Trading Christmas - Debbie Macomber [39]
“You’re a big girl now,” Elijah told her. “Traditions are for kids.”
Heather nodded but she wanted to tell him that people didn’t outgrow their need for a Christmas stocking or decorating a tree or hot apple cider on Christmas Eve.
Elijah sighed. “Are you okay now?”
She shrugged. “I guess.”
“Good.” He stabbed his cigarette into the sand and then stood. Extending his hand to her, Elijah helped Heather to her feet.
“Thank you,” she whispered, kissing him.
“That’s much better,” he said. He placed one arm around her waist and drew her close. “Forget about your mother.”
Heather doubted she could. Despite everything, she knew her mother was all alone in Boston, completely miserable without her.
SEVENTEEN
Faith basted the roasting chicken and closed the oven door as quietly as possible. Rather than mash the potatoes with the mixer, she decided to use the hand utensil in an effort to cut down on noise. As far as she could discern, the cranky professor had enjoyed her cooking the night before. The stuffed green peppers had disappeared in short order.
By six, the house was dark and dreary. Faith went from room to room, drawing the curtains and turning on lights. She played solitaire for an hour. Then she finished the dinner preparations and set the table for one. Before serving herself, she sautéed the green beans with bacon bits and onion, sliced the gelatin salad and carved the roast chicken. Then she lit two candles on the dining-room table and filled her own plate from the dishes in the kitchen. The closed den door discouraged her from letting Charles know dinner was ready. Once she’d eaten, she’d make up a plate for him and leave it on the kitchen counter; he could warm it up in the microwave when he was hungry. That was what she’d done yesterday.
Faith sat down at the far end of the dining-room table and spread the linen napkin across her lap. Emily always used real cloth napkins. Faith admired that about her friend. Living on her own, Faith tended to treat meals as a necessary evil, but when she dined with Emily, meals were an event to be savored and shared. So, in Emily’s house and in Emily’s honor, Faith would keep up this tradition.
Reaching for the merlot she’d bought that day, she started to pour herself a glass, then stopped, the bottle suspended, when she realized Charles had emerged from the den. He stood in the dining room, looking a bit disoriented. He stared at her as if he’d forgotten she was in the house.
Faith stood. “Would you like me to get you a plate?”
Charles frowned at the grandfather clock. “I had no idea it was six-thirty.” The clock marked the half hour with a resounding clang, punctuating his words. “Uh, do you mind if I join you?” he asked.
Faith was too shocked to reply. “P-please do,” she stuttered after an embarrassingly long pause.
Charles went into the kitchen for a plate and served himself from the various dishes she’d prepared, then returned to the dining room. He sat at the opposite end of the table.
They remained awkward with each other. He made a polite comment about the food; she responded with equal politeness.
Silence! Faith desperately wished she had the nerve to put on a Christmas CD—maybe a Celtic Christmas recording Emily had. Or an instrumental of classic carols.
She cleared her throat. “Would you like some merlot?” she offered. She preferred red wine to white, which was why she chose to drink a red with chicken. “Thank you.”
Before she could stand, he got up and retrieved a second wineglass from the kitchen, poured his wine and sat down.
An uneasy silence settled between them once again. Faith picked up her fork and resumed eating.
“How did your snow war end yesterday afternoon?” Charles asked in a casual voice.
“Successfully—for the girls,” Faith told him in cordial tones. “The boys surrendered when they saw they were outwitted and overpowered by us.”
Charles nodded. “I had a feeling the boy team needed my assistance.”
This time, Faith managed to hide her shock.