Risking It All for Love (A Christmas in Snow Valley Romance) (7 page)

On
Saturday,
I made six dozen cinnamon rolls. Mixed flour, eggs, sugar, and yeast by hand,
kneaded for exactly twelve minutes, and then, when the dough had risen and was
overflowing the bowl, I rolled them up, pinched the ends, then used a ruler to
measure each one so they’d be exactly the same size.

By the time I was finished I was covered in flour, with dashes of
brown cinnamon under my fingernails. Cream cheese icing sweetened the fly-away
strands of my long hair.

“Those look good enough to eat just as they are,” Dad said,
grabbing a still-rising roll off a cookie sheet and chomping right into the raw
dough laden with brown sugar and cinnamon.

“Dad!” I chided. “Those are for—other people.”

“You mean I pay for the flour and cinnamon and oven electricity
and I can’t even have one?”

“Okay. One.”

“Call it a tax.”

“Some of these are going into the freezer for Christmas morning
next week.”

“That’s probably the only reason I’m not having a second one. Call
me your official taste-tester.”

“So?” I folded my arms, flouring my shirt. “Do you approve?”
“I think they will go down in history as your best cinnamon rolls ever.”

“You always say that.”

“It’s always true, honey.” He kissed my cheek, leaving a sticky
spot. I handed him a glass of milk and he went off happily to peruse the
morning paper and Mom’s Saturday To Do List.

My stomach did a little flip-flop. I wasn’t meeting James Douglas
for an official date. But I was still meeting him. And I realized that I’d made
my sweet rolls with a certain amount of care, knowing he’d be judging them.

But why did I care? Being a “homemaker” was not on my list of
priorities, goals, or aspirations. I only baked to eat my product.

After devouring a second roll myself and downing two glasses of
milk, I was bloated and exhausted. When they were baked and cooled, I swathed the
rolls in plastic and aluminum foil for freezing. Then I spent the afternoon
wrapping a stack of gifts and stowed them under the tree.

I’d finally gone shopping the day before. The last Friday before
Christmas in Billings was a zoo, but I managed to get everything on my list.
Amber and Joanie were going to be thrilled with their baby dolls and cradles. I’d
found a beautiful blouse for Mom, a book on Civil War history and a deep red
tie for dad—yeah, boring—but I was pretty sure he’d like them. A
gift card for CDs and movies for Sam and a family game for Catherine and Alan,
with a side of Catherine’s favorite perfume.

Plain, simple gifts, but I hadn’t been around my family much the
past three years to know their current particular tastes or wants. A funny pang
struck me. I’d missed a lot living in New Orleans.

And now that life seemed very far away.

I’d gotten another email from Zach Howard; Christmas jokes. And
deleted them.

What I did miss was dancing. My dancing was like breathing to me.

I got into warm leggings and a loose shirt and headed to the
basement. This room was better than the gym. It had privacy.

Lovingly, I ran my hand along the length of the barre Dad had
installed for me when I was thirteen.

Going through my warm-up, I did the basic routine every dancer
began with. Dance positions one through five. Pliés, turnouts, arabesques,
spins, holding tight.

Then I moved onto the floor and ran through my pirouettes and
leaps and tour jeté’s.

By the time I was done it was almost five o’clock.

I heard the family creaking around upstairs and pounded up the
carpeted steps.

“There you are, Jessica,” Mom said. She leaned forward. “You’re
flushed.”

“Just finished my workout.”

Mom fluttered her eyelashes. “I suppose a dancer never really gets
a vacation.”

I shook my head. “Headed up to take a shower. Winter Carnival tonight—yay.”
I gave a half-hearted fist pump, playing down the fizzle of anticipation that
was growing stronger each hour. I paused, trying not to be so self-centered. “Um,
how’s the Taylor family?”

“Doing okay. A lot of sadness, but there’s always hope.”

“Hope for what? He’s gone forever.”

“Well, dear daughter,” Mom said, stepping closer to put a finger
under my chin. “At Christmas we think about the hope of the Savior. His life
and the resurrection. The hope that we’ll live again with our families.
That
hope.”

