Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [11]
Heather Andrews peered through the windshield as Lex piloted the car through the parking lot. “Did you see that?” she asked. “That was Charlie Roman and Angela Steinhart.”
At the mention of Angela’s name, Lex showed interest. “Where?”
“Oh, she’s gone now. What an unlikely pair, don’t you think? Poor Charlie.”
Lex gave a snort. “It’s that ‘poor Charlie’ attitude of yours that keeps him pining after you like a sick puppy.”
“Oh, Charlie’s okay, I guess. He seems so lonely sometimes. And I suppose he does have a crush on me, but he’s harmless.”
“Christ.” Lex laughed. “If there’s one thing a man never wants to hear anyone say about him, it’s that he’s harmless.”
Heather glanced at the tall blond man beside her. “Don’t worry, Lex. I can’t imagine a woman saying that about you. Now, where’s this place we’re going for dinner?”
“For our second date, someplace special,” he replied.
“Tough to top the first.” She smiled at him.
Charlie Roman woke up and lay for a moment contemplating his day. He might get overtime if he decided to work. On the other hand, he wouldn’t have the actual paycheck till after the start of the New Year. Still, he didn’t want to leave the resident Santa, whose name really was Nick, in the lurch. Funny how the old guy genuinely did like kids—Nick Anastasios had about fifteen grandchildren of his own. So why moonlight as a mall Santa? Charlie would think he’d be sick of small fry. He, Charlie, was personally sick of just about everything. Not that anyone cared.
“Ho, ho, ho,” he muttered to himself as he crawled from his warm bed. He padded into the bathroom and peered at his reflection in the cloudy mirror.
Ugh. He needed a shave. Scratch that. He needed a new face. Charlie turned away and spun the shower knob to hot, yanking it to start the water flow. When he looked back into the mirror, it was covered with steam. He couldn’t see himself anymore and he was glad. Gingerly, he got under the stinging spray and let it pound down on his head, right on the spot where his hair was thinning. Charlie didn’t want to think. The heat of the shower made it impossible anyway. His mind drifted. Reality went down the drain for a few blissful minutes.
Done, clean enough, he stepped out and swabbed steam off the mirror and peered into it. He wondered why his eyes were so bloodshot and his skin so blotchy. He grimaced and flinched. It was getting harder and harder to look at himself. His throat was raw—was he getting sick? He would have to gargle and hope for the best or it would hurt to swallow painkillers from his stash. He brushed his teeth and then gargled three times, slowly and methodically. The medication had better work or he’d have to find another doctor to get more—or buy the pills on the street.
He needed to be numb because he was thinking of settling the score. One way or another, Charlie Roman always got shorted. Looking at Heather hanging all over Felex Lassiter was the last straw. He smiled at the thought of all the mourners that would fill the cemeteries.
Christmas should be outlawed. Everything was too commercialized. Dirty, snot-nosed little kids underfoot everywhere, screaming. He could hear them in his dreams. Gimme this, gimme that, and never a please or thank you.
Still damp, he shivered and toweled himself dry before he dressed quickly, aware of the chill in the room. Then, satisfied with his appearance, he trotted downstairs to make coffee. Perhaps he should go outside. It was more than cold enough to wear his heavy, hooded jacket. He didn’t want anyone to take a close look at him.
The pain inside was never going to leave him now—it had to show on his face.
A new, niggling ache seemed to be settling between his shoulders. He reached into the kitchen cabinet and withdrew the aspirin bottle. He gulped down four of them and sat down to wait for the coffee to perk. What day to choose? Christmas was on a Thursday this year, so he had ten days if he counted today. Not Christmas Eve.
It was too big a decision for so early in the morning. He would decide later that