Risking It All for Love (A Christmas in Snow Valley Romance) (6 page)

“Sounds like we’ll have a second chance at hot chocolate on Saturday
then,” James said smoothly, covering over my faux pas.

“What are you talking about” I blinked, trying not to show my discomfiture.

“The sleigh rides at the Winter Carnival. I’ve already got
tickets. You can never drink too much hot chocolate in December.”

“You mean you want me to go with you on a sleigh ride, too?”

My brother burst out with a laugh. “You are so dense, Jess.”

“Well, a girl can’t make
assumptions about invitations.”

Good grief, I sounded just like an
uptight school marm now.

James Douglas leaned against his shovel, starting right into my
eyes. “Nope, you can’t. But I’ll try to be very clear. I’ll see you at the town
square tomorrow, Jessica Mason.”

“Right. I’ll be the adored aunt with two little girls in tow.”

I could see Sam holding back a snort as James Douglas flirted with
me.

And . . . I guess I was kind of—sort of—flirting back.

The
next
night I was hurriedly doing the dishes with Mom while Amber and Joanie were
jumping around our feet on the kitchen floor, anxious to go hear
‘Twas the
Night before Christmas
.

“We’re going, we’re going,” I said.

“Hurry and get your coats, Amber and Joanie,” Mom told them.
“Dress warm!” She poured dishwasher soap and started the machine’s cycle, then
turned to me as I was drying my hands.

“My car is first out the driveway,” I said. “I’ll drive if you’d
like.”

“We’d have to move the car seats from Catherine’s van. Let’s just
take hers,” Mom said. “Besides, a little bird told me you’re meeting James
Douglas at the town square.”

I felt indignant. “Who told you that! Oh, wait. Sam, right? Of
course.”

“You can’t keep secrets in this family,” Mom said with a sweet
smile.

“That’s not always a good thing,” I told her drily.

She lowered her voice, almost whispering as she looked furtively
about the entry hall as we grabbed our coats and hats off the rack. “You want
to be available in case he’d like to drive you home afterward.”

I made a noise of aggravation in my throat. “I swear, Mom, you say
lines like an actress from a 1940s movie.”

“Well, those were very good movie years. Not that I was alive,
mind you.”

“Boys, I mean, men—guys—and girls, do not play hard to
get anymore. We’re more open and honest.”

She lifted an eyebrow, letting me know she didn’t believe
that
a bit. “I’ll keep that in mind, but the male and female species are not much
different now than they were through the history of time. I did a paper on that
in college—”

I cut her off. “My mother, the history major. Can we just go
already?”

Within minutes we were passing the church again. I was sitting in
the back seat of Catherine’s van squished next to two car seats. Mom was in the
front passenger seat. Sam had managed to find a ride with a friend and had
disappeared like a ghost behind a camera lens.

I cursed myself for not taking my own car. I’d given up my potential
freedom. Coming with my family meant staying until they wanted to leave.

Dad was one of Santa’s “helpers” tonight. As the town dentist he
volunteered for a lot of charity work, my mother, too. Which kept them busy and
off my back during much of the year except for our weekly phone calls. Tomorrow
was the biggie. The hospital fundraiser. I planned to stay home under an afghan
with a stack of movies and the television remote.

Of course, every time we had to go into town or up or down Main,
we passed the church. Tonight the sign read:
Prayer: Wireless Connection to God with no Roaming Fees.

Mom turned around in her seat, the street lights glowing off her
face. “I was just thinking that the church sign is so apropos, Jessica,” she
murmured. We all need God in our life.”

“How do you know what I need?” I practically snapped. I turned my
head to the window without another word. Thank goodness we were at the town
square and Catherine and Mom focused on finding a parking spot. Finally, we’d
exited from the car and Amber and Joanie took my hands, one on each side. Maybe
they knew I didn’t want to be alone with my mother. Or James Douglas.

Maybe they sensed that I was afraid.

The square was crowded—what was so compelling about a story
and hot chocolate? In the freezing cold, no less?

Despite ordering myself not to scan the clusters of people, I
couldn’t help wondering when or where I’d see Pastor John’s nephew. I shouldn’t
have worried. Instantly, he was there, bearing hot chocolate for the whole
family.

Like a homing pigeon.

I pursed my lips as I looked up into his face. His smile was
mellow tonight.

“I’m surprised you have time for this,” I told him, burning my
lips when I took a gulp of the hot cocoa. “Damn—I mean dang.” Now I
couldn’t feel my tongue.

He raised his eyebrows, and then grinned.

I glared at him, as though daring him to make something of it.

“I already helped the committee set up for the Bake Sale and
Gingerbread House contest. They’re ready for tomorrow. Did you enter
something?”

“Is that a serious question?”

He laughed. “I guess not. You don’t look like the baking type.”

