James sat in his car, his fingers numb from strangling the steering wheel, his nerves jangled, as if someone had zapped him with a Taser.
He was a father? How could that be?
He knew all about the birds and the bees, of course. Still, he doubted Heather’s story. He’d had one too many drinks that night, sure. They both had. But he couldn’t imagine being sober enough to make love to a woman, while too drunk to remember it. Plus, he’d ended up on her couch because he’d made the lucid decision to keep his car keys in his pants.
Not the only thing that should have stayed in his jeans, it seemed.
He drove around aimlessly for hours, his car windows rolled all the way down, hoping for an arctic blast that would help him think straight. He ran his calculations again and again, counting the months backward and forward. No matter which way he did it, it was still nine months since he’d been home for his dad’s birthday.
Nine months since he’d slept over at Heather’s apartment.
As Frost Farms became visible up ahead, he knew he shouldn’t have been driving. He’d been so preoccupied with Heather’s revelation he could barely remember the trip. The more he thought about it, the more his head hurt, while the meal he’d had at Kate’s soured in his stomach.
He parked his car in front of the house, fired up his cell phone and hit the icon for Amazon. It shouldn’t be that difficult to buy a DNA test online. He used the dictation program and spoke the words into the phone, letting it do the typing for him. James sent the purchase to himself care of the UPS Store in Stowe, a fifteen-minute drive away. He’d used their services before, but never for anything so confidential.
Business complete, he slipped into the house, hoping to sneak past everyone until he’d collected his composure. But the whole fam-damily was there—his parents, sister Joey, Duncan, Garret, even Lily Parker—and they were all fussing over the baby.
Perhaps his baby.
“Hi, Jimmy,” his mother said, the infant in her arms. “Would you like to hold her?”
No. Not so much.
It wasn’t the kid’s fault. Not at all. If there was any blame to be had, it rested squarely upon his shoulders. But he was so torn, his thoughts and feelings so jumbled, he couldn’t trust himself to hold Holly. Not while she was staring up at him with those big, innocent eyes.
“She looks pretty comfy where she is,” he said, hanging up his jacket.
He had to get proof of his paternity before he did anything stupid. Like get attached to Heather’s baby and start thinking of the little girl as his own when she might not be. If he found out Holly was truly his, he’d give her one hundred and fifty percent of his love and support. No question. He was totally ready to accept responsibility for any child he’d helped create.
James stepped past the entrance hall and got a whiff of turnip.
Damn. “Sorry about the vegetables, Mom.” He’d completely forgotten his promise to help with them. “I got held up in town and—”
“It’s okay, Jimmy.” His mother’s accepting smile made him feel ten times worse. “Are you all right? You look a little pale.”
“Just tired from the drive yesterday,” he said, covering. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” Garret piped in. “Because I want to talk to you about Heather Connolly.”
The air around James turned thin, hot. He loosened his collar. “What about her?”
“She was asking for you at Frosty Frolics. I was surprised you knew her.”
James wondered how much he should admit to his brother. He decided to stick to the bare facts. “I ran into her at Billy Boy’s. Once.”
“Well, you must have made an impression. I can’t see you with her, though. She’s hardly your type.”
“I have a type?” Mentally, he reviewed the women he’d been with over the years—all pretty, all petite. James waited for his brother to answer, but the guy looked sheepish, like he’d already said too much.
Their mother stepped forward, speaking in a soft voice. “No matter where you were, Jimmy—crab fishing off Alaska or learning the construction business in Texas—if you sent a photo home, and there happened to be a girl in the shot with you, she looked like April Rochester.”
He started to deny it and realized he couldn’t. Not without lying. What would Freud say about that?
“Uncle Jimmy! Come see what I got!” Duncan grasped his hand and tugged, dragging James into the living room, and sitting him in the big armchair between the glowing fireplace and the Christmas tree, their homemade childhood ornaments glittering alongside boughs filled with store-bought tinsel and twinkling lights.
Dunc reached down to the floor to grab three children’s books and then crawled into James’ lap. “Read to me.”
James’ mouth dried up while his palms went clammy—the same as when he was a boy and asked to read in front of the class. He’d hear the other kids titter as he battled through the words, his voice a halting monotone, his self-worth plummeting.
He’d soon found creative ways to avoid the humiliation. He’d pretend to read from later in the book, making it up as he went. When the teacher told him the correct page number, he’d put on an elaborate show of trying to find the place, drawing it out to waste as much time as he could. When he finally found the right spot, he’d ‘accidentally’ drop the book on the floor and have to start all over again.
Of course, he could only use that trick once.
Alternately, he’d play sick, or say he had something in his eye. He’d knock over a pile of books, tug on a girl’s braid, or start a punching match with the class bully. When he got older, he’d slouch in his seat and sneer like a gangster—a look he practiced in the bathroom mirror. In no time at all, teachers stopped calling on him.
“What have you got here, Dunc?”
Merrily, Duncan listed off the titles. “How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer and A Visit from St. Nicholas.”
