The 6'1" Grinch (2 page)

“How tall are you?” she surprised him and herself by asking when he turned to hand her the receipt for the work on her car.

“How tall?” he repeated.

She nodded.

“About five foot eleven,” he answered, picking up the ringing wall phone.

Well, that left out Matt. Growing two inches by Christmas day wasn't within the realm of possibility. Neither was, Hollie smiled to herself, getting a tall, dark and handsome beau for Christmas. But it didn't stop a girl from hoping, did it?

On the drive home from the garage, she slipped in Kenny G's holiday tape and felt her stress melt as fast as last night's snowfall while the soothing notes of “Silver Bells” filled the car.

The cellular phone that had been annoyingly quiet rang, breaking into a soaring tenor sax solo.

“Hello,” Hollie said, expectant.

“Where are you? You're supposed to be here already,” Sarah said, her annoyance coming in loud and clear.

“And you're supposed to be the real estate agent I've been calling. What's up, Sarah?”

“Elena's insisting that I stop baking cookies and French-braid her hair like Auntie Hollie's. Did you remember the white chocolate?”

“Yeah, yeah. Tell Elena to find a ribbon for her braid and take a chill pill till I get there.”

“Which will be…?”

“Tonight, definitely tonight.”

“Hollie—”

“Okay, okay. Fifteen minutes. Unless six foot one inch shows, and then don't wait up.”

“What?”

“I'll tell you about it when I get there.”

“Whatever, just get here. No, Elena, you can't feed the dog chocolate chips….”

Elena answered the door when Hollie arrived. At four Elena had a mind of her own, a creative fashion sense and an advanced interest in makeup and hairstyles. At the moment she was dressed in a denim empire dress, hiking boots and her big, soft brown teddy bear backpack. “You're late,” she announced.

“Where are you going?” Hollie asked Elena as Sarah peeked around the kitchen doorway, flour dusted on her nose and her hair in a haphazard ponytail.

“She isn't going anywhere,” Sarah said. “She just refuses to take her teddy bear backpack off. Even sleeps with it.”

“Should stand her in good stead as a Girl Scout—always be prepared, you know.”

“Yeah, right. I'm wrist deep in big boy brownies. You said you remembered the white chocolate….”

“Got it.” Hollie produced it. “And a new muffler—that's why I'm late. I swear every time I build up my fund for plastic surgery, I have to use it on my car.”

“What's 'lastic surgery, Mom?” Elena wanted to know.

“Auntie Hollie wants bigger ‘bumpies,' ” Sarah explained, refusing as she had since she'd adopted Elena to shield her from any information.

“Me, too,” Elena agreed.

Sarah just shook her head. “You know, Hollie, I'm sending her to live with you when she turns thirteen.”

Unrepentant, Hollie replied, “Good, then I'll have a whole new wardrobe to borrow from.”

“I don't know which of you is the bad influence.” Sarah took the white chocolate and nodded for Hollie to follow her to the kitchen. “You can drizzle the melted white chocolate and butter over the brownies when they come out of the oven.”

“What about my French braid?” Elena pleaded, her “licksticked” pink pout evidence she had already been into her mom's makeup.

“I'll just be a sec,” Hollie promised, taking Elena's tugging hand.

“I'm setting a timer,” Sarah called out after them.

Hollie waved her hand over her head. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Do you want to hear the Christmas song I learned at day school?” Elena asked, climbing up on the chintz bench in front of Sarah's makeup table.

Without waiting for an answer, Elena launched into “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,” while Hollie braided her hair in a reverse French braid. By the time Elena had finished her rendition Hollie had tied the pink ribbon in a bow to anchor the braid.

“Now, let's go help your mom with the cookies.”

“Okay,” Elena agreed, scampering ahead of her. “Mom said I could ice the angel cookies.”

Hollie could smell the rich brownies baking in the oven as she watched Sarah expertly roll out an eighth inch-thick circle of dough.

“Hand me the angel cookie cutter, Elena,” Sarah instructed, then showed Elena how to use it.

While Elena was busy pressing the white plastic angel cookie cutter into the soft circle of yellow cookie dough, Hollie began giving Sarah the third degree about her love life. “So, are you getting a diamond for Christmas?”

