Keeping Christmas

“I’m scared,” Katie Moran told her sister-in-law as the older woman cuddled Katie’s fifteen-month-old son, Kyle, in her arms. “I’m scared to death and I’m getting out of here.”

“Here” was her father-in-law, Andrew Moran’s, palatial beachfront home on Key Biscayne, Florida.

“You’re bein’ melodramatic,” Patrice said in her soft Georgia drawl.

“I’m not,” Katie insisted, shaking her expensively highlighted blond head. “I’m scared.” Instinctively she lowered her voice on the words.

Katie folded her slender arms across her breasts and shivered as cold air from cleverly hidden air-conditioning vents swirled around her bare feet. Except for her lack of footwear she was dressed to go out, in cotton slacks and a matching cotton shell. It wasn’t that the room was uncomfortably cold. But the air was dry and filtered, and the windows sealed, so that they could never be opened to the sea breeze. Katie felt for a moment as if she couldn’t breathe.

She’d never liked the enormous art-nouveau-era villa; never felt at home there during six years of marriage to Andrew’s youngest son. But at least having Michael by her side had made it tolerable. Now he was gone and the huge old house seemed like a prison.

Beyond the plate-glass window behind which she stood, the ruffled blue surface of Biscayne Bay was dotted with expensive pleasure boats of all shapes and sizes. Michael had loved to sail. She had learned to love the sport, too. Someday, he’d told her, when their children were grown and he’d retired from the family investment business, they would sail around the world. Just the two of them, alone with the sea. That conversation had taken place just before Kyle’s birth. Four months later, unexpectedly, tragically, Michael was dead of viral pneumonia. He hadn’t been quite thirty years old.

Below her, on the private beach fronting the estate, she could see Andrew Moran sitting bolt upright in a wooden deck chair, as he did every fine afternoon, bald head shining, a glass of whiskey and soda in his hand, basking in the warm, late-November sun. Katie wondered what he’d do if he learned of this conversation. The thought sent another cold shiver down her spine.

“I admit Andrew is a formidable adversary when he’s crossed,” Patrice went on, generations of Southern good breeding evident in her carefully chosen words. Katie could see her plump, plain-featured reflection very faintly in the glass. Patrice bent her neck to kiss the top of Kyle’s silky head, then raised her gaze to stare at Katie across the room. “But in my opinion, you’re blowin’ things all out of proportion.”

Katie spun around ready to do battle. “You think that car jumping the curb Wednesday morning was an accident?” She held her breath. Surely she hadn’t misjudged her sister-in-law’s loyalty? Patrice was the only friend she had in Miami. Almost the only friend she had in the world.

“Yes, I do,” Patrice said firmly. “It’s just terrible an incident like that had to happen so close to the holiday. But—”

“It certainly gave me something to be thankful for when we counted our blessings at the table yesterday,” Katie agreed with a wry twist of her lips. Yesterday, of course, had been Thanksgiving. And today was Friday. The busiest shopping day of the year, a fact Katie hoped to use to her advantage.

“It was an accident,” Patrice repeated, a hint of exasperation seeping into her voice. “You know as well as I do that Dade County has the worst drivers in the world.”

“What about the roof tile last month?” Katie held out her hands for her son, needing the comfort of his warm, sturdy body in her arms. Patrice gave him up reluctantly, with a last little kiss. “The damn thing nearly killed us both.” Her grasp tightened involuntarily around the little boy as her mind skipped back to that terrible moment when the heavy clay tile had come crashing down at her feet. Kyle grunted in protest and squirmed to be free.

“That was an accident, too,” Patrice insisted, although her face had paled at the memory. “Andrew would never harm Kyle. Even if—” She stopped speaking abruptly. Her soft mouth hardened and she folded her plump beringed hands across her stomach. She was wearing one of those shapeless one-size-fits-all sweaters and a long white skirt. She began plucking at the material with nervous fingers.

“Even if Andrew would be more than happy to have something happen to me,” Katie finished for her.

“Oh, Katie, can’t we change the subject?” Patrice asked helplessly. “I’m tellin’ you, you’re blowin’ the whole thing out of proportion.”

Her sister-in-law hated confrontations of any kind. Katie felt a momentary pang of guilt for forcing the issue. “Maybe I am,” Katie said, “but I can’t take any chances. Don’t you see? I’m all Kyle has in the world.”

“He has me. And Gregory,” Patrice said, hurt evident in her eyes and in the downturned corners of her mouth.

“I know you’d protect Kyle with your life if necessary.”

