Trading Christmas - Debbie Macomber [40]
He glanced at her and grinned—actually grinned. “My aim is excellent, if I do say so myself.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t think of a thing to say. What suddenly filled her mind was a vision of Charles Brewster throwing snowballs, surrounded by a swarm of young boys.
“So you survived the adventure unscathed.”
“I sure did.” She wasn’t telling him how much her shoulders ached and she’d ended up taking aspirin before retiring last night, nor did she mention that she’d soaked in a hot tub for twenty minutes. Today she’d gone shopping, list in hand, and when she returned, she’d lounged in front of the fireplace with a good book and a cup of warm cocoa, keeping as still as possible.
“You enjoyed seeing me get plowed, didn’t you?” she asked, again in the most conversational of tones.
“Dare I admit that I did?” He smiled once more, and it transformed his face, reminding Faith of her reaction to his laughter the day before. Had she been wrong about him?
“I wish you had joined us,” she told him impulsively.
“I was tempted.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He shrugged and lifted his wineglass. “Mainly because I’ve got work to do—but that isn’t the only reason I’m here.” He gestured at the window. “Hard as it is to believe, I came here to avoid Christmas.”
Had her mouth been full, Faith would have choked. “You came to Leavenworth to avoid Christmas?”
He shrugged again. “I thought it would be a nice quiet prison community.”
“That’s Leavenworth, Kansas.”
“I eventually remembered that.”
Faith couldn’t keep from laughing.
“I’m delighted you find this so amusing.”
“Sorry, I don’t mean to make fun of your situation, but it really is kind of funny.”
“It’s your situation, too,” he said. “You’re stuck here, just like I am.”
Faith didn’t need any reminders. “What are you working on?” she asked in an effort to change the subject.
“I’m a history professor at Harvard, specializing in the early-American era.”
It made sense that he taught at Harvard, Faith supposed; he lived in Boston, after all.
“I’m contracted to write a textbook, which is due at my publisher’s early in the new year.”
“How far are you with it?”
“Actually it’s finished. I was almost done when I arrived, and my goal is to polish the rough draft in the remaining time I’m here.”
“Will you be able to do that?”
“I’m astonished at all the writing I’ve accomplished since I got here. I finished the rough draft about fifteen minutes ago.” He couldn’t quite suppress a proud smile.
“Then congratulations are in order,” she said, raising her wineglass to salute him.
Charles raised his glass, too, and they simultaneously sipped the merlot.
“Actually, early American history is a favorite subject of mine,” Faith told him. “I teach English literature at the junior-high level but I include some background in American history whenever I can. Like when I teach Washington Irving. The kids love ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.’”
“Don’t we all?”
After that, they launched into a lively discussion, touching on the Boston Tea Party, Longfellow’s poetry, writings of the Revolutionary War period and the War of 1812.
“You know your history,” he said. “And your American literature.”
“Thank you.” She heard the admiration in his voice and it warmed her from the inside out. “I like to think I can hold my own in snowball fights and battles of wits and words.”
“No doubt you can.” Charles stood and carried both plates into the kitchen. “Shall we finish our wine in the living room?” he surprised her by asking.
“That would be lovely.”
The fire had died down to embers, so Charles added another log. He sat in the big overstuffed chair and stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankle. Faith sat on the rug by the fireplace, bringing her knees up to her chin as she reveled in the warmth.
“I’ve always loved this town,” she said.
“Thus far, I haven’t been very impressed,” Charles said, a little sardonically. “But my predicament hasn’t turned out to be nearly as disastrous as I feared.”
Faith couldn’t have held back a smile if she tried. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on your face when I showed