration. Her dull brown hair adhered to her damp forehead in frizzy ringlets. She caught her lower lip between her even, white teeth. Fifteen thousand dollars to straighten them, and Sylvia had complained to the orthodontist: “But they still look so—so big!”
Having as little thought for Angela’s presence as Sylvia, the doctor had retorted: “Her teeth are beautiful, Mrs. Steinhart. I’ve done a creditable job if I say so myself. If only her face weren’t so narrow. She’s a little too young for cosmetic surgery, but—”
Angela had raced out of his office, ignoring the expressions on the faces of her mother and the orthodontist. Even now, almost six years later, the incident still stung. She didn’t care what that idiot of a doctor thought; it was the sudden look of interest on Sylvia’s face that had terrified her, as if her mother were considering the possibilities.
Angela’s panic and feelings of loneliness nearly paralyzed her, to the point where she couldn’t even cry. She contemplated her next move. Her father. Maybe Daddy would listen. Somebody had to.
In her bedroom she fished for the white cordless phone buried beneath a mound of undone laundry. She dialed her father’s office from memory and waited. “Daddy. This is Angela. I hope you haven’t left for London yet. Could you come home? I have to talk to you. It’s important. I wouldn’t bother you otherwise.”
“Honey, if it was any other day but today, I could swing it. What is it? Boyfriend trouble? You are taking the pill, aren’t you?”
Inappropriate question, to say the least. But he meant well, unlike her mother. “No, it’s not boyfriend trouble. Daddy, please, could I meet you somewhere? Or come to your office?”
“Broke again? You know money is never a problem,” he interrupted. “There’s five hundred dollars in my top dresser drawer. Take what you need.”
“Daddy, it’s not money. I have to talk to you, I really do. It’s about my visions—I had the worst yet, and I’m scared. Please, I have to see you!” She struggled to control her voice, to stifle the sobs rising in her throat.
“Look, honey, you know I’m catching a midnight flight to London, and I have a thousand things to get done before I leave here. Why don’t you take a nap? I’ll see you in a few days, over the weekend. Be a good girl till I get back and I’ll ship home an antique for one of your displays. Remember how much you loved the curio shops when we went to England together?” The connection was broken and Angela found herself staring at the phone in her hand.
Well, what had she expected? He was indifferent in his own way, and fundamentally just as messed up as her mother. They had cut her off again, just as always, but it still hurt. It always hurt. More angry now than wounded, she rubbed away the tears with the backs of her hands.
She needed someone, but who? Heather Andrews had listened with a polite smile, but no more than that. Angela regretted her impulse to confide in her, a stranger when it came right down to it. Fleetingly she thought of her last psychiatrist, then dismissed the idea. Never. Between that shrink and Sylvia they’d have her committed to an asylum. It was a recurring thought that terrified her. There had to be someone who would listen to her, listen and believe. Someone who would try to understand. Angela knew she couldn’t handle this by herself. No way at all.
She desperately needed someone who would take the weight off her shoulders and maybe, just maybe, give her a reason to be hopeful that things would get better. Wasn’t Christmas supposed to be a season of hope? She answered her own question silently.
Not for her.
Angela stayed up until past midnight, looking out the window at the clear, dark sky, watching the tiny flashing lights of a jet high above, heading east. She had no way of knowing if it was the flight her father was on. Exhausted, she realized that she didn’t much care. Her eyes closed and she fell into a troubled sleep in the chilly room.
Hours later, trapped in a dream, she covered her face with her arm, shielding her eyes. The light was so bright. It came suddenly, without warning. Unlike a sudden flash, it didn’t fade. It stayed, blooming brightly toward the center and radiating outward in streaks of red brilliance. The sound rocked her brain—low, booming, lethal. There was fear. A chest-crushing panic stealing her breath, denying her air.
She knew where she was, yet she was lost. She had been here before and never before. She wanted to run but her feet were heavy, stuck in something thick and gluey, something that would not let her escape.
There was fire. Angry yellow fire bursting through doors and eating through the roof. The fire was inside and she was outside in the cold. Something wet fell on her cheeks. Snow. She saw everything; she saw nothing. People, a huddle of humanity. Mothers with open mouths screaming for their children. Men, taken unawares, stricken with confusion, frozen, helpless. Children staggering beneath the impact of an explosion, their little arms reaching, seeking safety. And over it all a pall of red, denying her a clear view, permitting only impressions. And yet she knew she had walked this place before.
