Trading Christmas - Debbie Macomber [49]
“I’ve got to meet this friend of yours. She must be a miracle worker.” He paused. “You’re sure about all this?”
“That’s what Faith told me, and I’ve never known her to exaggerate.”
“Something must’ve happened to my brother. Maybe I should call him myself.”
“Don’t you think this is a good thing?” Emily asked. “Judging by everything you’ve said, your brother seems to have a single focus. His work. He wanted to escape Christmas and finish his book.”
Ray nodded, but his expression had started to relax. “It’s interesting when you put it that way,” he said thoughtfully.
“How so?”
“It sounds as if you’re describing me.”
This surprised Emily. From the beginning, she’d viewed Charles as an introvert, in contrast to Ray, who was personable and outgoing.
“For years now, Christmas has meant nothing but a few extra days off. Every year, I send the obligatory gift to my mother—usually the latest big mystery and maybe a new coffee-table book with lots of scenic pictures. I attend a few parties, have my assistant mail out greeting cards, make a restaurant reservation for the twenty-fifth. But I haven’t felt any real spirit until today. With you.”
Emily’s heart warmed at his words.
“I never go for even an hour without thinking about work or publishing. We’ve spent the entire day together, and I haven’t once missed hearing my cell ring.”
Emily had no idea their Christmas-tree adventure had meant so much to him. He’d seemed eager to hear about her homemade decorations and the traditions she had with her daughter. Later she’d felt a bit silly to be talking so much and certain she’d bored him with her endless stories. She was glad she hadn’t.
Ray looked away as if he’d said more than he intended. “Are you ready for dinner? What about that Mexican place we passed?”
“I’m starving.” Mexican food sounded divine and the perfect ending to a perfect day.
“Me, too. That’s what you get for walking my feet off this afternoon,” he said. “Now you have to feed me.”
After they’d finished putting the final touches on the tree, they’d gone out for a light lunch of pizza and salad, then walked and walked. They’d had no real destination, but enjoyed being out of doors. They’d talked incessantly and Emily was surprised they had so much to discuss. She was a voracious reader and Ray questioned her about her favorite books and authors. Emily had questions of her own about the publishing industry, which fascinated her. She noticed, though, that neither of them talked much about their private lives. Their conversations skirted around their thoughts and feelings, but the more time they spent together, the more they revealed.
TWENTY-TWO
Faith replaced the telephone receiver, and a happy feeling spread through her. What had felt like a disaster a few days earlier now seemed to be working wonderfully well—for her and her dearest friend.
As if her thoughts had awakened him, Charles opened the door to the den and stepped out, still yawning.
“Just as I suspected,” Faith teased. “You were napping.”
“I intended to revise the first chapter,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes, “but the minute I sat down in that warm, quiet room, I was lost. Thank goodness there’s a comfortable sofa in there or I would’ve fallen asleep with my head on the keyboard.”
Faith had taken more than one nap in Emily’s comfortable den, perhaps her favorite room in the house. In the early years, it had been Heather’s bedroom, but as she grew up, Heather had wanted more privacy and claimed the room at the top of the stairs. Emily had transformed her daughter’s former bed room into a library, with books in every conceivable place. A desk and computer took up one wall, and the worn leather couch another. A hand-knit afghan was draped over its back for those times when reading led to napping…. She’d spent many a lazy winter afternoon on that couch, Faith recalled.
“What have you been up to?” Charles asked.
“I called Emily in Boston to see how she’s doing,” she told him.
Charles poured a mug of coffee. “Is she having any problems?”
“No. In fact,