Silhouette Christmas Stories Page 22

"No arguments! We'll just have to wait until tonight to open it." She was already unlocking the door. "Come on, I'll help you push it inside."

  The box was both heavy and bulky; it took both of them to get it through the door and into the apartment. Karen wondered, as she locked up for the second time, how on earth anyone had managed to carry it up the stairs and deposit it at the door without making any noise. And who would send her son a package? It had to be someone local, someone she knew, since there was no address or postage. Who? She knew so few people in town…

  "Oh boy!" Andrew was hopping with excitement. "I wonder what it is! Who do you think it's from, huh, Mom?"

  "We'll both find out," Karen said firmly, taking him by the hand and starting down the stairs. "Tonight." There would be a card inside, she told herself, determinedly squelching her own curiosity. All would be explained soon enough.

  "Maybe it's from Santa!" Andrew was tugging at her hand like an exuberant puppy. "I bet that's why there's no stamps."

  "It's a little early for Santa Claus, isn't it?" Karen said mildly, wondering whether an eight-year-old boy who still believed in Santa might be cause for parental concern.

  Andrew paused, looking inspired. "Well… " Karen sighed inwardly and braced herself; she knew that tone of voice. "… Everybody else starts Christmas this early, so why shouldn't Santa?"

  There was more to the argument, of course, a great deal more, but Karen didn't even try to refute it; her mind was already tuning him out returning to her own more pressing problems and questions.

  At the foot of the stairs she hesitated, looking toward the closed door at the end of the hall, wondering of Mrs. Goldrich knew anything about the package Perhaps she had even seen who had delivered it.

  But she decided against disturbing her landlady at that hour. They were late already, and besides, she told herself, there would certainly be a card inside the box.

  As they were going down the front steps they met Mi Clausen, the elderly gentleman who lived upstairs in the attic of the small, wood frame Victorian, coming back from his morning walk. The cold air had reddened his cheeks and the tip of his nose, and his vapored breath wafted about his head like smoke. A breeze parted his long white beard and lifted a few stray wisps of his hair from his rosy scalp as he swept off his Tyrolean hat in response to their greeting.

  "And a good morning to you, Mrs. Todd, young Andrew!" the old man's voice boomed out, as mellow and rich as church bells on a winter morning. His eyes twinkled, as if they beheld delicious secrets. "A beautiful morning! Snow in the air!" He drew a deep breath, expanding his considerable girth as he clapped both hands to his chest. "Yes indeed, snow before the week is out." A large gloved hand intercepted Andrew. "What do you think of that, young man? Do you like snow?"

  "Yeah," said Andrew enthusiastically.

  The old man laughed and winked sympathetically at Karen, then, with a wave of his cane, proceeded on up the walk.

  "I'll bet he sent it," Andrew said in a hoarse whisper as he scrambled across the front seat of the car.

  "Why do you think that?" Karen asked, laughing a little, forgetting to scold him for the dusty footprints he was leaving on the driver's seat. Encounters with Mr. Clausen had a strangely revitalizing effect on her, like a brisk breeze.

  "I told you," Andrew said, still whispering even though Mr. Clausen had disappeared inside the house and they were now safely enclosed in the car. "I think he's-"

  "Andrew!" The car responded to her first attempt to start it in predictable fashion: a cough and then nothing. "That's ridiculous."

  "Mom, he looks just like him, and he's even got the same name."

  "Andrew… " Karen shook her head and pumped the gas pedal several times before trying the ignition key again.

  "Well, he does," Andrew said stubbornly in the ensuing silence.

  Karen set her lips firmly and sent up a prayer. This time the engine coughed and sputtered grudgingly to life. She nursed it carefully until it had settled down to a surly growl; then, with a sigh of relief, she backed out of the driveway.

  A glance at her son caused her to sigh again, this time with exasperation. What in the world was she going to do about him? He really was too old for these fantasies. Believing in Santa Claus was one thing, but… Mr. Clausen?