James breathed a sigh of relief, as his performance anxiety diminished. “Let’s read that last story, buddy.” It was one James knew by heart. He opened the first page and began it from memory.
“‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house...’”
“‘Not a creature was stirring, ’” Duncan continued. “‘Not even a mouse. ’”
“Hey, you did that like a pro.” James thumped the kid’s shoulder in congratulations. “Maybe you should be reading to me.”
The boy took James up on his suggestion, reciting the next two lines perfectly. Then he stalled. Obviously, he’d heard the poem so often he’d memorized some of it, too.
James continued on from there. He called for the reindeer in his best Santa voice, earning a belly laugh from Duncan. Gaining confidence with his recitation, James dropped his volume, half-whispering when he got to the part about listening for the “prancing and pawing of each little hoof” of the reindeer on the roof. He finished with a big flourish, à la the jolly old elf, when he ho-ho-hoed and said, “But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight…Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”
A round of applause startled James and alerted him to the fact they were no longer alone. Lily Parker held the baby, leaving his mother’s hands free to clap. Garret gazed at Lily, oblivious to everything and everyone, except the PR manager. And James’ father—lean, fit, and looking younger since his retirement—busied himself sorting through the day’s mail, glancing up long enough to offer a quick smile. A token show of approval. Sheepishly, James closed the book and handed it back to Duncan.
“Read some more, Uncle Jimmy,” he said, cracking open a second story.
“Maybe another night.” And as long as it’s a tale I know.
“Definitely another night,” James’ father interjected, leading the family into the country-style dining room. “Stories don’t get cold but food does. I want to eat mine while it’s hot.”
Whew! Saved by his dad’s appetite.
They took their places at the dining room table, Garret sitting to their father’s right, the chosen position for the favored son. James knew he could be oversensitive when it came to the family dynamics and his dad’s preferences. That TV psychologist would have a heyday scolding James for trying so hard to impress the parent who was the hardest to please. All he’d ever wanted was for his father to be proud of him. A task he regularly failed. He’d always envied his brother, Garret. Everything came easy for him.
No. Not everything, James reminded himself, as he grabbed his usual seat beside his sister, Joey. Garret had lost a wife and raised his son pretty much single-handedly for the past two years. To get through that took more strength and courage than James could imagine, and he admired his brother greatly.
But they’d never been close. The seven years between them probably had as much to do with it as temperament. Growing up, Garret had his own interests, friends his own age, and James had always felt like he was in the way. Sure, his big brother had been protective, sticking up for him against schoolyard thugs, until James could fend for himself. But he and Garret never hung out much, and when they did, they spent most of the time arguing.
Joey nudged James with her elbow and passed him a serving bowl filled with roasted potatoes. He loaded a couple of spoonfuls on his plate, skipped the turnip and the carrots, took a dollop of horseradish and his share of the beef when the platter came round his way. He poured gravy over the lot.
He shoveled a forkful into his mouth. He had no doubt the meal was up to its usual, delicious standard, but James barely tasted it. The conversation around the large, oval table sounded like a distant buzz. He focused on the portable bassinet positioned in front of the buffet and watched the tiny person sleeping within its pink blankets. James pictured himself picking her up, holding her close, keeping her safe. He envisioned life as a family man—a holiday snapshot of himself, baby Holly and...
Try as he might, he couldn’t imagine Heather in that photo. It was April’s face he saw, her sparkling eyes and those Cupid’s bow lips that begged to be kissed.
Beside him, his father snapped his newspaper and passed it to Garret. The noise and the motion brought James back to reality.
“What’s up? Miss the winning Powerball numbers again?”
Garret responded to James’ attempt at a joke with a humorless laugh. “Dad’s upset about big businesses outsourcing to other countries.”
“With all the jobs going overseas,” his father chimed in, “where do these hot shots think we’re going to get the money to buy their goods? It’s economic suicide.”
James looked at the two men, confused. “What set this off?”
“The newspaper,” Garret said. “Haven’t you read it?” His brother didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s all about this Getalot company and their plans to open a store in Vermont. They buy cheap goods overseas and sell them at discount prices here, while still pulling in a huge profit. It doesn’t matter to them that they’re putting Americans out of work, or having ten-year-olds in Bangladesh slave fifty hours a week for peanuts in appalling conditions.”
James swallowed. That was his company they were talking about. He was sure Stephen wouldn’t do anything unscrupulous. The man was generous to a fault—a good guy, one of the best, always treating his staff as equals.
James took a swig of water, soothing his dry throat. “What about the jobs Getalot provides in their stores here in America?”
“At minimum wage?”
“With excellent upward mobility and benefits.”
Garret sat back in his seat, arms crossed. “How do you know so much about it?”
James figured now wasn’t the right time to explain his involvement with Getalot, Inc. And it was never the right time to get into a disagreement with his brother. “I try to stay informed. And it seems to me that a few jobs are what Carol Falls needs.”
Garret raised his chin. “We’re doing our part to support the local labor force.”
“Frost Farms can’t employ everyone. What about Verna’s husband? Getting him back to work would be a big help to his family.”