There was more, much more, presented to her in rapid-fire succession. Fire. Explosion. Screams. Cries. Red. Always red. Pain. Loneliness. Anger.
Confused, lost, she concentrated on locating herself. Slowly, creeping through her consciousness, realization penetrated her senses. Crazily, a cheery Christmas carol piped through her ears. Glittery holiday decorations swung in erratic rhythms before crashing down, plummeting from great heights into the maelstrom below.
Squeezing her eyes shut and curling herself into a fetal position, she huddled under the bed covers. She was trapped, and nothing could save her if she stayed here in this dream world.
Sobs tore through her chest and tears erupted behind her tightly closed lids. She must wake up, she must. Otherwise she would be imprisoned forever in her own nightmare. Odd words echoed in her mind.
What you can’t see is sometimes right in front of you.
Over and over, the same words. What did they mean? Who was saying them? The voice wasn’t hers. Her body sat upright in the narrow bed.
The haze of red clouded her vision, seeming to steal into the corners of her room, seeping beneath the windowsill and dissolving into the light of day. Shuddering with fright and shackled with a sense of doom, she opened her eyes and screamed.
Chapter 2
Arriving back at Timberwoods Mall from his supper hour, Charlie Roman lifted his large frame from behind the wheel of his dilapidated ’99 Chevy. The wind caught his sandy hair and whipped it into strings resembling shredded wheat. Squinting against the whirling snowflakes, he surveyed the ominous dark sky and wished for a heavy snowfall. Perhaps the weather would keep the shoppers and their greedy little brats at home. He could use an easy night—he was usually on full-time, with routine responsibilities, but his temporary gig helping out the Timberwoods Santa Claus and keeping the kids in line to see the kindly old white-bearded gent was no cushy job.
Charlie slammed the door of his Chevy twice before the latch held. He pulled the collar of his gray wool jacket closer about his thick neck. People hurried between the mall and the parking lot, but Charlie plodded toward the entrance doors with a slow, careful gait. He wasn’t taking a chance on slipping on the thin film of ice and falling.
Passing through Parking Lot Five, he noticed Heather Andrews heading for her car. She seemed lost in thought, oblivious to the snow. He wanted to smile at her. Ms. Andrews was always friendly to him. Several times, at employee meetings, she had looked his way and said hello. He liked Heather and had toyed with the idea of asking her out. She was one person who seemed to see beyond his shyness to the sincere, sensitive man inside. Charlie had even fantasized that she would accept his invitation with a sweet smile lighting her pretty face. The thought of a date with her had exhilarated him for weeks.
Charlie’s eye caught a familiar figure coming toward him. Felex Lassiter. Nice guy. Preparing himself for Lex’s greeting, he was thinking of something noncommittal to say about the weather when Lex veered off to the left, toward Heather. Charlie took a few more steps and turned around. They were both getting into the car.
Together.
Charlie’s anger rose. He hadn’t known those two were a couple. So much for his fantasy. It was pointless—Heather never would have looked twice at him. He wasn’t worth looking at. What a fool he’d been to hope.
He laughed out loud, a great, roaring laugh. Forgetting to watch his footing, he felt his leather soles slip on the ice and down he went. Red-faced, he quickly glanced around, expecting to see hordes of people standing around, pointing and jeering. Instead there was only a too-thin girl watching him with worried brown eyes.
“You okay?” she asked. “I think I got in your way. I’m sorry.”
“No, you didn’t. I wasn’t watching where I was going! Give me your hand.”
Angela extended her arm, bracing her feet against Charlie’s weight.
Charlie seemed to resent her assistance, hefting himself up most of the way. Immediately the girl began to brush his shoulders. “Quit it,” he said roughly. “A little snow never killed anyone.”
Peering intently into her eyes, he tried to judge whether or not she was putting him on. Nobody cared about him. Ever.
“Really, are you sure you’re all right? I didn’t mean to . . . I’ve got something on my mind. I didn’t even see you.” Angela herself was surprised at her reaction. Considering the mood she was in, she could have knocked down the president of the United States and she wouldn’t have given him a backward glance.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. I’ve got to get back to work.” His tone was harsh, annoyed.
He saw the girl’s eyes focus on his face. “You work here?”
