Lissa Manley - A Snowglobe Christmas - Yuletide Homecoming / A Family's Christmas Wish

“Look, I—uh...” She pressed her lips together, trying to think of a reason to leave but nothing came. The truth was she loved this project, had volunteered all through high school and beyond. Why should she allow an unimportant man to take that pleasure from her the way he’d taken her heart? With a soft exhale, she said, “Tell me where to start.”

She could do this. She would do this. Rafe didn’t need to know how awkward she felt. Or that the anger and resentment of their broken engagement simmered just beneath the surface of civility. Resentment she’d thought was long gone.

Rafe zipped a knife along the top of a box and flipped up the flaps.

“We set up empties on those tables,” he said, pointing, “and the finished ones over there. And these are the donated items to pull from.”

“Just like always.”

“Yes. Like old times.”

Old times? She didn’t think so. In old times, this would have been fun. They would have laughed and teased and made a game of sorting and packing. He would have tossed a bag of rice at her and later, when he wasn’t looking, she would have taped his shoe to the floor. Between the pranks and hijinks, they would have talked about any and everything and planned their holiday adventures.

Those times were as gone as their love.

Stiff as a mid-January icicle, Amy took a list and began sorting through random items donated by service groups and individuals. Several minutes passed while neither spoke. The tension in Amy’s neck tightened. She was intensely aware of Rafe’s every movement, of being alone with him for the first time since their break-up. The huge, mostly empty hall echoed with painful silence, except for the rattle of cans and scrape of boxes. She could even hear herself swallow!

“A-w-k-w-a-r-d,” she muttered to a can of yams.

“Did you say something?”

Amy didn’t look up. She didn’t need to look to know Rafe was burning her with a questioning stare. “Nothing.”

Tin cans clattered against the brown Formica tabletops while she repeated her mantra. She was doing this for Jesus and the needy. Rafe could go take a leap in a snowbank. She didn’t like him. He’d left her, broken her heart. She could work beside him for the sake of others. He would not affect her.

As if he read her thoughts, Rafe moved his half-filled box directly across from hers so they were standing face-to-face. His gray-blue eyes searched hers. “You all right?”

“Fine.”

He nodded, all the while stacking canned goods into a box with automated efficiency. Tension simmered. If he didn’t feel it and get the message that she didn’t want to talk to him, he was an insensitive slob.

“Snowglobe’s a great place to be during the holidays,” he said, rattling boxes of macaroni and cheese.

Really? Then why had he left? “It’s a great place to be any time.”

If he comprehended the jab, he dodged it. “Spokane must have agreed with you.”

“What?” Frowning, she glanced up. “Why?”

“You look good.”

“Oh. Well. Thanks. I enjoyed the time there.”

“Your mother seems really happy to have you home.”

“She is.” Now shut up and leave me alone. And stop looking at me as if you’re even the slightest bit interested in my life.

“Are you happy about taking over the shop?”

Amy suppressed a sigh. He was as insensitive as she’d thought. “For the most part. I’ve missed the small-town things we do at Christmas. The tree lighting, caroling door-to-door.”

“I’m looking forward to those myself. The ski race, too.”

She resisted the urge to ask why he’d changed his mind and come home. She didn’t want to care why he did anything.

When she didn’t speak, another uncomfortable silence fell. With an inner groan, Amy wondered which was worse, talking to Rafe or dealing with the awkward silence.

She stacked four cans of corn into a box and stole a glance toward the doorway. Not another soul anywhere around.

When she could bear the quiet no longer, she asked, “Are you competing?”

“In the race?” He shook his head. “No, but Jake is. I’m minding the store. The recreational rental business should be brisk when tourists hit town.”

“So, how’s that working out for you?”

With a box of stuffing in each hand, he grinned, transforming his serious expression into a thing of beauty. Thick lines radiated from the corner of his eyes, lines that hadn’t been there five years ago. A pinch of concern prodded Amy. She wasn’t stupid or uninformed. She knew where he’d been for most of his military career, and now she wondered what kind of toll war had taken on the breezy young athlete she remembered.

“I play with big boys’ toys all day,” he said. “Can’t beat a job like that.”

She studied him, bothered by her thoughts and this sudden, unwanted curiosity about his life. “Business must be good.”

“We’re doing all right. You should come by sometime and check us out. Take a spin on one of the new Arctic Cats.” Using a black marker, he labeled a filled box and set it aside.

“Maybe I’ll do that.” When Antarctica melts. Though she was itching to ask why he’d left the military, she refrained, struggling not to care one way or the other. But something new about him disturbed her, something more than their painful break-up.

When he came around the table toward her then, she took a step backward, wary. The last thing she wanted was for him to touch her or apologize or...whatever he was about to do.

“I’ll get the filled boxes for you,” he said, indicating the two she’d packed and slid to one side. “They get pretty heavy.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling silly. “Thanks, but I’ve still got some muscle.” She raised her sweater-clad arm and made a muscle to prove the point.

Rafe was still a little too close, so much so that his outdoorsy scent tinkled her nose. Amy’s breath caught in her throat as memories flooded her. Her chest filled with an ache too big to hold. She’d once loved him so very, very much.

Heedless of her inward battle, Rafe’s powerful fingers lightly squeezed her relatively small muscle. He whistled. “Spokane girls got the power.”

Yes, they did. The power to back away and remember what Rafe Westfield had done five years ago.

She dropped her arm to her side and turned away to rummage in the donation boxes.

They worked in silence again, sorting, stacking, boxing. Amy tried to focus on the good she was doing, on the families who would benefit from the food and toys they’d deliver to homes shortly before Christmas.

“I wish we had a radio,” she said suddenly.

“Want to use my iPod? I’ve got earbuds.”

“You downloaded Christmas carols?”

“Are you insinuating that guys don’t listen to Christmas music?”

“No, of course not—” Amy looked up to see he was teasing. “How did you know I wanted Christmas music?”

“Because you always did.” Expression easy, he pointed a cake mix at her. “You drove me nuts singing ‘Jingle Bells’ at the first sign of snow.”

Not wanting to remember those good times, Amy tossed her head. “Maybe I’ve changed.”

He stared at her for two beats before saying, “I guess we both have. You gonna sing in the Christmas cantata?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.” But she was thinking about what he’d said. They’d both changed. For some reason, the statement made her sad.

“You should. Trust me, the choir needs your soprano.”

“I doubt that.” She added packs of beans and rice to the three new boxes she’d set between them as barriers. “New Life has plenty of strong voices.”

“None as sweet and pure as yours.”

“Is that a compliment?” She looked up, smiling in spite of her resolve.