“If I buy one for myself.”

“What happened?”

“It didn't work out. He was great with Elena, but—”

“But you didn't need a man to get Elena and so you certainly don't need to marry one just for Elena, right?”

“Do you think I'm wrong, Hollie?”

“No. I think if you're happy, Elena's happy. You adopted her because you have a lot of love to give. When you find the guy you can both love, then you won't hesitate. There's no reason to settle. Besides, if I don't like the guy Santa leaves under my tree, I'll send him over to you.”

“What guy? What are you talking about? Did I miss a meeting?” Sarah asked, trying to keep up with the conversation and bake at the same time. Sarah had been running her own catering business from home since she'd adopted Elena. It provided a good living and gave her time to enjoy Elena's years before she started school. She was thinking of expanding her business once the little girl was in grade one. On sleepless nights, Sarah worked on plans for her new venture.

“Well, Ms. Claudia said—promised, actually—that I was going to find a beau under my Christmas tree.”

“And Ms. Claudia is…?”

“She's the psychic who's rented the Victorian gingerbread house I told you about. For a small fee she'll tell you what the near future holds. Maybe you should give her a try. She's something else.” Hollie thought Sarah could use the bit of fun, at the very least.

“I think I'll pass. I already know what the near future holds—parties. I've got a party booked nearly every night from now until New Year's Day.”

“That's what you get for being Martha Stewart's clone.”

“Hey, no mocking my idol,” Sarah warned with a teasing grin as she put cookies in the oven.

“Perky Martha exhausts me. Her so-called simple projects take more skills than I could muster in a lifetime of lessons. Still, I have been thinking of doing one of those gingerbread houses she claims are a piece of cake to make.”

“A gingerbread house! Oh, Auntie Hollie, can I help you?” Elena said, jumping up and down beside Hollie.

“You sure can, sugarpie. I'm on vacation—well, sort of, if I can get rid of Noel.”

“Who's Noel?” Sarah asked.

“A client. I've got to find a house for him and his family by Christmas. Hopefully he'll like the one I show him tomorrow, if I can get hold of the listing agent. He's a cash buyer who could make my Christmas very merry, as in a down payment for a new car.”

“Can I spend the night when we make the gingerbread house, Auntie Hollie?”

“Sure, sugarpie. Your mom can use a break while she gets ready to cater all the parties she has lined up. We'll rent The Little Princess, take bubble baths, do our toenails bright cherry red and eat cookies in bed.”

“Can we go now?” Elena stopped jumping and wrapped her arms around Hollie.

“No, tonight we have to bake the cookies we're going to eat in bed. You're icing the angel cookies, remember,” she said, looking down fondly at Elena, who nodded, her eyes bright with excitement. She stroked Elena's silky hair. Hollie wondered if she'd have a daughter someday. First, though, she would need a husband, since she was nowhere near as brave as Sarah to raise a daughter on her own. Growing up never having been part of a family, she didn't have the heart to deprive her own child of what she herself had been so painfully deprived of. Her longing to create a home and a traditional family life hadn't gone down well with the commitment-phobic men she dated. She was beginning to fear that the family man had gone the way of the dodo and dinosaur.

N
OEL
H
AWKSLEY STARED
at the phone that didn't ring in his hotel room.

Early in the morning he was going back to Premiere Homes and make sure Hollie Winslow got his message. The one the receptionist had apparently forgotten to give her. He wanted a deal closed on the house he'd seen as soon as possible. He'd taken vacation until the first of the year to get the house business settled. No way did he want to spend Christmas in the States. He could sum up his feelings about the holidays in two words—bah, humbug.

He began peeling off his clothes, then hung up his suit in the tiny closet. His designer suits fit him to perfection because they were custom-tailored and because he worked out regularly. While he was stuck here, he would have to find a local gym to join to work off stress and keep his body honed. He would be in great shape when he started his job in the new year.

He wasn't the sort of man who plumbed the depths of his soul. Better not to swim in those murky waters. Instead he focused on his career in business—it gave him an edge as well as an escape.

Talk about escape. Last Christmas he'd narrowly escaped Marcy, his overly possessive ex-fiancée, though it hadn't seemed like a good thing at the time.

Escape.