Katie forced herself to harden her heart against the glitter of tears in Patrice’s soft green eyes. Her sister-in-law had never felt the constrictions of living under Andrew Moran’s thumb, not the way Katie felt them. Perhaps it was the difference in their backgrounds? Patrice had been the middle child of a well-to-do, loving family. Her father was a strong man, who ruled his wife and children with a firm but benevolent hand. She had gone to an all-girl, Southern school and had married Gregory Moran right after graduating from college. She was content to be a stay-at-home, country-club sort of wife. Katie was not. She had never had anyone but herself to rely on. It made her look at people, at life, differently than Patrice.

“The truth is, Gregory is as much his father’s pawn as Michael was. And whether you want to admit it or not, you’re as much a prisoner in this gilded cage as I am.”

“That’s not so.” But Patrice looked disturbed, as though she, too, was realizing the shakiness of her argument. After all, she and Gregory had lived under Andrew’s roof for twelve years, their entire married life. “If you just didn’t always argue with him so much, tried to be a little more accommodating....”

Katie sighed. She was letting her fears get the best of her. And she was alienating Patrice, her only ally. “Maybe you’re right,” she admitted grudgingly.

“I know I’m right.” Patrice hurried on before Katie could qualify her statement. “Andrew isn’t a bad man. You can’t take Kyle away from him. He’s his only grand…son....” She looked down at her hands, folded protectively across her stomach, and deliberately unclasped her fingers.

Katie felt a quick stab of sympathy for her sister-in-law. Patrice was thirty-three, seven years Katie’s senior. She and Gregory had no children of their own. She never complained about her barrenness, but Katie knew how desperately Patrice wanted a baby.

“I won’t have him grow up under that old tyrant’s thumb,” Katie declared.

Patrice sighed. It was a familiar argument between them. One they’d never settle.

“I know you’ve been unhappy here since Mike died....”

“I’ve never lied to you about that.” Katie was determined to say what was on her mind, despite Patrice’s obvious reluctance to hear it. “I won’t have Kyle brought up to be a criminal.”

“Andrew’s not a criminal.” Patrice’s denial lacked conviction.

“He worked for organized crime for years. Michael told me so, just before he died. He wasn’t lying. He was too sick. He’s the one who told me to get Kyle away from here.”

“Why did he say such a thing?” Patrice looked genuinely confused.

Katie shrugged. She’d asked herself the same question over and over. “I think he was afraid of Andrew. He didn’t want Kyle to grow up in fear of Andrew, the way he did. I don’t want Kyle to grow up living on the fringes of organized crime.”

“Andrew’s connections with…those people…were severed years ago,” Patrice insisted. “Gregory told me.”

“Gregory manages Andrew’s business interests. What did you expect him to tell you?”

“Gregory wouldn’t lie to me.”

“I’m not so sure.” Katie narrowed her eyes. “You see the men who come here to talk to Andrew, the same as I do. They’re not your average run-of-the-mill businessmen.”

“Katie, please. Don’t make me choose sides like this.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. She didn’t want to argue anymore. Patrice couldn’t understand her fear because she didn’t have a child of her own. And she had never been to jail, like Katie had. Andrew Moran wants Kyle to grow up to be just like him. Cold, ruthless, determined to have his own way at any cost. The thought made Katie’s blood run cold.

“If you would only talk to Andrew. Or Greg,” Patrice tried again.

“You don’t need to cheerlead for Andrew. It won’t make any difference. I’m leaving,” she said abruptly, sitting beside Patrice. “I’m going. Today. Now.”

“Now!” Patrice’s mouth dropped open for a second, then shut with a snap. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Katie agreed with a sharp nod that sent short, silky tendrils of hair bouncing against her cheek. “I’ve got it all planned. But I need your help.”

“Katie…”

“I’m not going to ask you to tell Greg or Andrew any lies. I won’t even tell you where I’m going except that it’s somewhere there is winter and snow.”

Years ago she couldn’t wait to get away from the cold northern winters. Now she couldn’t wait to go back.

“How will you support yourself and Kyle?”

“Waiting tables, probably,” Katie said. “I’ve done it before. I was on my own from the day I turned sixteen. I can do it again.”

She’d been raised—if that’s what you could call her grandmother’s haphazard attempts to keep her in line after her parents split up—in Pittsburgh. She’d run away as soon as she could, quitting school, drifting south, ending up in Key West where she’d met Michael, a college senior who was there on spring break. He’d married her and brought her back to Miami. That had been the only time, she suspected, he’d ever gone against his father’s wishes. But Michael, weak, fun-loving Michael, had died and left her alone.