“Yeah, Mom, I know.” Or did I? I’d heard it all my life, but when
Michael was killed I lost the surety of those words. Of all the people I knew,
Michael was the good one, the kind one. The one who shouldn’t have died. My
anger at God had overwhelmed me for so long. But I was finally growing weary of
being angry all the time.

“The baby’s funeral will be on Tuesday, the 23rd.”

I winced, and my throat closed up. The same day Michael’s funeral
had been three years ago.

“So hard to lose a child,” Mom murmured. “A life cut so short.”

I wondered who she was thinking of. Olivia’s grandchild—or Michael’s
parents? Both had lost a child now.

“Mrs. Gibbons? Do you think she could eat some cinnamon rolls with
strep?”
“That’s a great idea, sweetheart. I’m sure she’d love them.”

“I’ll drop off a plate on my way to the carnival.”

I had no idea what made me say that, but Mrs. Gibbons had worked
for my dad my entire life. She was an icon in that dentist office. “Better
hurry now,” I said, not wanting to talk any longer. My mother’s words the
previous night still stung. I’d been playing it cool with her all day. I wasn’t
taking goodies because of her. I was doing it for Mrs. Gibbons, who was
practically like a second grandmother to us kids, and always had a coloring
book stashed under her desk when we showed up after school while Mom was at a
meeting.

After I showered and blow-dried my hair, I slipped into a pair of
new jeans, thick socks, boots, and a new down coat—since the one I’d
brought with me was made for fifty degree weather, not zero.

Hurriedly, I put together three plates of cinnamon rolls. One for
Mrs. Gibbons, one for our neighbors losing their house, and one for James.
James Douglas that is. Pastor-in-training.

My heart thumped harder after each of my deliveries. I pulled into
the parking lot for the carnival and shut off my engine. James had called
before I left the house to say he was going to pick me up, but I’d turned him
down, citing my errands. Besides, it wasn’t a date. I didn’t need him to drive
me.

Hundreds of colorful lights glittered against the dark, winter
sky. Rides spinning, a tilt-a-whirl with screaming passengers, a tall Ferris
wheel rotating slowly, and a colorful carousel with bejeweled horses riding up
and down. I caught a glimpse of Catherine and Alan standing next to Joanie and
Amber who were riding purple and pink horses. The girls clapped their hands and
giggled. I could practically hear them from the inside of my car.

Carrying my plate wrapped in plastic and strands of green curling
ribbon, I headed to the entrance, and sucked in a breath borne of nerves and a
strange, eager anticipation when I spotted James Douglas waiting for me.

He leaned against the fence railing, his legs stuck casually out
in front of him, bare hands in his jeans’ pockets, his face with a two-day
beard under the casual knit cap. Looking all rugged and too handsome for his
own good. His slacks were gone. The overcoat and black hat was not in sight.

I swallowed and strode toward him. “Didn’t think Pastors
were allowed to wear regular people clothes.”

“You’re not paying enough attention, then.”

I blushed and stuck the plate of cinnamon rolls out. “Here. Eat
them and get a stomach ache. I made them with twice the sugar just for you.”

“Ah, that means they’re just as sweet as you.”

Darn him. He never let me get one up on him. Ever.

I made a face—just as he leaned forward—as though he
was going to kiss me. I stepped back, thinking how impertinent he was, when he
took a lock of my hair and frowned. Then his eye trailed down my arm to a small
glob smeared along my wrist.

“I spy a bit of frosting right here.” He stuck a finger in his
mouth. “Hm. Homemade, even. I can tell the difference.”

“So you’re a food connoisseur, huh?”

“When it comes to cinnamon rolls, yes.” I forced myself not to
smile in return. That just made him smile all the broader.

I pulled my hand back when he took the plate and our fingers
brushed. I ignored the rush of electricity. “Probably smeared some when I put
together the plates and touched up the frosting. I was kind of in a hurry.”