That was what he wanted to do right now, but he had to find a house first. He picked up the remote on the night table beside the king-size bed and clicked on the television.

At least Hollie Winslow appeared not to like the season any more than he did. That was some consolation, he thought, stretching out naked on the bed.

The last thing he wanted was some perky, happy-holiday lover.

Meanwhile, back at the North Pole…

C
LAUDIA'S NOTE
was irritatingly vague, Santa noted suspiciously. She hadn't said exactly where the spa she'd gone to was. His wife just hadn't been the same since she'd started working out to those videotapes and reading those women's magazines she subscribed to. New Woman, indeed.

Not that he was complaining. He thought Claudia looked awfully sexy in the elf tights she'd taken to wearing with her funky holiday sweaters. His ho-ho-ho's had definitely gotten a lot jollier.

Still, he'd be a lot happier if he knew where this spa was…and just where she'd hidden the Christmas cookies when she'd left.

December 17

N
OEL
H
AWKSLEY PULLED
his black Lexus sedan up in front of Premiere Homes. After his morning cup of coffee he'd decided to pay his visit to Ms. Winslow early before he missed her again.

He groaned as yet another Christmas song came on the radio. He turned off the ignition and the song a lot easier than he could his dislike of the season. Born on Christmas Day, he'd never received a separate birthday present as a kid. That had given him a head start on hating the day. And then he'd gone into retail—scouting out new locations and administratively orchestrating the openings of Bon Marché's national chain of upscale department stores. Everyone in retail eventually grew to dread the month of December. Overworked and stressed to the max, Noel found little joy by the end of the month and escaped every Christmas Eve to St. Bart in the Caribbean. Lots of shapely women in bikinis and white pristine beaches were his reward for not committing murder most jolly.

The one time he'd been inclined to change his mind about the holidays had been a disaster. A year ago, the woman he'd thought he was in love with had sealed his hatred for the season by breaking their engagement on Christmas Eve. He'd never forgiven Marcy for that.

He got out of the car and went inside the real estate office, determined to have his way.

“Noel Hawksley to see Ms. Winslow,” he announced to Sandy, who looked up as she took a call.

“First door on your right,” she mouthed, her hand covering the receiver.

Noel followed her direction, and found a lush brunette sitting at a cluttered desk, muttering as she searched through the pile of papers in front of her for something. “Elena, you little squirrel, if you've taken my telephone book to color in…”

As she continued muttering and searching, he took a moment to glance around her office before announcing his presence.

At the sight of the framed poster on her right, he laughed outright, alerting Hollie. It was a picture of the famous Hearst Castle—San Simeon—and pasted across it was the banner “Sold Fast.”

The woman blushed and tried to cover her embarrassment with a quick, businesslike “Can I help you?”

He offered his hand. “Noel Hawksley. You do remember talking with me?”

“Of course. I was just trying to find your number to call you. I've had trouble reaching the listing agent, but she finally returned my message this morning, and I've set up an appointment. The sellers are out of town for the holidays, but we can get in to see the house any time you like by using the agent's key.”

“I'm ready whenever you are,” he informed her, eyeing the pile of flotsam on her desk, which included a bottle of red nail polish, men's deodorant—she must subscribe to the never-let-them-see-you-sweat school of selling houses—pens, a cellular phone and sundry papers.

She swept the whole pile into her briefcase and flashed him a smile. “I'm ready.”

She led him to her car, and he read the spec sheet on the house as she drove, restraining himself with difficulty from commenting on her propensity for changing lanes frequently. Usually erratic lane switchers drove him up the wall, but today, all things considered, a woman in a hurry was right up his alley. The sooner they found him a house, the happier he'd be.

“Were you thinking of private or public schools?” she asked as she waited at a stoplight.

“I'm out of school,” he answered dryly.

“No, I meant—oh, you don't have children, then.”

“No children.”

“I see. Well, the taxes on this house are midrange. The neighborhood has a good tax base, what with it being close to the Galleria. Your wife will love the shopping there. It's where I'm going to do my Christmas shopping.”

“No wife,” he said, in a deadpan tone.

“Oh. Well, then you'll like the shopping there.”

“No, I won't.”

“Oh, you're like most men and don't like to shop.”

