The Last Noel

The bell rang again.

“Hurry, someone might be freezing out there,” Skyler said.

And yet, even as she spoke, she felt a strange sense of unease.

Somehow Norman Rockwell seemed to be slipping away.

And she—who took in any stray puppy, who always helped the down and out, animal or human—didn’t want David to open the door.

TWO

The chair in the den lost a leg the minute Kat picked it up. She let out a groan of frustration and tried to put it back on.

It would go back on, but it wouldn’t stay, because a crucial screw seemed to be missing. She looked around, getting down on hands and knees to see if it had rolled into a corner somewhere. No luck.

No problem. There was a chair at the desk up in her room, and she knew it was fine, because she had been sitting in it earlier while she was online.

She was upstairs when she heard the doorbell ring. Curious, she walked to the window and looked out. She saw a car stuck nose-first in a snowdrift, barely off the road, down where the slope of their yard began.

The bell rang again, and two men backed out from beneath the porch roof and stared up at the house. Strangers. She could barely see them; the wind was really blowing the snow around, and they were bundled up in coats, scarves and hats, but something about their movement made her think that they were in their thirties—late twenties to forty, tops, at any rate.

She frowned, watching as they moved back out of sight and the bell rang for a third time.

Not at all sure why, she didn’t grab the chair and run down the stairs. Instead, she found herself walking quietly out to the landing, where she stood in the shadows, looking and listening.

“We know it’s Christmas Eve,” one man was saying.

“And we’re so sorry,” said the second.

“But we ran off the road and we need help,” said the first.

“A dog shouldn’t be out on a night like this,” said the second.

“We were just about to sit down to dinner.” Her father’s voice, and he sounded suspicious. Good.

“Dinner,” the first man repeated.

Peering carefully over the banister, still strangely unwilling to give herself away, Kat tried to get a look at the men. One was bulky and well-dressed, and shorter than her father and Frazier by a few inches; since they were about six-one to Jamie’s six-two, that made the stranger about six feet even.

The other man, the one who had spoken first, was leaner. He had the look of…a sidekick? Odd thought, but that was exactly the word that occurred to her. He needed a haircut, and his coat was missing several buttons. Even his knit cap looked as if it had seen better days.

When the heavier man took off his hat, he was bald—clean-shaven bald. He had thick dark brows, and eyes that were set too close together.

Beady eyes, Kat thought, then chided herself for watching too much C.S.I.

“Good heavens, come in and get out of the cold,” her mother told the pair.

Her mother would have taken in Genghis Khan, Kat thought, although she didn’t sound entirely happy about extra guests at the moment. Maybe because it was Christmas Eve, she decided. But really, what choice was there? The two men could hardly go anywhere else.

But what the hell were they doing out to begin with? Maybe they didn’t live here near the mountains, but anyone who lived anywhere in New England knew how treacherous the weather could become in a matter of hours, and the TV and radio stations had been talking nonstop about this storm for two days before it even got here. It had been touch and go whether the family even made it up here in time.

“Thank you, ma’am, and bless you,” the tall man said, holding out his hand. “I’m William Blane, but folks call me Scooter. And this is my associate, Mr. Quintin Lark.”

“How do you do, and I, too, thank you,” the stocky man said.

Her father looked at her mother and smiled in solidarity. At that moment, despite the bickering that never seemed to stop, she was reminded of how much she loved her parents. And that she was proud of them. Her father worked hard, doing everything around the pub. He lugged boxes and kept the books, but he could pick up a fiddle or a keyboard and sit in with a band, and he was always willing to pitch in and wash glasses. He managed the kitchen, the bar and the inventory.

And her mother…Her mother had raised three children, working all the while. Like Kat’s dad, her mom could sit in with the band. She had a clear soprano and a gift for the piano. She served drinks and meals, tended bar and always picked up a broom and a dust rag when needed.

Her mother was the key element that truly turned the place from a bar into a pub, Kat decided. She listened. She knew their customers. She knew that Mrs. O’Malley’s cat had produced five kittens and that those kittens were as important to Mrs. O’Malley as Mr. Browne’s new grandson was to him. She knew old man Adair had gotten part of a mortar shell in his calf during the war—World War II, that was—and that as stubborn and sturdy as the old fellow might appear, his leg ached on an hourly basis. Her mother cared about people, perhaps too much. And in her pursuit of constant cheer, she had often sacrificed the truth.

Even now, she was frowning sympathetically. “You say you had an accident? Where? What happened?”

“We didn’t listen to the weather report, I’m afraid,” Quintin said.

“We were listening to a CD, instead of the news,” Scooter said. “We ran off the road just at the edge of your property. I wasn’t even sure we’d make it this far.”

“Not to worry,” Skyler said. “We have plenty of food. Come on into the kitchen.”

“I’ll just get some more chairs,” David said.

“Wasn’t—” Jamie began.

“No,” Skyler said firmly, staring at Jamie. “No…we’ll be fine in the kitchen. We just need more chairs.”

Kat’s jaw dropped. Her mother—her mother—was suspicious.

And pretending that she wasn’t in the house.

“Right,” her father said. “Two more chairs. Jamie, take Quintin and, uh, Scooter into the kitchen. Get them a drink.”

“A shot of whiskey,” Skyler said. “You both need a good shot of whiskey. Just to warm up.” She sounded nervous, Kat thought, though no one who didn’t know her would notice.

“Whiskey sounds great,” Scooter said.

“Let’s all go into the kitchen,” Quintin added, and Kat thought she heard something ominous in his voice.

“I’ve got to get more chairs,” David said.

“No,” Scooter said softly.

It should have been a perfect holiday tableau: a family opening their doors to stranded travelers on a cold and stormy Christmas Eve.

But something just wasn’t right. It was as if the picture was out of focus.

Everyone just stood there awkwardly. And then, subtly, Quintin’s face changed.

Kat could see the way he smiled. It was a slow smile. A scary smile.