“Why?”
I realized
the implication of what I’d just said and hoped my face hadn’t turned a
Christmas red. “I wasn’t hurrying
here
if that’s what you’re thinking. I
had deliveries to make.”

“So under the tough New Orleans façade, you
are
a
Christian. Good to know.”

I growled and gave him a shove off the fence railing.

He flailed for only a moment, and then grabbed one of my hands in
his, standing up and looking down at me. He was rock solid. Steady as an ox. Warm
as a bonfire.

I tried to tug my fingers away, but he didn’t let me. Just tucked my
hand into the crook of his warm elbow and pulled me into the carnival.

I nearly stumbled in surprise, but put on a nonchalant air. As if
I didn’t care that his palm was enclosing my smaller hand in a protective
gesture.

His fingers were warm despite not having gloves on. A tiny blister
on his wide palm, fingers there had clearly seen some hard work recently. “You
don’t have office-type fingers,” I noted.

“I helped install a fence today.”

“So you practice what you preach?” There was more to this guy than
school studies and reading scriptures.

“Hey, let’s ride the Ferris wheel,” he suggested, as if he’d
didn’t want to talk about the service projects he did for others.

“It’s probably cold up there.”

“Are you afraid of cold?”

I shook my head.
No,
I thought.
Just afraid of the body
next to me. So close. Afraid of memories of past carnivals with Michael. Afraid
of new memories, with a new guy.

Before
we
boarded, James ordered two hot chocolates with lids and tiny straws to poke
through the top.

“Rain-check for our cocoa.”

“You paid that up on Monday, remember?”

“Monday was forever ago.”

“You sound like a kid who can’t wait for Christmas morning.”

“I am at that.” He squeezed my fingers as though I was his
Christmas morning.
Don’t do that, James Douglas.
I’m not up for grabs.
I’m taken, I thought.

I jerked as though I’d been hit. What was I thinking? A hard
realization hit me with a velocity that robbed my breath. I still thought of
myself as belonging to Michael Grant. I’d spent three years thinking that very
thing, but now it was starting to feel a little odd.

“You’re not crazy,” James whispered as he leaned close, his lips
brushing against my ear.

“How do you know what I’m thinking—or feeling—or
anything! You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

James Douglas just nodded, his face solemn, his blue eyes
penetrating my mind.

“Stop that,” I ordered.

“Stop what?”

“You know what.”

“Why do I get the feeling we’re talking to each other like we’re
still in high school?”

“Maybe you never grew up,” I retorted.

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “No, but I think you’re still
stuck in your senior year.”

“And you’re an impertinent know-it-all. When does this ride stop?”

“It just started. First rotation just finished.”

Feeling my temper rise, I tried to pull my hand away.

James Douglas didn’t let me. He kept a firm grip, pulling me
close. “I’m not going to let you jump out.”

“I’m not
that
crazy!”

“No, you’re not.”

We didn’t speak for the rest of the ride, but I lifted my head
when we spotted my brother, Sam sitting in one of the carriages just above us.
With a girl. The same girl James had been with on Wednesday at the Polar
Express train event. How strange was that?

Sam and the girl waved at us, laughing, giggling, Sam’s arm around
her shoulders. Was that—Lydia? Sam’s girlfriend?

Breaking our silence as we got off the ride at last, James said,
“She’s my younger sister.”

“Are we talking about the same person? You mean Lydia is your
sister?”

“Yep, she’s a junior.”

James pulled me along just as the line for a sleigh ride opened
up. He flagged down the attendant and in moments we were bundled into the
sleigh, a lap rug covering us. “Hold on, Jessica,” he said, as our driver slapped
the horses’ rumps with the reins.

Just like that, we were gliding across the snow under the silver
full moon.

“I thought these rides had more than one couple in them. Like a
double seat or something,” I said, sitting up straighter.

“Nope. You’re stuck with me.”

I sniffed. “Well. I could always jump out.”

“Not if I tell the driver to go faster.”

The horses’ hooves kicked up swirls of soft, fine snow. A cold
wind whistled past my ears and I wanted to bury my head in James’ warm coat
sleeve, but I braved the cold. Even if my nose was about to break off from frost
bite.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I cried as the driver
spun us around the river’s edge.

