Santa's Playbook

Ethan looked away. “And I’m sure she has better things to do with her morning.”

“And you always say, Dad, it never hurts to ask. Right? Anyway, sit, both of you, everything’s ready. So Bella has ballet this morning,” she went on as Claire sat, “and my grandmother usually takes her, ’cause the boys have football or soccer or whatever—it’s always something. Only she’s sick and can’t do it. So I said maybe you could. It’s not far, right over on Main—”

“Omigosh—not Miss Louise’s?”

“Yeah. You know it?”

“Know it? I took classes there for more than ten years! She’s still alive?”

“Barely, but yeah—”

And naturally, Bella picked that moment to bounce into the kitchen in her pink tights and black leotard. “Is Baba here yet? ’Cause I’m all ready, see? And can I have a piece of bacon?”

“Help yourself,” Jules said, holding the plate out for her sister as Ethan said, “You’re not supposed to leave for an hour yet. But in any case—”

“Your grandmother’s not feeling well,” Claire said, chomping the end off her own piece of bacon, “so I’m going to take you.”

Ethan’s brows slammed together. “What?”

“My morning’s free, so why not? Besides, I’ve always been a sucker for trips down memory lane. So what do you say, Isabella?”

That got the Very Concerned Face. “But I don’t know you. And Baba always takes me for lunch afterward.”

“It’s okay, Belly,” Jules said, “Ms. Jacobs is one of my teachers, she’s cool—”

“And maybe Juliette could go with us, if that would make you feel better,” Claire said, adding, at the teen’s nod, “and we can still go to lunch after.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Then she grinned at her breakfast. “Even though I probably won’t be hungry for hours. This looks amazing, Juliette.”

“Thanks,” she said, then shot Ethan a grin that sent a brief, sharp pain shooting through his skull.

Chapter Two (#ulink_005accdb-7ec9-550e-b81d-2b7b8cd797d8)

Nostalgia swelled through Claire the instant Isabella shoved open the door to the storefront studio, releasing a cloud of steam heat permeated with the tang of rosin and sweat, Miss Louise’s too-sweet perfume. For her entire childhood, this was the scent of Saturday mornings, and it made her smile.

“Um...we can’t stay,” Juliette said after Bella raced into a dressing room overflowing with squealing little girls.

“Oh, I know.” Because the presence of parents and such, except at recitals, tended to either make little Pavlova wannabes painfully self-conscious or turn them into obnoxious show-offs. “I just want to say hello. For old time’s sake.”

“Meet me outside, then?”

“You bet.”

Because when an opportunity plunks into your lap, you take it. Of course, Ethan could simply be misreading Juliette’s natural friendliness for machinations of the matchmaking kind. Certainly the idea had never occurred to Claire, even after the girl invited her for breakfast. But if Ethan’s hunch was right, then the sooner this was all put to rest, the better. For everyone’s sake.

Especially Ethan’s, Claire thought as the girl wandered off to window-shop, and Claire remembered the pressure Mom’s well-meaning friends had put on her after Claire’s dad died to get out there and date again. As well as her mother emphatically telling them to mind their own business, Norman was irreplaceable, end of discussion.

So obviously that’s how it was for some people—you only got one shot at love, and when it was over, it was over. True, Ethan was a lot younger, and she knew widowers were more likely to remarry than widows. But still. Bad enough the poor guy had to endure the merciless flirtations of every unattached female teacher at Hoover. So if Juliette was trying to set him up... So wrong—

“Oh, my God—Claire Jacobs?”

Green eyes sparkling over powder-caked cheeks, Miss Louise floated across the worn wood floor in pink ballet slippers and a wispy chiffon skirt probably older than Claire. After a brief, fierce hug, bloodred lips pursed as the redhead gave Claire a once-over that would make a Mafia goon cringe. “What on earth are you doing here, doll? I thought you’d blown this joint years ago.”

“I had. But I’m back. Teaching up at Hoover. Drama and English,” she said to the woman’s raised, insect leg–like eyebrows.

“You don’t say?” Her sharp gaze darted over a dozen spinning, chattering little girls. “Which one’s yours?”

“Isabella. But only for this morning.”

“Bella, yeah. Little blonde toughie. Love her to bits.” Miss Louise lowered her voice. “So sad about her mommy, but the kid seems to be doing okay. So...wait a minute...” Her eyes sidled to Claire’s. “You and her daddy...?”

“No,” Claire said, laughing, and the microthin brows arched again. “Long story, I’m only pinch-hitting. Anyway, figured I’d say hi.” She hitched her bag onto her shoulder. “How long’s the class?”

“Forty-five minutes.” Her mouth curved. “You can still do a double pirouette?”

“Ha! Like I ever could!”

Miss Louise grinned, then patted her arm. “Hey, we have an adult class on Wednesday evenings. Lots of mommies who took ballet when they were kids, now they want to lose the baby weight.” Smirking, she glanced at Claire’s midsection. “Couldn’t hurt, right?”

“It’s the vest, I swear!”

“Whatever,” she said, walking away. “Ten bucks a class, starts at seven on the dot...”

Okay, so maybe she’d put on a few pounds since she moved back, Claire thought on a sigh as she left the studio. And maybe—she saw Juliette staring at something in the window a few stores down—there were more important things to worry about.

She hustled down the street, which in three weeks would be all gussied up for Christmas. Right now, though, despite all the redbrick fronts and colorful awnings and pretty black iron benches—the little town was nothing if not determined to survive the plague that was urban sprawl—between the stripped-bare maples and barren planters lining the curbs, it was kind of blah.

And fricking freezing, the stiff river breeze ripping right through her vest. She dug her hat out of her pocket and crammed it over her curls, but that wasn’t going to help her soon-to-be-numb butt. In contrast, Juliette—who was hardly dressed like a Laplander—seemed totally unfazed by the bitter wind, her streaked hair whipping around her face as she stared.

“Wh-whatcha l-looking at?”

She pointed. “Aren’t they the cutest things ever?”

“They” being a pair of fluff-ball kittens, one gold, one gray, wrestling in a shredded paper nest in the window of the local adoption shelter’s adoption center.

“Omigosh...” Suddenly her bum didn’t feel so cold. “Adorable.”

“Dad said maybe Belly could have a kitten for Christmas, if she promises to take care of it. Meaning I’ll probably end up doing it. Like I do everything else...” She gave her head a sharp shake. “Sorry,” she mumbled, still watching the kittens. “That sounds terrible.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Claire said gently, steeling herself for wherever the conversation might be headed. “It sounds like somebody who’s got a lot on her plate these days. Totally understandable.”

“Except it’s not even true, not really. Yeah, okay, so sometimes it does feel like that, but it’s not like Dad doesn’t do more than his share. Speaking of having a lot on his plate—he’s got his teaching, and coaching, and making sure the boys don’t, like, destroy the house. Or themselves,” she added with a little smile, then sighed. “And it’s not like I mind cooking. Actually, I love it. And we got this new washer/dryer set last year, it’s so awesome, it does everything but fold. And Baba helps, too, when she can. Except there’s only so much she can do. Because she’s, like, sixty...” Juliette looked over, her brow knotting at Claire’s gotta-keep-the-blood-moving jig. “You cold?”

“A l-little, yeah.”

“There’s that tearoom over there, maybe we could get some hot chocolate or something while we’re waiting?”