right.” Nicky braked. “I’ll be back in an hour to pick you up.” He pulled off the highway beside a mound of waist-deep snow. A couple of people bundled like penguins emerged from one of the lit-up buildings and waddled toward a stop sign that crowned another of the snowbanks. The street corner, presumably.
Mike glanced around. The smattering of buildings was still a smattering. “Where’s the shopping district?”
“This is it.”
“What about the downtown?”
“This is it.”
“This is it?” This was nothing. The way Nicky had talked about his hometown’s Christmas celebrations, Mike had expected a mini-Times Square, not a hodgepodge of humble businesses and homes half buried in snow. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Christmas is small.” Nicky grinned. “But it’s got a big heart.” He pointed past the steering wheel. “There’s the grocery, that’s the post office and beside it is a gift store. The brick building across the street is a tavern called The Christmas Cheer. You can get warmed up there.”
Michael stepped from the car and straightened. He took a gulp of the chilly air, smelling wood smoke as he looked from building to building. The tavern seemed to be the center of town—surrounded by vehicles, bursting jukebox music and activity. Three doors away, a white steepled church stood silent and closed, save for the tree sparkling with lights beside a signboard that listed service times beneath the spattered snowfall.
“See you in an hour, man.” Mike shut the door, feeling road weary and run dry. Whether he was plunked in a Michigan snow pile or stranded on the arid mesas of Arizona where he’d grown up, small towns were all the same. Even when they came dressed in garish decoration.
“One hour, then,” Nicky said with a nod. He gave a wave and put the car into gear.
Mike straightened his shoulders as he surveyed the town again. Travelers must have barely slowed down when they reached Christmas. A heavy foot on the gas, one blink of the eyes and they’d be out the other side.
A rush of wind sent snowflakes whirling. Mike tasted them on his lips. They clung to his lashes. He blinked and the swinging strings of lights that festooned the town turned to multicolored stars, blurry at the edges.
A second hard blink restored his vision. He was particularly glad of that when he saw the woman.
She was crossing the road, swept along by the wind. Her long, heavy coat flapped open. The tails of a red scarf whipped free, dancing like semaphore flags. Between the scarf and a matching knit hat pulled snugly past her ears was a fringe of golden-blond hair, molded to her pinkened cheeks.
The woman shot a clenched smile at Mike as she hurried past him and into one of the modest shops. She clutched a large leather purse and a paper gift bag with mitten-clad hands.
Pretty lady. A needle-sharp shot of interest made Mike’s sluggish blood quicken.
He huddled in the cold, considering his shopping options. Severely limited. So why not follow her? The store she’d entered looked promising. Icicle lights danced from the eaves. A giant candy cane stood sentry at the door, twined in ribbon and evergreen garland.
A bell went off as Mike pushed inside. He stamped his feet on the welcome mat. The blond woman was at the cash register, chatting to the clerk while she shook snow off her hat and mittens. “My mother went and invited Oliver for Christmas dinner, since he’ll be alone. I need to find him a last-minute gift.”
The salesclerk, a rounded woman in her middle years, leaned over the counter and made a whispered comment. Both of them glanced at Mike, who was peeling off his gloves. “Merry Christmas, sir,” said the clerk. Her smile was big and toothy. “I’ll be with you in just a minute.”
The blonde turned away before he got a good look at her face. “No rush,” he said. “I’ll look around.”
The store was small. He prowled the rows of gift items, mainly Christmas-themed ornaments and such. He eyed the blonde over a rack of greeting cards. Something about her was arresting—her color, her brisk energy, the effervescent cheer that bubbled in her voice as she chatted about holiday preparations while fingering a display of fountain pens near the register.
“Finding anything?” the clerk called.
Mike nodded and pulled out a card at random. A cardinal in the snow.
He advanced along the aisle. Wrapping paper, twig reindeer, needlepoint Christmas stockings. Porcelain plates painted with winter scenes. Matching coffee mugs. What did a man without the proper Christmas spirit get to thank his best friend’s parents for welcoming him into their home and holiday?
“Is it a fix-up?” the clerk asked her other customer. “You and Oliver?”
“Good grief, no.” The blonde seemed alarmed by the idea. Her hands flashed over her hair before tucking a lock of it behind one pink-rimmed ear. A small gold hoop pierced the lobe. “In my situation? No.”
Mike glanced away so he wouldn’t be caught staring. Situation?
“Not even my mother, desperate as she is to marry me off, could think I’d possibly be interested in…” The woman shook her head in the emphatic negative.
Desperate?
The sales clerk clucked. “Then she’s still on your case?”
“In her own way.” A shrug. “You know my mom—she’s so proper. This is hard for her.”
“Well, she probably knows that Oliver’s always had a crush on you. Just about everyone knows.”
“Maybe he used to, but he must be over that. I was gone for years.”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” The clerk’s lips pursed. “Haven’t you read any of his books?”
“The science fiction? Not in a long time.”
“And the romances. He writes them under the name Olivia Devaine. You’ve been missing out.”
The blonde’s gaze skipped sideways toward Mike. He bent his head over the plate display. “Oh, dear,” she said quietly. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”
The clerk beamed. She was enjoying herself. “I’ve gotta tell ya. Every single one of his heroines bears a striking resemblance to you.”
The woman groaned. “Are you certain you’re not reading too much between the lines?”
“The latest one’s titled Marianne’s Homecoming. See for yourself.” The clerk pulled a well-worn paperback from beneath the counter and tossed it onto the glass. “You can have it, if you want. I’ve finished. It’s all about a lady executive named Marianne who returns to her hometown to stop an evil developer from bulldozing her family homestead. The hero is an investigative reporter.”
With some hesitation, the blonde picked up the book. “That’s not so very much like—”
“His name is Tolliver. Rand Tolliver.”