“Actually, I do make a mean chocolate chip cookie. My mom taught
me all her secrets, as you got to sample yesterday—and yeah, they’re
pretty— ”

“Spectacular,” we both said at the same time.

“Please tell me we did not just do that,” I growled.

James Douglas didn’t miss a beat. “We didn’t. You’re safe.”

“Thank God. I mean, thank the Good Lord.” I smiled sweetly.

“You’re on one tonight,” he observed, sipping from his Styrofoam cup
while gazing at my face with his deep blue eyes. “So sweet . . . and so sassy,”
he murmured.

“I heard that,” I said, one hand on my hip.

“I meant for you to hear that.”

I shivered, and knew it wasn’t just from the twenty-three degree
temperature.

Five Facts I Learned about James Douglas That Night.

1.
He was a star wrestler in high school. (And had the shoulders to
prove it.) An injury stopped his rise to stardom as All-Star when he was a senior.

2.
He had a sweet tooth just like me. (Without knowing exactly how it
happened, I suddenly owed him cinnamon rolls with cream cheese frosting on
Saturday for the winter carnival sleigh ride.)

3.
One of the reasons he quit medical school was squeamishness over
the blood—and an answer to prayer.

4.
His father had been in the Air Force and they moved a lot during
his growing up years. He’d even spent a year during middle school outside New
Orleans in Houma. (Suddenly we were comparing Louisiana stories about
alligators in the backyard and
beignets
dripping with powdered sugar,
and jazz bands.)

5.
His mother taught him to play the piano. Like really well.

“I have the concerto version of Chopsticks in my repertoire.”

“That sounds like a parlor trick,” I’d told him. “I’d like to hear
that sometime. During Sunday School. I dare you.”

“Maybe I’ll indulge your curiosity one of these Sabbath mornings.”

I’d shrugged as if I didn’t care. “If I ever go back.”

His face grew serious. “We have a community full of people who
care about you,” he said quietly. “As much as you make fun of them, they love
you and miss you. It’s a family.”

I couldn’t answer that, although I wanted to know why he thought
he was such a smarty-pants and knew anything about me. Instead, I just bit my
lip.

My family had taken off almost as soon as we arrived to get a good
listening spot on the square, and I ended up alone with James. I had a sneaking
suspicion my mother planned that.

So James and I circled the square while we talked, missing Santa’s—I
mean someone who looked an awfully lot like Doc Taggart—rendition of
‘Twas
the Night Before Christmas,
and drinking so much hot chocolate to stay warm
I was about to run screaming for a bathroom by the time the crowd broke up and
headed to their cars.

Amber and Joanie ran up to us,
shouting and laughing while my parents and Catherine ran right behind the girls
to catch up to them. We said our goodbyes and James Douglas tipped his hat as I
left with my nieces clinging to me. I refrained from looking back over my
shoulder.

All the way home in the car, I stared out the window, thinking about
his eyes, his kind voice, and the fact that he hadn’t made a single move on
me—despite the definite attraction going on between us.

I
saw
James Douglas from afar when I got roped into attending the Polar Express with
Catherine and the girls. We passed him on the train ride as he sat next to some
other girl. Someone who looked much too young for him.

A flash of jealousy went through me.

I tossed it off with a jerk of my head, gritting my teeth. Even if
I was having moments of anger, we weren’t dating. We hardly knew each other. I
had no claim on James Douglas. I didn’t want to claim him. We were undeniably
too different.

Why would I entertain the notion of dating a man who wanted to be
a pastor? All that scripture reading and spiritual piousness—after God
had deserted me! And how could a pastor have a relationship with a ballerina
living in New Orleans anyway?

It was ludicrous. It wouldn’t work past five minutes. The idea was
completely delusional.

Except James Douglas was anything but
truly
pious. I’d always
assumed people who wanted to be ministers were born with their nose in the New
Testament, good works their only hobby, and giving sermons because they liked
to hear themselves talk.

Maybe I had the wrong impression.

James Douglas teased me. Laughed at me. Grew up in the surf on the
San Diego beaches. Cruised the French Quarter as a teenager looking for trouble
. . . eerily similar to my Madame LeBlanc séance sessions. An Army brat. Half a
doctor.

And funny. And gentle—but with an edge. Which I liked.
Someone who could take what I dished out constantly—and give it right
back.

With blue eyes I wanted to stare into for hours.

Michael never gave it back. Just took my sarcasm over and over
again. Even when I pushed him mercilessly, he was mild mannered and sweet.
Never saying a bad thing about anybody.

I shuddered, closing my eyes, the memories of that dark and icy
night flashing through me like actual, physical hot pain. The flash of steel
and lights and fire.

My eyes flew open and I sucked in a breath of cold air in an
attempt to make the horrible images go away. Then I found myself staring at the
retreating figure of James Douglas after the Polar Express ride had ended.