Nosy question. He didn’t soften. “I’m the behind-the-scenes guy for Santa Claus. I make sure he doesn’t run out of candy canes, and I keep the kids off the cotton snow and tell them not to pull his fake beard. Hell of a gig, but the pay’s okay.”
“I thought Santa Claus was supposed to be kind—What am I saying? You’re not him. Oh well, never mind,” Angela snapped back, and turned to leave.
“Hey, wait a minute,” he called after her as she nimbly ran across the ice, dodging cars as she went. “I didn’t mean—”
“Forget it,” she retorted. “I never did believe in Santa Claus anyway.”
Charlie watched her go, a knot of strange emotions choking him. For one instant there, he had thought he’d seen some real concern in the girl’s face. Then he dismissed the ridiculous notion.
Nah. She was just an airhead like all the rest. He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back from his face.
Heather Andrews peered through the windshield as Lex piloted the car through the parking lot. “Did you see that?” she asked. “That was Charlie Roman and Angela Steinhart.”
At the mention of Angela’s name, Lex showed interest. “Where?”
“Oh, she’s gone now. What an unlikely pair, don’t you think? Poor Charlie.”
Lex gave a snort. “It’s that ‘poor Charlie’ attitude of yours that keeps him pining after you like a sick puppy.”
“Oh, Charlie’s okay, I guess. He seems so lonely sometimes. And I suppose he does have a crush on me, but he’s harmless.”
“Christ.” Lex laughed. “If there’s one thing a man never wants to hear anyone say about him, it’s that he’s harmless.”
Heather glanced at the tall blond man beside her. “Don’t worry, Lex. I can’t imagine a woman saying that about you. Now, where’s this place we’re going for dinner?”
“For our second date, someplace special,” he replied.
“Tough to top the first.” She smiled at him.
Charlie Roman woke up and lay for a moment contemplating his day. He might get overtime if he decided to work. On the other hand, he wouldn’t have the actual paycheck till after the start of the New Year. Still, he didn’t want to leave the resident Santa, whose name really was Nick, in the lurch. Funny how the old guy genuinely did like kids—Nick Anastasios had about fifteen grandchildren of his own. So why moonlight as a mall Santa? Charlie would think he’d be sick of small fry. He, Charlie, was personally sick of just about everything. Not that anyone cared.
“Ho, ho, ho,” he muttered to himself as he crawled from his warm bed. He padded into the bathroom and peered at his reflection in the cloudy mirror.
Ugh. He needed a shave. Scratch that. He needed a new face. Charlie turned away and spun the shower knob to hot, yanking it to start the water flow. When he looked back into the mirror, it was covered with steam. He couldn’t see himself anymore and he was glad. Gingerly, he got under the stinging spray and let it pound down on his head, right on the spot where his hair was thinning. Charlie didn’t want to think. The heat of the shower made it impossible anyway. His mind drifted. Reality went down the drain for a few blissful minutes.
Done, clean enough, he stepped out and swabbed steam off the mirror and peered into it. He wondered why his eyes were so bloodshot and his skin so blotchy. He grimaced and flinched. It was getting harder and harder to look at himself. His throat was raw—was he getting sick? He would have to gargle and hope for the best or it would hurt to swallow painkillers from his stash. He brushed his teeth and then gargled three times, slowly and methodically. The medication had better work or he’d have to find another doctor to get more—or buy the pills on the street.
He needed to be numb because he was thinking of settling the score. One way or another, Charlie Roman always got shorted. Looking at Heather hanging all over Felex Lassiter was the last straw. He smiled at the thought of all the mourners that would fill the cemeteries.
Christmas should be outlawed. Everything was too commercialized. Dirty, snot-nosed little kids underfoot everywhere, screaming. He could hear them in his dreams. Gimme this, gimme that, and never a please or thank you.
Still damp, he shivered and toweled himself dry before he dressed quickly, aware of the chill in the room. Then, satisfied with his appearance, he trotted downstairs to make coffee. Perhaps he should go outside. It was more than cold enough to wear his heavy, hooded jacket. He didn’t want anyone to take a close look at him.
The pain inside was never going to leave him now—it had to show on his face.
A new, niggling ache seemed to be settling between his shoulders. He reached into the kitchen cabinet and withdrew the aspirin bottle. He gulped down four of them and sat down to wait for the coffee to perk. What day to choose? Christmas was on a Thursday this year, so he had ten days if he counted today. Not Christmas Eve.