  Andrew spent entirely too much time reading, she told herself. That was the problem. Reading and watching television. He needed to get outside more. He should be spending more time with other children, playing ball, climbing trees. Karen had originally decided to rent the apartment in the little Victorian because it had such a nice big backyard, with grass to run on and trees to climb. She'd thought it would be a good place for Andrew to play. Now she almost wished she'd taken a place in a crowded, noisy apartment building, one teeming with children, children Andrew's age who could teach him how to roughhouse and get his clothes dirty. Her son really needed to be around boys more, she knew that. He needed someone to teach him the things she couldn't, like how to throw a football, and slide into second base. He needed-

  But Karen knew very well what Andrew needed. And she shied away from that truth now just as she had for the last five years, ever since a helicopter crash during a routine training operation had killed her husband and robbed her son of his father.

  It had been easy, at first; no one expected her to think about it. It was too soon. It takes time, everyone said; just give it some time. But then Andrew had started school, and the questions had begun. All the other kids had dads, why didn't he? Where was his daddy? What had happened to him, and when was he coming back? Karen had answered the questions as simply and truthfully as she knew how, but Andrew was an uncommonly observant and intelligent child, and it hadn't taken him long to find a loophole. Some kids, he pointed out to his mother, had more than one dad. Since his own was gone and not going to come back, and since there seemed to be extras around, couldn't she simply find him another one?

  Eventually, though, the questions had stopped. Andrew, being both observant and intelligent, saw that his questions made his mother unhappy, and although for a while he still made subtle references to the subject in his bedtime prayers and birthday candle wishes, he finally stopped asking. But Karen knew. And sometimes when she looked at her son-a certain way he had of smiling, the tilt of his head, the wistful softness of his jaw and chin-her emotions swamped her, and she had to pretend that it was just her hay fever acting up again.

  Emotions-such a painful, confusing stew of them! Anger and guilt, fear and longing, all mixed up together. It wasn't, Karen told herself time and time again, that she expected never to marry again. But such things couldn't be forced; they had to just happen, the way miracles do. The way it had happened for her and Bob. They had truly had something special, the two of them. And then, of course, the three of them. The chances of that kind of miracle happening again for her seemed remote… impossible.

  Every day Karen told herself that she was doing the right thing, insisting on the miracle rather than settling for something less just for the sake of providing her son with a father. But every day she faced the anguish of a mother's guilt, knowing that the one thing her child needed most, she couldn't give him.

  "What do you think is in the box?" Andrew asked as the car pulled up in front of the school building with its usual clatter and bang.

  Karen leaned over to kiss him. "I don't know. You can have fun thinking about it today. We'll find out tonight, won't we?"

  "Maybe," said Andrew casually, grunting a little as he hopped from the car to the sidewalk, "it's what I wished for."

  "Oh?" Karen probed with tender amusement, hoping for a Christmas hint. "And what's that?"

  "It's a secret," he said, turning to look at her over the hump of his backpack. Then he went on up the walk to the school, smiling his secret smile.

  Tony heard the car coming from two blocks down the street. Even flat on his back on a dolly looking at the underside of Mrs. Kazanian's Lincoln, he knew who it was. Inner disturbances caused by t
he sound of that particular engine made him give the wrench he was wielding an unnecessarily vigorous turn.

  "Ouch!" He resisted the natural impulse to stick the injured knuckle into his mouth and swore inventively instead. "Damn bucket of bolts."

  Although it would have been difficult for a stranger to tell the difference, and though Tony certainly wasn't about to admit it, his tone was more affectionate than bitter. He had always been a sucker for old junkers and strays. He wasn't sure whether that was because he liked to feel needed, as a girl he'd once dated-a psych major at Fresno State-had suggested, or whether he just liked a challenge. One thing was sure-keeping that old Plymouth of Mrs. Todd's running did present a challenge.

  So, for that matter, did Mrs. Todd.

  Mrs. Todd. Tony grimaced as the unholy racket died in midcough, a car door slammed, and the lady's voice called with a note of uncertainty, "Hello? Mr. D'Angelo? Is anyone here?"

  Mr. D'Angelo. "Yeah!" Tony grunted. "Be right with you."

