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

  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.

  Chapter Ten

  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 afte
r 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.

  Chapter Eleven

  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.