Merry Humbug Christmas (5 page)

went to entertain.

If not for the forced Christmas theme in every direction, she

thought the room might actually have been quite beautiful. Large

ceramic urns stood on short columns throughout the dining hall,

lighting fixtures reaching out of them and extending all the way to the ceiling where rounded sections fanned out into white screens

covered by metallic scrollwork patterns of ivy. The border around the sage green carpet paralleled the leaf design, and the camel-colored walls hosted a barely there green floral imprint.

“Oh, honey, wait just a doggone minute,” Connie cried. “You

have to meet the Auberjonoises.”

“I’m sorry. The whats?”

Connie dragged her by the arm toward three oddly similar

humans—a male, a female, and a teenager—all of them dressed in

black trousers and black turtlenecks with rhinestone wreath pins at the throat, and all three wearing wire-rimmed glasses. They each had varied shades of brown hair, the teen set apart by the crooked black beret atop hers.

“The Auberjonoises,” she repeated. “Adrienne and Jean-Pierre,

and their daughter Amberly. They’re French.”

Three deadpan faces met her as Connie pushed her forward.

“Hi,” she managed.

“This . . . is . . . Jocelyn,” Connie announced to them as if they were hard of hearing.

“Joss.”

“Right. Joss.” Turning to Joss, Connie added, “They were booked

on that same cruise you were booked on, honey. And now here we

all are!”

Amberly muttered something in French, and the mother nodded

tentatively.

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Merry

Humbug Christmas

“I was trying to avoid all this Christmas stuff too,” Joss told them with a stale, forced smile. Nodding toward Connie, she softly added,

“Don’t hold her against me, okay? We only just met.”

“I’m guessing these are going to be your three new best friends,”

Connie drawled. “So we’ll see you Auberjonoises later, alrightie?”

Joss tossed them a wave over her shoulder, wondering about the

actual pronunciation of their last name as Connie tugged her along.

They seemed to have reached their destination when she jingled to a stop in front of Joss and greeted the six other people at their table.

She did so with such familiarity that it wasn’t until she introduced herself and Joss that it became apparent she hadn’t already met each and every one of them.

Frank and Doris Henderson, an elderly couple wearing match-

ing sweaters bearing several versions of Santa heads on the front and down one sleeve, were seated next to the other married couple in

their late forties. The husband wore an equally hideous Christmas sweater put together like a patchwork quilt, each of the squares displaying an image from “The Twelve Days of Christmas” song.

“Doug and Caroline Denture,” he said with a nod, and he stood

up and extended a friendly—albeit clammy—handshake. “From

Scottsdale.”

The Dentures?
Joss repeated in her head, biting her lip so she wouldn’t laugh out loud.
I know a great attorney who can get you a name
change for a reasonable price.

The elderly woman with the kind eyes beside them introduced

herself as Lilibeth Oakes, Caroline’s mother.

Caroline Oakes married to become Caroline Denture? That’s just sad on
so many levels.

Lilibeth dressed like a normal human being, as did the woman

next to her who turned out to be Lilibeth’s best friend. Kathleen Brenneman had a warm yet aristocratic air about her. Despite her

age, which Joss estimated around seventy, she had emerald eyes that sparkled. Her silver-white hair reached neatly back from her face into a pristine bun, and she wore a tailored green dress that con-trasted her fair skin. When she smiled at Joss, her eyes reflected a Merry Humbug Christmas.indd 32

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sort of joy that made her whole face shine. Joss immediately gravitated to the chair next to her, and she sat down.

“Are you from Scottsdale too?” she asked as she sat down.

“Yes, we’re—”

“Oh, that seat is saved,” Lilibeth announced, but Kathleen pressed her hand atop Joss’s and shook her head.

“Don’t be silly,” she declared in a soft Irish brogue. “My son will be perfectly happy to sit anywhere at our table.”

Joss’s heart began to pound. It was almost too much to hope for.

But with that beautiful Irish brogue of hers and the mention of her son—

“Good evening, Mother. I’m sorry I’m late.”

