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STEVE SHIMMIED FREE of Gloria. “What are you doing here?”
“I missed you.”
Steve’s mother appeared on the front porch. “Steve, do we have guests?”
Gloria said, “Hi, Ellery.”
Steve gawked. Gloria had a lot of nerve to call his mother by her first name. They had only met once, briefly, when his parents had come to Portland to watch him tape a show. Despite that, Ellery, ever the hostess, invited Gloria inside. Gloria thanked her and ordered Steve to gather whatever luggage she had and to tip the driver.
Grumbling, staring after the camper’s taillights as they disappeared from sight, Steve fetched Gloria’s coat and overnight case, gave the Uber driver a ten, and carried Gloria’s things to the foyer. His mother had already guided Gloria into the kitchen and was setting a cup of tea on the counter in front of her.
Steve joined them, conflicting thoughts ping-ponging in his brain. His father puttered in the refrigerator looking for something while offering sidelong glances at Gloria. Lincoln was sitting on a stool, kicking its rails. Steve knew what that meant. His brother was confused and vexed.
“You look good, Stevie,” Gloria said.
“Steve,” he muttered.
Gloria stirred honey noisily into her cup.
Lincoln hummed to calm himself but then blurted, “Why are you here?”
Gloria startled, dropping her spoon. “Um, because I missed your brother. A-a-and . . .” She dragged out the word. “I’ve got big news to share that involves him.”
Steve bit back a retort. Big news as in she couldn’t make it in Minneapolis and was hobbling back to Portland and wanted to strike up where they’d left off? Think again. He tapped her arm. “Let’s walk to the café and we can talk.”
“I want to go,” Lincoln said, bounding off the stool.
“I was thinking just me and her, buddy.”
“No. I’m going.”
Steve threw his mother a baleful look.
“Let’s all go,” Ellery said. “Tonight’s been quite stressful. I’m sure each of us could use a slice of pie. Lincoln, get your coat.”
“Pie,” Steve’s father said, closing the refrigerator door. “Great idea.”
“We’re going to walk?” Gloria glanced out the window. Snow was still drifting softly outside. “Um, I’ll need to change clothes,” she said, pointing to her heels.
“Fine. Use the guest bath off the foyer.” Steve aimed a finger. “I assume you packed boots.”
“Of course. I’m not an idiot. I just thought you’d like to see me looking my best.” Coyly, she clutched the seam of her dress and twirled half-heartedly. “Don’t I look pretty?”
He didn’t respond.
“Yes, you do,” Ellery said.
Gloria blew her an air kiss and moved through the archway.
Steve called after her, “I’ll book a room for you at the inn where Brie’s staying.”
“I thought I’d stay here,” she said, poking her head back into the room.
Ellery and Frank exchanged a look.
“Not a good idea,” Steve said. “My brother . . .” Steve tilted his head toward Lincoln. “It’s complicated.”
“Okay,” she said meekly, and retreated to the foyer.
Moments later, she returned to the kitchen dressed in her wool coat over leggings tucked into fashionable Uggs and a heavy Irish sweater. She twirled a pompom ski hat on one finger. “I’m warm and cozy now.”
Ten minutes later, Steve, his family, and Gloria were seated at Aroma Café. He scanned the place for Hope but knew she wouldn’t be there. He pictured her happily hugging her kids and reading them stories.
After ordering beverages and pie for each of them, Steve unfurled his silverware from the napkin.
“Aren’t you happy I came to town?” Gloria touched the back of his hand.
He flinched. His silverware clattered. He moved his hand to his lap. “Actually, I’m astonished.” She’d never wanted to visit Hope Valley. She’d derisively called it a one-horse town.
“I wasn’t kidding before. I missed you. Missed us.” She twirled a finger in the hair at the nape of his neck.
He pulled away. “Stop.”
“You always like when I do that.”
“Not anymore.”
“Not anymore,” Lincoln echoed.
Zerena appeared with coffees for everyone except Lincoln, who’d ordered milk, and said she’d be right back with the pie.
“Gloria”—Ellery poured creamer into her coffee—“what’s your big news?”
Gloria’s eyes lit up with excitement. “The sports desk is opening up in Minneapolis, and Steve, thanks to me, is on the short list for the position.” She eeked while air-clapping her hands. “Isn’t that great? You get the job, and we’re back together again. A team. A power couple. Won’t that be fab?”
Steve’s mouth dropped open. “Gloria, we were never a power couple. We were two people who dated.”
“Lived together.”
“Dated.”
“Moved in together.”
“For less than a month.”
“We even got engaged.”
“And you ended it,” Steve said with a bite.
“Steve,” his mother cautioned.
“Be gentle, Son,” his father said.
“No, Mom, Dad. She broke it off with me and now she wants me back? And all I have to do is move to Minneapolis for the privilege? No.” He tossed his napkin on the table.
Lincoln whimpered.
Ellery touched his shoulder and said, “Shh, Lincoln. It’s okay.”
Zerena brought slices of apple-cranberry pie for everyone, setting them on the table with a clatter.
Lincoln stared at his and pushed it away. “I want plain apple.”
“Plain apple it is,” Ellery said to Zerena.
“Leave his,” Steve said. “I’ll eat it.”
He glanced sideways at Gloria. Her eyes had pooled with tears. Discreetly, she dabbed her napkin at the inside corners. His peeve irked him, but what had she expected him to do? Get down on his knees and thank her for condescending to love him again? Not a chance! He tucked into his pie, mulling over their fractured relationship. What had he ever found attractive about her other than her looks? Not her brain. Not the way she treated others. He downed a bigger than normal bite of pie, savoring the sweetness and the tang, and thought of Hope. Seeing her in action, holding herself together while struggling with deep-seated fear, had changed him in ways he couldn’t have imagined. And he’d never forget the kiss they’d exchanged or the tender moment they’d shared at the end of the evening.
