Carrie Alexander - A Town Called Christmas

He squatted beside the boys. “Skip, it’s been more than a year since I saw you, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How old are you now?”

“Nine.”

“That’s pretty grown up. What about your brother?”

“He’s only six.”

“And you’ve been taking good care of him and Kathlyn while your dad’s away?”

The boy nodded vigorously. “Uh-huh.”

“Well done. I know your father’s proud.” Mike leaned a little closer. “I have a younger brother, too. He still remembers every holiday we spent together, but especially the visits from Santa Claus. You know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

Mike clapped the boy’s shoulder and stood. The other adults were talking about sleeping assignments and where the baby’s pacifier had gone, but Merry had rested her hands on Georgie’s shoulders and nestled him against her front. “You have a brother?” she asked softly.

“Steve. A civil engineer. He was in Mozambique, building a dam, the last I heard.”

“And your parents?”

“My father passed away years ago. My mother is on a holiday cruise with her second husband.” Mike quirked his lips into a smile. Casual, to show he wasn’t as alone and lonely as it seemed…as he was. “Nicky took pity on me and hauled me along to join your family for the holidays.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Yeah?” He wondered what else she’d heard.

Merry’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, shoot, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

He laughed. “Never mind. Every Christmas party needs a poor little match boy.”

Georgie had become restless. She gave the boy an extra hug and let him go, then clasped and unclasped her empty hands. “I’m—we’re all very glad you could join us.” She glanced somewhat warily at her mother. “One extra is no trouble, not when we usually have a half-dozen ‘extras.’ You’ll see what a circus it is around here over the next several days. Our Christmas dinner is bedlam.”

Her eyes were bright blue flames that he wanted to stare into until the image burned in his retinas. Instead, he glanced around the room, absorbing the comforting normalcy of the festive scene. A fire crackled in a potbellied woodstove. The furnishings were overstuffed and well-used. Colonial-patterned wallpaper clashed with the rug, while green and red holiday decorations added another layer to the visual chaos. The thick branches of the blinking tree reached to the ceiling. Already a large number of gifts had been placed beneath it.

“I haven’t had a family Christmas in years,” he said.

“You’ll get one now,” Merry replied, having followed his gaze. She was still fiddling with her fingers, holding them laced against her bulky green sweater. Her face was framed by a crisp white collar and the pale gleam of her hair.

The nervousness didn’t suit her. She had a Madonna-like quality—gracious and gentle.

Except for the intense, burning eyes.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said, and meant it.

She smiled politely before turning her head aside. He couldn’t figure out her bashfulness. She’d seemed self-conscious since they’d officially met, but she hadn’t been like that at all earlier. What had changed? Being around her family? That was more the reaction of a high school girl.

“Who will show Michael up to his room?” Grace ignored the boys, who jumped to volunteer. “Merry, how about you?”

For an instant, she looked horrified. Then she dropped her lashes and politely refused the invitation. “Let Skip and Georgie do it. I’ll get the hors d’oeuvres.” She took the bottles Mike had brought and slipped from the room.

Mike found himself herded upstairs by Charlie and his grandsons. They gave him a small, simply furnished room under the eaves on the spacious farmhouse’s third floor. There was a bathroom next door, and also another guest room that Charlie said Noelle would use when she arrived, since the boys had taken over her old room on the second floor.

Mike set down his sea bag, the large green Navy issued duffel. Although he’d shared many tight quarters aboard ship, close family living arrangements were something different.

The Yorks’s house was filled to bursting. When Nicky had been shipped out, his wife and children had gone to live with his parents for the duration so Shannon wouldn’t be alone with the boys during her pregnancy. Kathlyn had been born while Nicky was deployed, so this was only the second time he’d been able to spend a significant amount of time with her.

While Mike was no family man, he recognized that nothing was tougher than missing the first months of your child’s life. A Dear John letter couldn’t touch that loss.

“Where does Merry stay?” he asked the boys while unzipping his duffel. Charlie had excused himself to follow his nose to the kitchen and check on dinner.

“She has her own house,” Skip said.

“It’s by the tree farm.” Anticipation glistened in Georgie’s eyes when Mike pulled out three wrapped boxes.

He wanted to ask more about Merry, wanted to know everything, but he stopped himself. He had six more days.

“Why don’t you two take these presents and put them beneath the tree?” The boys seized the gifts and Mike called, “Don’t shake them too hard,” as they galloped down the stairs.

He sat on the edge of the bed and raked his fingers through his hair. A day ago, he’d been stationed in San Diego, the aircraft carrier’s home port, prepping for the next deployment. Sunshine and beaches contrasting with the heat of the tarmac and the blast of afterburn. Now this, a cold, white world pocketed with bursts of color and warmth.

His system was in shock.

He held his head in his hands, resisting the unexpected pull to take out Denise’s goodbye letter. Hell, he’d read the thing a hundred times over the past months. Maybe more. He no longer missed his fiancée. He was way past that.

There was something else that tortured him, that wouldn’t let him throw the letter away.

He took the frayed envelope from a pocket in his shaving kit and withdrew the letter. One measly sheet of paper. The end of a serious commitment should need more words.

Or not, when the engagement had already withered away to nothing.

Dear Michael …

Music from down below stopped him from continuing. He went to the door to listen. “Deck the Halls.” Of course. The Yorks would play holiday tunes. They probably sang carols, too.

In fact, as he listened, a woman’s voice joined the recorded music. Pure as a bell. He wondered if the singer was Merry.

The letter was crumpled in his hand. Throw it away , said his inner voice. What good’s it doing you?

But he couldn’t let go, not yet. He smoothed the crinkles and returned it to the envelope, then the envelope to its slot in his shaving kit. Moving faster, he undid a couple of buttons and yanked his shirt off over his head. Suddenly he wanted to be downstairs with Nicky’s family, instead of alone and moping over promises broken long ago.

He took the kit and went into the tiny bathroom, having to duck to use the facilities that were fitted beneath the slanted ceiling. He washed and quickly ran an electric shaver over his jaw. Deodorant. A touch of cologne. The pit of his stomach hollow, his senses on point.

Like getting ready for a date.

He left the shaving kit on the ledge of the sink and turned to go.

The staircase off the hallway creaked. He heard a footfall on the landing. “Um, Mike?” said a female voice.

After a moment’s hesitation, he went back and grabbed the leather kit bag. The damn letter . He didn’t want Merry to find it, even though one word from her, one meaningful smile, and he expected that he’d gladly forget it ever existed.