James threw me a big grin, all glittering white teeth and swoony
handsomeness. “No, I don’t think he’s sure at all.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked as our silent driver,
hunched over in his own coat and muffler, expertly maneuvered the sleigh
through a thicket of fir trees, and finally slowed down a bit.

“Just innuendoes.”

“You’re good at that,” I observed.
After
cruising down a sloping hill, the horses were taken down to a walk.

The pair of chestnut geldings knew the path and the driver sat
back, the reins loose in his lap. I listened to the slush, slush of the snow
beneath the sleigh. A million stars blanketed the fields, reminding me of tiny
spotlights twinkling on a dark stage. It was spectacular and I felt very small
and vulnerable. Not because of James, but vulnerable to life and pain and loss.
Thinking about how Michael was missing life, all of this wonder and beauty.

“Here’s a non-innuendo,” James said, touching my hand lightly with
his. “A straight-forward question. Let me see your cell phone.”

“Huh?”

“Just give it to me for a sec.”

I dug it out of my pocket and handed it over. Expertly, he went to
my Contacts and input his own name and number. “There. Now I know that if you
ever need me, you can call. Anytime.”

I gave him a small smile, knowing I would never call him. I was
still one of those girls who didn’t call a guy. Except if he was my best
friend, like Michael had been. We’d called each other since we were nine and
just
had
to go frog hunting by the river. Or play old PS2 games.

Finally, I spoke, “I didn’t realize you had family here in Snow
Valley.”

“Remember Pastor John, my uncle.”

“I mean besides him,” I said, catching his eyes in the darkness.
“Your sister.”

“Lydia got here at the start of the school year, and then I
arrived after helping my father settle things at home. Now Lydia is living with
me. I’m renting a little house close to the church.”

“But what about your—” I stopped, realizing that I was
asking way too many personal questions.

“Our parents?”

I nodded, chewing away at my lips.

“Hey, don’t do that,” James said, running a finger gently along my
mouth. “Looks like it hurts.”

I grimaced. “Only hurts later. Bad habit, I guess.”

James moved closer and our thighs touched. The rug was cozy and I
was completely warm all over, but the awareness of his every movement, every
breath was completely unnerving.

“My dad is overseeing an oil rig in North Dakota right now. My
mother—well, she died last summer. That’s why Lydia came to Snow Valley
to be with me. All of a sudden I’m parenting a teenage girl. Thank goodness
your brother Sam is a pretty good kid. I don’t have to worry about them too
much—at least I hope not.”
“He
is
a good kid,” I said softly, thinking how I’d had tiny prickles of envy over his
sister
the other night. I felt foolish and stupid. “I’m sorry about your
mother. What—what happened?” I shook my head and held up one hand. “That
was crass of me. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my
business.”

I watched James fidgeting in the seat. His face had a faraway
expression. “My mom had diabetes and was trying some new medicine. She had an
unexpected reaction and it ended up putting her into a coma. She never came
out, no matter what the doctors tried. After a few days she died. It’s been
rough, especially for Lydia. Even when a girl declares that her mother drives
her crazy, she still needs a mom.”

My chest grew tight. Tears of empathy burned the corners of my
eyes. “I’m so sorry. How awful that must have been. So unexpected, too.”

He reached out to squeeze my hand and turned toward me. “No as
sudden as your Michael. But I know a bit about what you’re feeling. I keep
wishing we’d never tried the new medicine. I even yelled at one of the doctors.
My dad is so strong and amazing, but I’ve done my share of accusations and
blaming all the wrong people. It hurts and it’s unfair. My mom should have
lived another thirty years. Finish raising Lydia, seen her get married, all
that stuff.”

My throat burned listening to him.
I couldn’t help squeezing his hand in return and we looked at each other in
silence for a few moments, knowing the other person’s suffering. The deaths
we’d gone through did hurt. And they were unfair. And for once, it was really,
really nice to know somebody understood me.