Their father dropped his cutlery on his plate with a clatter, his exasperation clear, but it was Garret who spoke. “A big conglomerate would be the death of a small town like Carol Falls. Getalot sells maple syrup cheaper than we can by purchasing an inferior product in bulk.”
Of course, they did. Not everyone could afford Frost Maple Syrup on a regular basis. That didn’t stop poorer families from wanting something sweet and gooey on top of their pancakes. James could well understand how chains like the one he worked for might challenge local companies, but that was the nature of commerce. Wasn’t it all about survival of the fittest?
“If businesses can’t stay competitive, they shouldn’t be in business. Isn’t that the American way? By ignoring that, aren’t you simply taking care of your own interests. How are you different from the folks at Getalot?”
He’d never seen his brother so red in the face. James half expected the top of Garret’s head to pop off. He should have kept his mouth shut.
“Never thought I’d see you side with a big conglomerate over the family farm.” Garret stood and motioned to Lily, who gave James an uneasy smile. The two of them left the room with Duncan sandwiched in between, their father in hot pursuit.
“Good going, Jimmy. You must have set a new world’s record for clearing the joint.”
At last, Joey had said something. Not that it was helpful, but he’d never relied on his little sister to fight his battles. With her athlete’s build poured into a police uniform, and their mom’s fair skin tones, she looked both tough and fragile. A walking contradiction. She followed on the heels of the others, leaving James and his mother alone.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to get into an argument.”
The older woman gave him a squeeze. “You have to remember, Garret’s put everything into this farm. It’s more than a job to him.”
“But what I said...you understand. Don’t you?”
“I see both sides. It’s the Libra in me. But I won’t have my children fighting. I want peace under this roof, Jimmy.”
And he was the bad guy, immediately in the wrong because he was a visitor here. James bent his head and examined his socks. “I’ll grab my bag and go to a hotel.”
He stood to do just that, but his mother clutched his arm.
“That’s not what I meant. You’re my son and you are always welcome here. But you need to bite your tongue sometimes. Garret, too. And I’m going to say the same thing to him. We’re a family...and it’s almost Christmas, for goodness sakes. Let’s think about the season and be considerate of one another’s feelings.”
Amazing how she could put things into perspective. She must have seen a rerun of A Charlie Brown Christmas.
“Sure, Mom.”
He felt bad about fighting with Garret. Not because his beliefs were wrong but because he’d let the conversation with Heather color his mood. And, now that James was alone with his mom, he realized there might be a quick way to solve the paternity of Heather’s baby.
“Let me know if you want help with Holly—taking her to the doctor or anything. I assume she’ll need a check-up to make sure she’s healthy. A blood test might come in handy to help find her parents, too.”
“Already done. They’re running a DNA profile on her, as well.”
He scooped up several plates, preparing to clear the table. “So...did the doctor tell you the baby’s blood type? Or is that a police secret?”
“No. He mentioned Holly’s O positive. Like most of the folks in Vermont. You included.”
Darn. That sure didn’t take him off the list of possible fathers. Good thing he’d ordered the DNA kit. There was nothing more he could do now but wait for it.
James took charge of the clean-up and then excused himself, retreating to his room to call Stephen. He got the ego boost he was looking for when he told his employer about the new land alternative he’d discovered that day—April’s farm.
“Sounds promising, James. What about public opinion of us there?”
If the discussion at dinner was any indication, it wouldn’t be good. “I know these people, sir. I’ll mingle with them. Mention it in casual conversation.” Not only for Stephen’s sake. James wanted to know what folks thought about Getalot for himself.
“Excellent. Call me when you have more, son.”
“Will do.” James hit the red END button, his pride fortified. Amazing how a short conversation with Stephen could do that. James liked it when the older man called him son, too. It fueled his desire to defend the company, more than the paycheck ever could. And the paycheck was enough to win anyone’s devotion.
Funny. At one time, he’d felt devotion only for April.
James went to the window, gazing out of it into the darkness beyond and thought about her letter. The one he’d received after she left town.
He’d stood at this very window then too, hurt replaced by hope, as he unfolded the note from its envelope and used the pads of his fingers to trace the neat loops of her handwriting as if it were Braille.
And had as much luck reading it as Ancient Greek.
Embarrassed to ask anyone he knew to tell him the contents, he’d left town, bent on improving himself. Determined to become the man she deserved. The man her parents wanted for a son-in-law.
He’d done whatever he could to make a living, while seeking help for his problem—taking classes, paying tutors. But his efforts came too late.
When he’d returned home to retrieve the letter and finally read it, he discovered the note had been sealed up along with his other treasures—the eagle’s feather and the silver dollar.
All lost to him.
James wasn’t big on Christmas and had stopped believing in Santa at four when he’d caught his father sneaking presents under the tree, and snacking on the milk and cookies his mother left for the Man in the Red Suit. Getting his Christmas wish was even less likely now that Heather had come back into his life.
In spite of all that, James said a silent prayer, wishing he could erase the years and start over with the woman who’d written the letter buried in the floor beneath his feet.