The Wrong Man

Giving her a quick hug, Libby answered. “It’s what the Grinch drinks to remember how much he likes Christmas.”

Across the way, Doug caught her eye, a sappy grin on his face. “You gals make a nice picture.”

Brushing aside the implications of the compliment, Libby quickly finished the story, then moved to the buffet and helped herself to the eggnog. Doug came up beside her and put his arm around her. “Having a good time?”

“Yes, I am.” It was the truth. The easy give-and-take of this family and her overwhelming sense of welcome, especially from Mary and her adorable husband, felt heady for a woman accustomed to living alone with her cat.

“Feel like a walk before dinner?” Doug asked.

“Do we dare sneak off?”

He tightened his grip on her waist, then grinned wickedly. “Dare? I think it’s expected.”

“Let’s go, then.”

Outside the air was crisp, and the sun shone weakly through the snow-dusted trees. Doug tucked her arm through his as they started briskly down the road.

“I’m glad you’re here with us for Christmas. That’s the best present you could give me.”

“Your family has made me feel very welcome.”

“They’re crazy about you.”

Flustered, she stopped to adjust her scarf. “I, uh, I like them, too. Your sister Melanie is such fun, and your brother makes me laugh.”

“And don’t forget Izzy.”

Isabelle, Doug’s other sister, had been busy in the kitchen all day. A chef at a pricey Seattle restaurant, she was cooking the Christmas dinner. “How could I forget her?” Libby rubbed her stomach. “I’ve gained five pounds just smelling that food she’s preparing. And I haven’t even eaten.”

Doug gently held her by the lapels of her coat, his expression turning serious. “And what about me?”

“You?”

“Yeah. Do I rate as highly as my siblings?”

She fumbled to keep her answer light. “Well, you’re fun like Melanie and your brother, but as for your cooking…”

He laid his forehead against hers. “I’m not talking about cooking.” He hesitated, his breath forming small clouds in the frosty air. “I guess I’m asking…could you love me, Lib?”

His eyes were close, so rich and deep a brown they took her breath away. Could she? Love him? Suddenly, in that moment, she thought perhaps she could. “I think maybe so, Doug.”

“Good,” he murmured, pulling something from his pocket.

Libby didn’t know what she’d expected, but not the sprig of mistletoe he now held over her head.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” he whispered, before tossing the mistletoe in the air and kissing her in a way that would have delighted the reformed Ebeneezer Scrooge.

AT HOME LATER that evening, Libby sat, pensive, in the rocker she’d brought from Oklahoma, the only piece of furniture she’d moved. It was the chair in which her mother had cuddled her before bedtime. Mona, a sleek gray cat with a white, diamond-shaped mask, sat in her lap, purring with contentment. The occasional crackle of a log settling and the ticking of the cuckoo clock were the only other sounds.

The perfect Christmas.

Convivial company, delicious food, laughter, plenty of hugs. It was the Christmas she’d always dreamed of—and a far cry from those girlhood holidays after her mother died. Oh, there had been no shortage of gifts. To the contrary. Everything she’d ever wanted had been provided. And that was the operative word: provided. Not given.

At that time Daddy Belton was serving in the Oklahoma legislature. His secretary bought and wrapped Libby’s presents. Christmas Eve at their Muskogee home was traditionally celebrated with a huge open house for her stepfather’s influential constituents and political allies. On Christmas Day, the two of them opened their gifts, Daddy made obligatory phone calls, and then they were served a late lunch by the housekeeper in the drafty old dining room. Libby spent Christmas afternoons alone in her bedroom.

In her youthful naiveté, she had dreamed of creating a real family, complete with a loving husband and a houseful of children. Life, however, had taught her the folly of such dreams.

She nestled Mona closer, drawing her fingers up and down the cat’s ridged back. Today had been both perfect and disturbing. It scared her how badly she wanted to be part of a family like the Traverses. This afternoon she had sensed Doug was on the verge of offering her the fulfillment of her fantasies.

Could you love me? he’d asked. She had been taken aback by the directness of his question. A marriage without love would be empty. Ruefully, she bent her head and nuzzled Mona’s neck. Had she committed herself by giving Doug a definite “maybe”? And what kind of cowardly answer was that?

On the wall, the cuckoo clock repeated its call twelve times—each syllable taunting her. She was “cuckoo,” all right. Doug hadn’t asked the one question she would ultimately have to answer.

Not could she love him, but did she love him?

WEEZER RUBBED her gnarled hands in anticipation. Dark, and still no sight of them. She checked the mantel clock. No point standing at the window fretting. She strode to the fireplace, picked up the poker and jabbed at the bottom log, sending sparks up the chimney. Trent knew how to drive in these conditions. He’d be careful. Yet what if…

Despite Trent’s eagerness to get back to Whitefish, Weezer had picked up on his concerns. Kylie’s aversion to school. Separation from her grandparents and her familiar surroundings. Beyond that, the child had to still be grieving her mother, probably struggling to mask her pain.

Trent ought to know all about that. He’d been skilled at it. From the day that worthless cowboy Charlie Baker walked out on Lila and Trent, the boy had acted as if he didn’t give a damn, practically daring the gods to zap him, be it on a skateboard, bicycle or snowboard. Then later in a two-man raft shooting rapids, or rappeling from precipitous cliffs. Whenever Lila or Weezer had asked him if he thought he was invincible, he had merely laughed and said, “A guy’s gotta have some fun.”

By now, Weezer suspected, he’d learned the hard way that life was about more than fun.

She shook her head sadly. Kylie’s mother’s illness and death had been tragic. It seemed as if every time Trent risked love, something happened to steal it from him. Or he did something to sabotage it.

Lights flared against the spruce and pine trees lining the driveway. Beside her, Scout, her German shepherd, thumped his tail, then ran to the entry hall, looking expectantly back at her. Weezer hurried to the door, fumbling with the knob—darned arthritis—then stepped out onto the porch.

When the pickup pulled to a stop, she peered through the darkness, but couldn’t see the child. Trent stepped out of the truck, a crooked smile on his face. “We made it. I hope you weren’t worried. A semi jackknifed near Lakeside, blocking the highway.”

Weezer took the porch steps carefully, then moved into Trent’s hug. “Glad you’re here safely.” She stepped back. “Now, where’s that daughter of yours?”

Trent took her hand and led her to the truck. He opened the door and pointed. Lounging against the back seat, sound asleep, was the rosy-cheeked child Weezer hadn’t seen since she was tiny.

“Poor little thing.”

Trent sighed. “It’s been a long day.”

Just then, Scout threaded his way between them and climbed into the back seat.

“Scout!” Before Weezer could restrain him, he stood over Kylie, gently licking the girl’s face.

Kylie’s eyes fluttered opened. “D-Daddy?”

“Don’t be frightened, honey. It’s just Scout.”

Rubbing her eyes, Kylie sat up straighter. “A dog? I love dogs.” She wrapped her arms around Scout’s neck.

Weezer nodded sagely. “I think your little girl has made her first friend in Whitefish.”