It’s him!

Kathleen’s son turned out to be the gorgeous Irishman Joss had

met on the dock that afternoon. But one thing was horribly different, and Joss leaned back to take it in.

The breathtaking man with the dark hazel eyes and dimple at the

center of his chin wore . . . a dark crimson crew-neck sweater, every inch of it displaying a colorful, nubby manger scene, complete with fluffy sheep and glitter stars in the red night sky.

He leaned down to kiss his mother’s cheek and, upon spotting

Joss, he took her hand and kissed it lightly. “We meet again.”

“Small world.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“The two of you have met?” Kathleen asked her son.

“Not officially, no. I’m afraid I mowed her over in my attempt

to board the ship today.” He rounded Joss’s chair and sat down in the empty one on the other side of her, then he took her hand again.

“Patrick Brenneman.”

“Joss Snow.”

“And this is my sweater,” he offered without missing a beat. “You may call him Beelzebub.”

Joss popped with laughter and returned his handshake demurely.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” Willing her heartbeat to slow down to a safe rhythm, Joss finally peeled her eyes from his and nodded toward Connie. “This is my new acquaintance, Connie Rudolph.”

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Merry

Humbug Christmas

Patrick stood up, and Connie moved right into his personal

space and grabbed his hand like a ripe melon she had every intention of devouring. “Pleased, I’m sure. Is that an English accent you’ve got there?”

Patrick eased his hand out of her grasp and clutched his heart.

“Never label an Irishman by any other stamp,” he said poetically, narrowing his greenish eyes at Connie with a sly grin, “lest you one day find yourself in need of a dancing partner when there are only Englishmen in the room.”

“I don’t know what you said exactly,” Connie admitted. “But I’m

pretty sure you’ve just promised me a dance.”

Patrick kissed her hand and held out her chair before taking the

one next to Joss again.

“I see you made it safely aboard,” he commented, and Joss smiled.

“I did indeed.”

What was it, she wondered, about an Irish brogue that made a

person want to respond with words like
indeed
?

The waiter appeared and began filling each of the crystal glasses with sparkling cider. “My name is Victor,” he told them in a thick Russian accent. “I’ll be your
vater
this week. Anything you need, I
vill
be at your service.”

“Pleased to meet you,
Vik-ter
,” Connie said, and the others echoed their greetings.

“Patrick,” Kathleen suggested. “Why don’t you make a little toast for our guests before we break bread together.”

“Happy to, Mother.”

When everyone raised their glasses, Patrick turned toward Joss

and met her gaze for a moment.

He has his mother’s eyes.

“On behalf of my mother and myself, I bid a very Merry

Christmas to all of you,” he said, and the former Merry Christmas Snow held back a snicker. “As in the old Irish blessing, may God give you, for every storm, a rainbow; for every tear, a smile. For every care, a promise; a blessing for every trial. For every problem life Merry Humbug Christmas.indd 34

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sends, a faithful friend to share; for every sigh, a sweet song, and an answer for every prayer.”

Once again Patrick turned toward her, and this time he winked.

Joss was glad she hadn’t been standing when her knees grew weak

like that. It could have been humiliating when she dropped like an anvil over the side of the ship at the mere wink of a green-eyed guy wearing a Jesus-in-the-manger sweater.

“Joss Snow?”

Joss reeled to find herself face-to-face with—

“Marla? Marla Jenkins!” she exclaimed, hopping up from her

chair. “What on earth?”

“Rodney,” Marla called, wiggling her index finger at her husband

until he followed it toward her. “This is Joss Snow, the young lady I told you about.”

“Images Public Relations,” he said, shaking her hand. “I thought

our meeting was in L.A. in two weeks, Ms. Snow.”

“It . . . it is! What are you all doing here?”

“What else?” Marla crackled. “Just like you! Celebrating

Christmas!”

Oh. Well, I’m not actually . . .