  She was a challenge, all right. In the three months since she'd pulled into town with a broken thermostat and a radiator about ready to blow, he hadn't been able to figure out a way to get beyond that "Mrs. Todd" and "Mr. D'Angelo" nonsense. And he wanted to; he'd known that much from the first moment. He wanted to get to Karen and Tony, and maybe beyond that all the way to the things people called each other in the velvet darkness that had no meaning to anyone but themselves.

  He had to admit it was partly her looks, at least at first. Not that she was so spectacular, or that he hadn't known prettier women, but sun-streaked, long-legged blondes just weren't as common in this part of the state as they were where she was from. Apart from that, though, there'd been something about her even then that had intrigued him, challenged him. A certain aloofness-not arrogance; her voice had been polite and her manner genuine, her eyes direct and respectful, and worried-which was natural enough, given the circumstances. Even in shabby, crumpled clothes, tired, sweaty, with wisps of hair sticking to the dampness on her neck and temples, she'd had a natural, unconscious elegance. Blond, aloof, elegant-the classic ice-princess. And yet Tony was certain there was nothing cold about her. There had been warmth in her eyes when she looked at that little boy of hers, and tenderness in her hands when she touched him. He'd seen both vulnerability and courage in the way her lips first trembled, then tightened, when he told her what it was going to cost to fix her car. No, he knew she wasn't cold. The emotions were there, just held in reserve.

  Reserved. That sure was the word for Mrs. Todd. Tony understood that; he was reserved himself. He never would have said shy. And that was really the problem-he was used to being someone else's challenge, to having other people banging on his doors, trying to knock down the walls of his reserve. He'd never had to be the one to reach out before, and he wasn't sure how to go about it. How the hell did a reserved man make contact with a woman who was even more reserved than he was?

  He already knew quite a bit about her, of course; it was a small town, and not too many out-of-towners came to take up permanent residence. For instance, he knew she'd come from someplace in L.A., that she'd rented an apartment in one of those Victorians over on Sierra Street, that she was single-whether divorced or widowed he wasn't certain, but for some reason he couldn't put his finger on, he would bet on the latter- and that she had a nice little kid. A bit too polite and quiet, maybe. Too reserved, like his mother.

  Tony listened to the tap, tap, tap of Karen Todd's shoes coming toward him across the concrete floor of the shop. High-heeled shoes-black pumps, he saw, as they came to a stop beside the Lincoln, a few feet from his head. Nice slender ankles, encased in nylons… sweetly curving calves disappearing under the hem of a brown wool coat…

  He wondered if she would still wear those high-heeled shoes when there was a foot of snow on the ground and a windchill factor of twelve below. She worked right around the corner, he knew, at Frank James Insur-ance, which had made him wonder at first, given old Frank's penchant for fooling around. By this time, though, Tony figured that if old Frank had entertained any ideas along those lines when he hired Karen Todd, he'd been in for a big disappointment.

  Taking his time about it, Tony tightened down the last of the bolts and wheeled himself out from under the Lincoln. "Yeah," he grunted as he got to his feet, "what can I do for you?" He gave the woman in the brown coat only the briefest of glances before he turned away, looking for a clean rag on which to wipe his hands-and staunch the flow of blood from his wounded knuckle.

  She followed him, stepping gingerly between the front end of the Lincoln and a pile of new tires. She had her hands in her coat pockets and her shoulders hunched up as if she were cold-or nervous. Must be cold, Tony thought; he couldn't imagine why she would be nervous. She'd definitely have to get herself some warmer clothes if she was going to survive a winter here on the steppes of the Sierra Nevadas.

  "You said- You told me to bring my car in this morning. I spoke to you about it yesterday. On the phone… "

  "Right," Tony said, frowning at his hand. "Tune up, winter safety-check."

  "Well, yes, I guess that's… I just want to be sure it's going to be okay in the cold weather. I suppose antifreeze… " Her voice faltered. "You've hurt yourself."

  He glanced up. Her eyes-very light, clear blue eyes, the only startling thing about her-were riveted on his hand. "Nah," he said, "it's nothing. Just a scrape."

  Frown lines appeared between her eyes. "You're bleeding."