“Hey, Jessica,” James said,
suddenly changing the subject. “You’ve made it abundantly clear that this isn’t
an actual date. But I want to take you out on a real date. Like the Christmas
Ball next week. Or the Christmas Eve pageant and program, if you’re into more
spiritual things. Or I’ve got an ever better idea—how about both?”

“Now you’re laughing at me again.”

“I’m never laughing at you.” He brushed one finger against my
face, wiping away the tiny tear that had trickled from my eye.

Horror washed over me knowing that James Douglas was watching me
cry.

“I know what you’re feeling more than you realize.”

I shook my head. “Losing a mother and losing the boy you’re going
to marry are two completely different things. Two different kinds of pain. But
still a lot of pain.”

He nodded quietly. “I know you’ve been grieving for a long
time. Running away from home to escape the pain. And it was terrible. I’m not
diminishing that. But life is for the living. And I’m interested in you,
Jessica, more than you realize.”

“I—I can’t believe you’re saying these things to me. Have
you no compassion?”

“Jessica. Michael is gone. He’s not coming back. Ever. I know that
sounds like harsh words, but you’ve known this for three years. Please take a
leap of faith with me. A tiny leap. Heck, just a baby step.”

“I promised myself to Michael since third grade. I can’t just push
him out of my life.”

“He already is out of your life.”

I squirmed under his perceptive blue eyes. “I’m not ready. And I
don’t care for your ‘insight.’”

His voice was still patiently gentle.
Any other guy would have stomped off already. Part of me
wanted
James
Douglas to stomp off already. Because then I wouldn’t have to deal with him. Or
answer his questions. Or examine my own heart.

“When will you be ready?”

“Maybe never.”

“You are one stubborn woman, Jessica Mason. So you’re going to
mourn Michael for the rest of your life? Berate yourself and your mistakes?
You’re not going to realize that Michael has blame for that night, too?”

“How dare you speak of him like that when he’s dead!”

“And you keep insisting that you were in love with him . . .”

I hesitated for the first time in my life. My pulse pounded in my
throat. I felt raw, exposed.

Of course, I’d been in love with Michael. Ever since grade school.

“We were best friends!” I said, my temper now seething. “We were
engaged!”

James lifted his eyebrows. “Were you? Really? That’s not what I
heard.”

“Have you been talking about me to the rest of the town? Behind my
back? You’ve got nerve, buddy! Let me out of this sleigh right now!”

We were already back at the carnival. Although the trip probably wasn’t
more than a mile around the bend of the river, and the horses had probably
taken the path a million times tonight.

The bright, pulsating lights of the rides hurt my eyes after the
shadows under the moon. I blinked, chewing on my lips like a desperate woman.

I threw back the rug and jumped out, ready to stomp off. Ready to
never speak to James Douglas ever again.

But before I could move, James slipped his hand under my arm and I
whirled, fighting off another bout of tears.

“I’ll let you go, Jessica, if
that’s what you really want. But I want you to know that I haven’t been talking
about you or asking questions behind your back. That day I first saw
you—at the cemetery. You looked so sad, so lost, so fragile, I asked John
who the beautiful girl was. To me, you were brand new to town. You hadn’t been
home in three years. He told me the story of you and Michael. How he watched
you two grow up, best friends, caring for each other, doing everything
together. True friends to the end. He told me that it had broken his heart to
see you suffering so much. And that he’d prayed nonstop for you. Even when you
stopped talking to him. Stopped attending church. Stopped loving yourself and
blamed yourself for everything.”

I couldn’t breathe. My heart felt
as though it had stopped. “I feel so cold,” I whispered. “Sometimes I feel so
dead inside.”

I whirled around, clamping my teeth together, not wanting to say
these things. Not wanting anybody to know the bad person I really was. Least of
all somebody as good as James Douglas. I mean, what kind of guy lets a girl
yell at him, accuse him of trying to run her life, and then sticks around for
more?

“Please let me into your life,
Jessica Mason,” James Douglas whispered now, his breath warm across my face.

“I—I can’t.”

Then I ran.

Again.