“It's not the shopping I mind. It's the time of year.”

“Don't you like the holidays?” she asked, surprised.

“I loathe them.” That appeared to shock her. It was as if he'd said he didn't believe in Santa Claus. Maybe he shouldn't be so hard on her. She seemed primed to do her holiday shopping—the back seat of her car was filled with rolls of gift wrapping, packages of bows and unwrapped gift boxes in every shape and size.

She would probably be astonished to learn he knew more about shopping than she did. It was his area of expertise. He knew just what configuration of merchandise would make a consumer turn loose her credit card. Knew what music would put her in the mood to spend a lot of cash. Knew what colors would induce her to linger in an area long enough to make a purchase.

And more than all the technology and science, he had something of even greater value to offer—his gut feelings about trends and the desires of the consumer mass. More than anything, that was what garnered him the high salary and the respectful attention of Bon Marché's money men.

But it wasn't money that drove or satisfied him. It was curiosity. He was always restless and easily bored.

“We're here,” Hollie announced as they pulled up to a two-story house with a brick walkway that led to a wide front porch.

“So we are.” He followed her up to the house. She walked slower than she drove, but that could be due to the ankle-length, black wool gabardine skirt with a back zip and kick pleat that she was wearing. Her trim ankles were hobbled in suede boots with two-inch heels. Her short black suede jacket covered the rest of her, hiding the more interesting details of her anatomy.

The house was decorated with only a simple wreath at the door, Noel noted, as Hollie rummaged about in her briefcase to get the key to the front door. Like many businesswomen he knew, Hollie evidently used her briefcase as her purse to avoid having to carry both.

“Elena, I'm going to throttle you,” she muttered.

“Is there a problem?” he asked as she grew more flustered, dropping to one knee for a closer look in her briefcase.

“I can't find the key. I'm sure it's in here somewhere. It has to be in here someplace. I'll have to pay a huge fine to replace it if it isn't. Please be in here,” she begged, finally upending the briefcase in frustration.

“Sold Fast”? He couldn't imagine how. Ms. Winslow was about as professional and organized as a four-year-old.

He tried not to tap his foot as she sifted through the contents of her briefcase. He was certain the key wasn't there. This didn't bode well for seeing the house and making a buy anytime soon.

“It's not here,” she finally announced.

To the surprise of no one.

“Now what?” he asked, truly curious, as he watched her scoop up her stuff and toss it all back into the briefcase, about how she'd handle the situation.

“Ah, I really hate that we made the trip for nothing.”

She shoved her cloud of hair back and thought for a moment, while he waited, using the time to take in her lively green eyes.

“Okay, okay. I know, we can have a look in the windows since we're here.” She walked over to the one on her left. The traditional-style house had tieback curtains, so one could easily see in through the multi-paned glass.

She was actually serious, he realized, when she began describing the interior of the room, trying to sell him on the house from the outside.

“See, the dining room has a fireplace. That's a nice bonus, don't you think? It would be great for business dinners.”

He came to stand beside her and glanced in, then looked down at her. “I don't have business dinners at home. I'm single, so I entertain in restaurants. I understand St. Louis has many fine such establishments.”

“That's true. St. Louis is known for its Italian cuisine in particular.”

Not giving up on her harebrained idea, Hollie moved to the window on her right. “Look, the living room has a fireplace, too.”

She wasn't deterred when he didn't follow her to the window, just went on with her spiel about the room's selling points.

“Look at the big old rafters, and the pine floors are made of real tongue-and-groove boards. The French doors even have transoms.”

“I'm more interested in whether the kitchen has a built-in microwave and whether the family room is large enough to accommodate a big-screen TV and a regulation-size pool table. You know—is the place livable?”

“A pool table,” she repeated, clearly taken aback.

Obviously she didn't think he was the type. His custom-tailored suit didn't suggest a taste for motorcycles and smoky rooms.

He shrugged. “Some people relax with yoga or fly-fishing. I play pool to get mellow.”

“So let's see what's around back,” she proposed. “This house has the typical St. Louis floor plan, with the living room and dining room side by side in the front of the house and the kitchen and family room in back, forming a perfect square box.”