Rodney Jenkins, CEO of Vandermere Hotels & Spas. This was

the target client Images Public Relations had been chasing for the last couple of years. After meeting Marla Jenkins at the annual Women in Business conference in the valley, Joss had wrangled an opportunity to pitch for her husband’s account.

But not here,
she thought.
Not on the Camp Happy cruise!

“We like to go somewhere exciting every Christmas, and this

sounded like a lot of fun, don’t you think so? Is this your husband?”

“Oh,” she replied, her eyes darting to Patrick and then back to

Marla. “N-no, no. No, he’s not. Not my husband.”

Patrick extended his hand and gave Marla a warm smile. “Patrick

Brenneman. Not the husband.”

Joss’s heart pounded so hard that it rocked her chest as Rodney

shook Patrick’s hand and offered an introduction. “Rodney and Marla Jenkins.”

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Merry

Humbug Christmas

“Where are you seated?” Marla asked Joss.

“Right here. Over here. Where are you?”

“Oh, they’ve set our group up there.”

Joss followed Marla’s gesture toward a table fringed all the way

around with an array of noisy children wearing combinations of colors that hurt the eyes. “It looks like you’ve been dropped into
The
Sound of Music
,” she said on a chuckle.

“That’s my world,” Marla replied with a grin and a shrug. “Just

call me Marla von Trapp.”

“They’re . . . all . . . yours?”

“Yep! All seven of them.”

Joss’s eyes grew large and round as she surveyed the many mem-

bers of the Jenkins family flanking the banquet table, each of them wearing sweaters bearing holly wreaths, Santas, and gingerbread

men.

“From six to sixteen,” Marla declared.

“You’ve got a hockey team there,” Patrick teased Rodney.

He nodded as he laughed. “This group makes hockey seem tame.”

“I’m so happy you’re here,” Marla told Joss, and she poked

Joss’s rib with her elbow. “I mean, what’s more fun than celebrating Christmas, huh?”

Oh, I don’t know. Falling overboard?

VICTOR FILLED JOSS’S COFFEE cup again while a server who

didn’t look like she was more than seventeen slid giant slices of chocolate something in front of everyone at the table.

“What is that?” Joss asked, leaning toward Patrick. When he

didn’t answer instantaneously, she reached up and touched the girl’s sleeve. “Excuse me. What is this? I thought there was going to be cheesecake.”

“It is chocolate cheesecake,” she replied with a thick unidentifiable accent.

“Oh.” She tapped it with her fork and inspected it more closely.

“Okay.”

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“Cheesecake snob, are we?” Patrick asked, and she snickered

without looking up at him.

“I was expecting praline cheesecake, but this will have to do.”

She poked the dessert with her fork and scooped up a large bite,

which she set ceremoniously upon her tongue. When the slight hints of mocha and the velvety cream cheese settled in, Joss’s deep and long sigh turned a bit toward a groan in the end.

“Well, that sold me,” he remarked, and he took a bite of the des-

sert from his own plate.

He nodded at Joss, shrugged, and then nodded again. “Yeah. I

see it.”

“No, no, my friend,” she corrected as she sliced off another chunk with her fork. “This is not something to be weighed and considered and then met with ambivalence. Cheesecake is very serious business.”

“Is it now?”

“It is.”

An announcement through the sound system drew everyone’s

attention to the front of the dining room. An odd little man stood center stage with a microphone in his hand and a set of antlers on his head.

“It’s time,” he declared. “It’s what you’ve all been waiting for! It’s the Christmas sweater competition!”

Thunderous applause rolled until Joss felt the reverberation

against her ribs.

“Our judges have walked the room several times over, and

they’ve narrowed it down to six lucky finalists.”

As the table numbers were called, Patrick leaned toward Joss

and asked, “Are you a praying woman, Miss Snow?”

“Now and then.”

“Join me in prayer, won’t you?”

He had a spicy scent about him, subtle and manly. Joss’s pulse

raced as he pressed his shoulder against hers.

“You have your heart set on winning?” she asked him.

“No!” he objected with a raised hand, and he glared hard into her eyes. “It’s important to keep up here. We’re praying that I don’t win.”