All of which blew up the moment Gloria appeared.
No. Uh-uh. He might not have a job in Portland any longer, but he sure as heck wasn’t moving to Minneapolis to be a power couple with his self-centered ex.
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That night, after categorically ending things with Gloria at the airport—Steve had purchased a ticket for her on the midnight flight to Minneapolis—he felt better than he could imagine. Tuesday morning he awoke with a spring in his step and whistled—actually whistled—as he trotted downstairs.
While eating breakfast, a traditional Christmas Eve special his mother served every year—pancakes made with holiday-colored chocolate chips—and answering questions his mother and father asked about his future, an idea came to him. He let the plan brew as he washed dishes. By the time he’d dried them and stacked them in the cupboards, he was certain it was brilliant and fitting for the season.
When his parents announced they were heading to their respective businesses for the biggest shopping day of the year, they put Steve in charge of Lincoln. He didn’t blink an eye. He knew his brother would spend most of the morning preoccupied with the wrapped presents beneath the tree that had magically appeared overnight, trying to guess, out loud, what was in each.
After pouring a second cup of coffee, Steve settled into the armchair in the living room, raised his cell phone, and tapped the number for the TV station with the broadest audience in Oregon. He asked to be put through to the person in charge of promotions. When a woman came on the line, Steve introduced himself.
Turning on the charm, he said he had a great idea for a human-interest story. Perfect for the holidays. It had Christmas spirit written all over it. All he needed was a small crew—
Before he could add more, the woman cut him off claiming she had no space on her agenda.
Not to be deterred, Steve bypassed KPRL and tried the next largest station, receiving the same kind of brush off.
When he called the station that was fourth in line, the promotions guy said, “Listen, Waldren, face facts. Dave Zamberzini has blackballed you. At the moment, you’re persona non grata. You’re toast to every station this side of the Rockies. Sorry, kid. Good luck.”
Steve swore under his breath, shocked that Dave had that kind of power. How he’d underestimated him. He rested his cell phone on the arm of the chair and stood to stretch.
“What’s wrong, Steve?” Lincoln asked, bolting to his feet, the bells on his ugly reindeer-themed Christmas sweater jingling. “Why are you toast?”
“I’m not toast.”
“The last guy said you were toast.”
“He didn’t say—”
“I have ears.” Lincoln tapped both of his. “I can hear.”
“Fine, I’m toast.”
“And you’re mad.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You made that sound Dad does.” Lincoln growled.
Steve had to hand it to his brother. He was perceptive. “I’m striking out.”
“Like Cavallo?” Lincoln popped to his feet and stood to face Steve. “He doesn’t strike out a lot, but he does strike out. Batting average .3141. Or Vinton? He’s not as good as Cavallo. Batting average .3059. Or—”
“Time out.” Steve raised his hands in the universal T sign. “No stats.” He needed to think. He had to formulate a new plan.
“Hey, bro,” Lincoln said, “Dad always says to Mom to run something by him if she’s mad. Want to run something by me? We can go out in the yard. I’ll start running first.”
“Wrong kind of run, buddy. To run something by someone—” Steve sagged. He didn’t have it in him to explain. He gripped his brother’s shoulder. “I’ve got to get my rear in gear.”
“Rear in gear. Rear in gear.” Lincoln wagged his butt and sang, “Shake your booty.”
Steve chuckled.
Lincoln stopped moving and said, “What’s a human-interest story?”
Steve cocked his head. “Um, it’s about people sharing a story that might be of common interest to other people. It might show how other people’s problems or accomplishments could motivate them and maybe even spur the TV viewer to help.”
“Or the listener.”
“Yes, or the listener.”
Steve glanced at his watch. “Wow. Time flies. We’ve got to get to the Christmas Attic for the gingerbread house event. Mom will kill us if we aren’t there. But first we need to freshen up. Brush your teeth, comb your hair, and grab a jacket.”
Lincoln gave Steve a thumbs up.
Steve raced upstairs, shrugged out of his sweatshirt, threw on a button-down shirt and topped it with a sweater—his mother’s favorite look on him—and hurried back downstairs. Lincoln was waiting by the door, bundled in his coat and wearing a red-plaid trapper hat with ear-flaps.
“Why the hat?” Steve asked. The snow had stopped falling. “We’re only going from the car to the shop.”
“I like to wear it.”
Good enough. He wouldn’t argue. Grabbing his keys, he jogged out the door to his Lexus.
“Shotgun,” Lincoln cried as he climbed into the SUV’s passenger seat.
“You always get shotgun,” Steve joked. He switched on the car and kicked on the heat.
Lincoln buckled his seatbelt. “You didn’t ask Mr. Q.”
“What?”
“You didn’t ask Mr. Q.”
“What?”
“You didn’t ask—”
“No, I heard you the first time.” Steve flashed on the day when Lincoln and he had watched the classic Who’s On First skit between Abbott and Costello. Lincoln couldn’t stop interrupting, not understanding, just as Lou Costello hadn’t, who Who was and who What was. In the end, Lincoln grew frustrated and in a typical meltdown ordered Steve to turn it off. “What didn’t I ask Mr. Q?” Steve said, using a full sentence.
“About your human-interest story.”
“Why would I ask him about it?”
“Because he has listeners. Radio listeners.”
“This story isn’t for his audience,” Steve said.
Lincoln folded his arms. “I’m his audience. So are Mom and Dad. Isn’t your story for us? We’re humans.”
Steve cocked his head, realizing his brother had a point. A really good point. On a whim, he made a U-turn.