She was plucky; he'd give her that. And so, having nothing better to do, he trailed after her to the back of the house to see what the windows there yielded. If they could see in them.

The large cedar deck that ran across the back of the house afforded them an easy view of the rear rooms. He let her climb the steps to the deck first, enjoying the scenery… and not of the expansive backyard, either.

“Oh, it's plenty spacious for your needs,” she cried out happily upon seeing the open-plan kitchen-family room. “See, there's a built-in microwave in the center island and the kitchen even has white painted cabinets with glass fronts so you won't have to remember where you put the coffee when you wake up grouchy.”

He pretty much knew that was a dig. But peering inside, he had to admit the house met his requirements nicely.

“Okay, this is looking good, but what about the half story above? I'll need some room for a home office, with enough electricity for a fax, computer, copier and such.” He glanced at the windows four feet above their heads, then back down at her. “I suppose I could boost you up so you could stand on my shoulders and tell me….”

Hollie stared down at her long, narrow skirt and boots and then looked up at him again. “Not a chance. You'll just have to use your imagination.”

Her reply got a flashy grin from the grinch. Clearly he was already doing just that—lasciviously.

Hollie knew they had gotten off to a bad start, with him thinking she was some incompetent fluff. But she knew better. And she was the one who would be smiling when she got the commission for selling him a house. Because she would sell it; she was very good at what she did.

As good as he figured he was.

H
OLLIE'S RUSE
of selling Noel the house from the outside hadn't worked. She couldn't believe she'd actually tried such a scheme. Every once in a while her Lucy Ricardo streak surfaced, despite her best efforts to keep it in check. And usually when she was confronted by someone stuffy like her tall broad-shouldered client. Noel Hawksley had perfect manners, and a peculiar effect on her. She was unaccountably nervous and self-conscious—as if they were on a first date instead of a first peek at a house.

She realized that her efforts to get inside were not just professionally motivated. She wanted him to like her. Why? She wasn't even sure she liked him herself. One thing for sure—it appeared no one ever played fast with rules around him. Play wasn't a word she'd bet was in his vocabulary. He was all business and that was just fine with her, she thought, sitting across from him in her office, where they'd returned so she could do a computer search and printout of other similar-style and -size houses in the area for Noel to examine if he didn't like the inside of the house he'd first sighted.

“Did I hear you say ‘rats'?” he asked.

She looked away from the screen. “No room for an office for you in that one.”

She sighed and wished she were at home making pomanders, creating the fragrance of Christmas for her house. Instead she'd let her excitement at the possibility of earning a big commission—and doing a good deed for a family in dire need, or so she assumed wrongly, of a home for Christmas—interfere with her holiday preparations.

Not only had Noel Hawksley turned out to be single, he was a grinch. She just knew he was going to be one of those clients who took a tremendous amount of time to find that elusive something he wanted to make the purchase, despite his claim he had to be moved into a house by Christmas.

“Maybe your blood sugar is dropping and making you testy. Why don't I buy you lunch? Then we can swing by Elena's—whoever she is—house to check on the key and spend the rest of the afternoon looking at houses.”

“Elena is my godchild. Her mother is my best friend, Sarah. But you're right about lunch.” Hollie switched off her computer. She'd only breakfasted on an angel cookie she'd filched last night from Sarah with a conspiratorial wink to Elena.

“Okay, I'll let you buy me lunch, since you insist. But first I need to make a quick call to Sarah to make sure she'll be home.”

As it happened, they went to Sarah's first because Elena had a dance class scheduled.

When Hollie rang the bell, she heard the patter of little tap shoes and a childlike “I'll get it, Mommy.” Hollie quickly prayed that Elena didn't blurt out anything terribly embarrassing. Hollie wasn't at all sure about Sarah's permissive child-rearing practices.

The door eased open and Elena launched herself into Hollie's arms. “Can I spend the night with you, Auntie Hollie? Can I, huh?”

“Uh…”

“Who's he? Is he your new boyfriend?”

“Sorry,” Sarah apologized.

She got to the door just as Hollie felt herself turning red.

“Elena's wound up tighter than a top because of the holidays. She takes after Hollie, I'm afraid. Elena get down. You've got tap shoes on and you'll ruin Hollie's pretty suit.”