“Oh, go ahead and have your train ride chick,” I muttered,
stomping off to get another round of cocoa with Catherine. “See what I care!”

“What did you just say?” Catherine asked, kissing her husband who
had arrived that morning to spend Christmas week with us. Alan gathered
Catherine up and they stood there smooching for a few minutes while Amber and
Joanie begged their daddy to pick them up.

“Daddy, daddy!” they shouted.

I clapped my mouth shut. “Nothing,” I said to no one.

Then I turned away, not wanting to watch them kissing.

Not wanting to think about James Douglas’s lips on mine.

“Maybe I’ll cancel Saturday,” I said again. “Why do I want to
slave in the kitchen making cinnamon rolls anyway?”

“Why are you talking to yourself?” my mother asked.

I whipped around, not realizing she had just walked up.

“Nothing. I mean—I wasn’t.” When in doubt, deny, deny, deny.
That was my motto.

Mom’s eyes penetrated mine. “Everything okay, Jessica?”

“Everything is perfectly fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. I’m going home.
It’s not my idea of a good time to watch Catherine and Alan making out.”

My mother rolled her eyes. “Oh, Jess. Give me a lift to the
hospital, will you? I just learned that Olivia’s daughter gave birth last night—almost
three months early. He didn’t survive. ”

“I’m so sorry, Mom.” Olivia was another one of my mother’s
lifelong friends, and this would have been her first grandchild. They’d known
each other since high school. Just like most of the girls I’d known. They were
still living here, or close by. How could anyone stay in this small, stuffy town
for their entire lives?

My mother took out a tissue, sniffing while her eyes welled up
with tears. “I hate to intrude on their grief, but I have to do something. At
least go by and tell them we’re praying for them.”

Silently, we got into my car. Tonight I’d had the presence of mind
to take my own wheels. Plus, we hadn’t all fit in Catherine’s van with Alan now
in town.

“Oh, what a Christmas,” my mother sighed as she settled back
against the seat.

“What do you mean?”
“Oh, your
dad’s office manager, Mrs. Gibbons, is sick with a bad case of strep throat.
I’ll be over there next week helping him out. Thank goodness it’s a short week
due to the holidays. Can’t believe Christmas Eve is less than a week away. Would
you mind finishing up the gift wrapping and doing some baking?”

“Sure. I’ll make cinnamon rolls Saturday morning. I promised
someone a dozen anyway. Well, maybe a half dozen,” I added with a smidgen of
glee. “I’ll freeze some for Christmas morning breakfast.”

“Good idea.”

There were several long moments of silence. For once, my mother
was quiet, not chattering away.

“What else is going on?” I asked her as I turned into the driveway
of Snow Valley Community Hospital and pulled up to the drop-off curb where the
wide glass doors showed the interior of the waiting room, the bank of elevators
just beyond the couches.

“One of the neighbors is getting foreclosed. Your dad and I are
collecting donations to help their kids have Christmas.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of bad news all in one night.”

“It is.” My mother turned to look at me, her hand on the door
handle. “Not everything is perfect and cheerful in Snow Valley, Jessica. You
accuse us of that all the time, but you aren’t the only one sad or grieving.”

Her words were like a slap in the face. “That’s cruel!”

“Is it? You’re either moping around the house, in your room
ignoring everyone, or acting like you have the entire world’s suffering on your
own poor shoulders.”

“Ouch, Mom. What is this, tough love?” I couldn’t hide the
resentment in my voice.
“Maybe it is.
I hate to see you hurting yourself.”

“Who says I am?”

“It’s so obvious, and you can’t see it, honey. Because you’re too
wrapped up in feeling sorry for yourself. And too bent on pushing everyone
away. Too eager to live on a pedestal of pity.”

I was speechless for a moment. “That’s not true—” I started,
eager to deny her accusations and prove her wrong. But my mother had already
exited the vehicle and shut the car door on me.

As I watched her walk through the glass doors, my whole being simmered
with offense. Reaching over, I opened her door and slammed it shut again.
There. How dare she say those things to me and then gently close her car door
and walk away like she was Mother Theresa?

When I got home I couldn’t get out of my cold jeans and boots fast
enough. I threw my coat across the room, then peeled off my mittens and hat and
watched them knock over a perfume bottle on my bureau. Down below, I heard
Catherine’s family come in the front door, chattering and laughing and
giggling.

I stuffed my legs into my flannel pajamas then crawled into bed,
turning up the thermostat on my heated blanket. Wrapping my pillow around my
head, I cried real tears for the first time in a year. Not burning tears I
blinked away. Or sniffing back emotion. Or hiding a drop when one accidentally
slipped out. But buckets of hot tears that hurt my throat and made me feel a
little bit sick.