as more of an emotionally charged, beastly roar than he anticipated, but if his own shaking voice shocked him, it was nothing compared to the surprise he felt as Kate’s defensive charm softened into sweet sacrifice. Her smile morphed from practiced composition into something altogether more compassionate, tender.
She no longer armed herself or wielded her warmth as a weapon. She held it up as a peace offering. Peace with this woman scared Clark even more than the thought of battling with her.
“I’m not letting you. No one should be alone during the holidays.”
He reached for his cell.
“I’m calling the police.”
“Great idea. You can tell Chief Stan and Officer Harris I said Merry Christmas. I think they’re on duty until midnight, then the Fitts siblings take over.”
This woman was just crazy enough about Christmas to wish anyone a happy day, even the men he called to arrest her, but this wasn’t a genuine request. She was reminding him where the loyalties of this town actually lay, and it certainly wasn’t with the man who was going to end the town’s most important festival. The police probably weren’t going to be on his side, especially not if they saw Kate as their champion.
Besides, his uncle had signed that contract.
“You’re not going to leave, are you?”
“I’m not a monster. I’m not trying to steal your house or anything. I’ll leave after I have my perfect Christmas.” Kate pointed to the kitchen, which was connected to the living room by a swinging servant’s door. Clark was sure now he smelled fresh gingerbread cookies. “Can I get you some eggnog?”
“I don’t want eggnog. I want you to put everything back to normal.”
Clark examined his options—the few he had. The decorations and the woman were fixtures here, at least for another few days. So, he saw only two courses of action. He could leave. Or he could stay.
“You’re in Miller’s Point for Christmas, Clark,” she said, not unkindly. “This is normal.”
He’d have to stay. He didn’t have to stay in this room, but he would have to stay. Cutting his losses, Clark walked for the door. He’d just go upstairs and find an office to work in. Normal in Miller’s Point… What, all smiles and well-wishes and cartoon red-nosed reindeer?
“Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Chapter Five
Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of. He left her with that declaration, and all she could think was: Well, at least I know you can feel something.
No. The thought put him in an unfair light. He’d shown tiny flashes of emotions over the course of their two conversations. Rage. Annoyance. Frustration. Fear.
But the deep, aching loneliness she saw in him when she suggested he didn’t have to spend Christmas alone resonated inside of her. Until now, this entire…spectacle was little more than a means to an end. She assumed he had to be, at least on some level, a lonely man. Does a content, happy, and fulfilled person hate Christmas? No. But she now realized her actions here could serve more than one purpose. She could help him and save the town. She could teach him the true meaning of Christmas while also restoring Christmas for the people she loved most in the entire world.
Despite what countless TV shows and movies had taught her, she really could have it all.
First, she needed to get him to come back into the living room with her. She knew that wouldn’t happen just on its own. Shouting at him from the living room to come back and hang out with her so she could show him the beauty of the season probably wasn’t her best bet.
“Think, Kate,” she muttered to herself, pacing the living room. “Think.”
Pacing the Persian rug, she surveyed the room. It was, in every sense of the word, rich. The house was built in a faux-Victorian style, an American collection of half-British angles and ornamentation, and the inside reflected Mr. Woodward’s inclination to show off his wealth. He presented himself as a gaudy man, to say the least, and he never shied away from spending money or talking about spending money—a trait he clearly didn’t share with his nephew. Kate’s pacing only halted when she heard the movement of a loose tile in the kitchen.
“He’s gone,” she called. “You can come out now.”
No sooner had she spoken than Michael burst from behind the swinging door, which smacked against the nearest wall. He huffed and puffed with the dramatics of an amateur opera singer, as if he’d been shoved into a tiny, airless closet instead of the well-stocked kitchen for the last ten minutes.
“What was that?” he spluttered, pointing at a random place in the room. Kate could only assume he meant to point at somewhere Clark stood, but she had no way of knowing for sure. It was obvious he’d been eavesdropping. She returned to her pacing, rolling over everything she’d learned about the man from their last encounter.
He was so cold. Not just in the way he spoke to her or saw the world, but in his eyes. He was frozen down to his heart. She just hoped a good Christmas fire could be lit and melt the ice and frost away, not just for their sake, but for his.
“That,” she answered, a bit too smug for her own good, “was the first stage of my plan.”
“And you just let him go?”
“Yeah.” She ran a hand through her hair and checked her wrist for a ponytail holder she already knew wasn’t there. Her dirty blonde hair was so long and thick it often broke the thin elastics, leaving her to fuss and fiddle with her locks whenever she got too nervous to think straight. Tugging on one strand of hair, as if to pull some wisdom from her own brain, she tried to lay down her plan. “He needs time to cool off. Nothing was going to get done by needling him.”
“What’s your genius plan now, huh?”
Genius. That was it. When she was seven years old, Miss Cartwright—owner of the music and dance studio near the center of town—told her she could be a genius piano player if she ever put her mind to it. When The Christmas Company said it would pay for her lessons if she used her skills for the festival every year, she’d readily accepted.
And as it happened, the Woodward House’s living room housed the town’s most beautiful and most expensive piano, which sat in the corner across from the Christmas tree, waiting to be played.
Kate wandered over to the ancient Steinway. Her fingers only just brushed the ebony cover. It shot a thrill through her, like touching a holy relic; she needed to approach with reverence.
“We’re going to smoke him out of his room.”
“How?” Michael asked, as she lifted the cover and took her place on the bench. Shaking his head, he immediately began a muttered stream of vain prayers. “Don’t say with song. Please don’t say with song.”
Her fingers touched the keys. Out of tune. She winced, but pressed forward.
“With song,” she confirmed.
It