It was too big a decision for so early in the morning. He would decide later that evening. The coffeepot uttered a loud plop then was silent. He poured himself a cup of the fragrant brew and settled back on the wrought-iron chair. It was a pleasant kitchen, he thought, as he gazed around. He would miss it. The Early American decor was out of fashion and shabby, but it made him want to live in a different time, a time when things were done slowly and thoroughly. The copper utensils hanging next to the stove gleamed dully in the light. His eyes focused on the long trailing plant that hung by a grimy window. Plants didn’t have emotions like people, even if his mother used to say that talking to them helped them grow. Plants were nothing but a bunch of leaves that bugs lived in.
He drained his coffee and rinsed the cup in the stained kitchen sink. Turning on the radio for the weather report, he heard the soft strains of “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” and scowled as the song ended. Where were the faithful? Where was the joy? Who was triumphant? His head began to ache as he listened to the jovial announcer: clear skies this morning, clouding up by late afternoon, snow beginning in the early evening.
The hooded jacket wouldn’t be noticed by anyone. Good enough. There was no way anyone could know what he was planning. No way at all. He let his mind wander again. Everyone would be gone in a single second. In a way it was a shame that no one would ever know that he was the one responsible for the destruction. But as long as he knew, that was all that counted.
Would the threatened snow deter shoppers from coming to the mall? Not likely, as long as they had wallets full of money and credit cards. Reassured by his thoughts, Charlie slipped into his jacket and pulled on a warm woolen cap.
While he waited for the old Chevy to warm up, his thoughts wandered to the mall. He had noticed something strange yesterday. There seemed to be more security guards patrolling the mall. They looked more alert than usual and kept checking and rechecking the same areas. One of them had even had the gall to tell him to move on, until Nick Anastasios had vouched for him.
Maybe he should just quit and let it go at that. Revenge, done right, was a lot of work. He could put in for disability. Fade out. A small knot of tension crawled around Charlie’s stomach as he shifted the car into gear. Stopping for a red light, he let his mind drift again. All the guys in the maintenance department would have to work as hard as he did for once. He wouldn’t have to set foot on the loading docks ever again. Did they care that he had a bad back? Six years of honest, loyal work had counted for nothing. When he had protested, he had been told he could take a transfer or a layoff. There had been no choice. His temporary stint as Santa’s freaking helper didn’t count for anything, either. He didn’t need it. He didn’t need anyone.
The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he’d had enough. Of everything. Seeing Heather with Lex had made something snap. Behind that fantasy was . . . nothing.
He had never liked a single one of those wisecracking idiots in the maintenance department constantly ribbing him about this and that. They loved to tease him about his shyness around women. That’s all they cared about—women and sex. Nothing else mattered.
Not friends, not family, not their jobs—nothing. But he was smarter than all of them put together. Hadn’t he proved that, by graduating from refrigeration school? And not from some dumb correspondence course, either, but from an accredited evening course at Woodridge High School. They’d told him he was one of the most promising students.
But then there had been that incident halfway through the course, when the instructor had taken him aside and asked whether he intended to pursue a career in refrigeration and air-conditioning. If he did, the instructor said, Charlie had better do something about the extra weight he was toting about. The job market was tough on overweight men, and job bosses wanted guys slim enough to crawl around the air ducts. Well, he’d done it, hadn’t he? He’d lost almost fifty pounds before the end of the course, and it hadn’t been easy.
Backslide. Big time.
It was wonderful how a pizza or two could ease loneliness. And that wasn’t all. That had been eight years ago, just about the time they were beginning construction on the Timberwoods shopping complex. With a glowing recommendation from his instructor, Charlie had landed a job with the refrigeration crew. Night after night he had studied blueprints, munching down the facts and figures along with homebaked cookies and milk. By the time the duct was being installed on the roof, he had regained twenty pounds.
Charlie’s face flamed red with the remembered humiliation of being stuck in a shaft where they were stringing the main air-vent duct. It had taken a crew of six men forty-five minutes to extricate him. Ten minutes later he had left the site with the foreman’s cruel words and his coworkers’ laughter ringing in his ears.
An anonymous smart aleck had drawn and posted a cartoon of him, which he’d ripped off the board and kept. Not signed, but a few others had added their comments, which were hard evidence of discrimination. He still had it. Dumb shits, what did they know? He had vowed to show them all, to make them sorry.
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