  He'd already noticed that; he was going to have to put a bandage on the damn thing, and probably some iodine, too. Because that wasn't a pleasant prospect, he growled impatiently, "Don't worry about it-happens all the time." Wrapping the rag around his hand, he jammed it into the pocket of his coveralls, where, he hoped, it would be out of sight and out of mind. He couldn't for the life of him understand why, but her unexpected concern unnerved him; he felt as jittery as a kid.

  "Okay," he said in the most businesslike manner he could muster, "let's write you up a ticket." He turned away from her, heading for his office. "You want to give me some idea how much you want done on this thing? You just want antifreeze and wiper blades, or do you want a tune-up?"

  "Well… " She came tap-tapping after him, slightly out of breath. "I was sort of hoping you could tell me what I should do. I don't have any idea how much everything costs. If you could look at it-"

  "Look, I can tell you what you should do." Tony sat down on the corner of his desk and faced her, steeling himself against the worried look in her eyes. Push the damn thing over a cliff! he wanted to say, but he didn't. Instead he gave her the bad news, making it blunt, because it was so hard to do. "I can almost guarantee you're going to need points, plugs, condenser- How long's it been since you had all your hoses checked? Battery? I don't suppose you have tire chains?"

  She shook her head, squared her shoulders and looked him bravely in the eye. "How much is it going to cost?"

  He told her, then watched all the color go out of her face. But after a moment she nodded and said in a quiet, firm voice, "All right, if that's what it needs, do it."

  Tony exhaled audibly and reached for a service order form. Avoiding her eyes, he said gruffly, "Look, that's just a worst-case scenario. I'm not going to know what's what until I take a look. Could be all you need's antifreeze and wiper blades. I'll just put down 'Check,' and I'll give you a call if-" He broke off, swearing, as a drop of blood made a neat, scarlet polka dot on the multilayered form.

  Chapter Two

  Karen stiffened and looked wary, like a bird poised for flight. "What is it?"

  "Agh," said Tony disgustedly, and stood up, jerking his head toward the only chair in the cramped office, the swivel chair behind the desk. "Have a seat. I'm going to have to get a bandage on this damn thing-"

  "Can I help?" Her voice sounded breathless. Tony paused in the act of unwrapping his hand to look at her and saw that the color was back in her face, perhaps even a little more than had been there befo
re. It made her seem younger, softer. The pads of his fingertips tingled with a disconcerting urge to touch her.

  There was a pause while he wrestled with the impulse, and then he said, "Yeah, okay, sure. There's a first-aid kit in that filing cabinet over there behind you-bottom drawer."

  The old chair creaked as she swiveled toward the cabinet, groaned when she leaned over to open the drawer, squeaked as she turned back to the desk. Tony watched her, liking the way she moved.

  She placed the first-aid kit on the desk, then unbuttoned her coat and shrugged out of it, letting it fall over the back of the chair. The dress she was wearing had a high round neck and long sleeves, and was made of some sort of soft knit material in a dark, somber color-maroon, he supposed. On her, it looked good. The slightly curled ends of her tawny hair just brushed her shoulders and swung across her cheeks when she leaned forward. It looked soft and clean. He imagined that it would smell good, too.

  "Just a bandage," he said as she hesitated over the array of medical supplies. "And some of that iodine there-nothing fancy."

  She glanced doubtfully at his hand. "Don't you think you should wash it first?"

  "Nah, then the bandage won't stick. Look, just cover it up so it won't get in my way. The iodine'll kill everything, anyway." Tony thrust his hand at her, impatient with himself for the disquieting images her presence was fomenting in his mind. "Come on, get it over with. If you want that car of yours by tonight- OW!" That was followed with a sharp, sibilant oath as he tried to jerk his hand away from the stinging brown liquid she'd just poured into the gash on his knuckle.

  But before he could, before he knew what she was going to do, perhaps even before she knew herself, Karen Todd had caught his oil-stained hand in both of her soft, smooth, clean ones. The next thing he knew she was bending over it, blowing frantically on the cut and casting him quick, angry glances between puffs. "Why in the world… don't you use the kind that… doesn't sting?"