Trading Christmas: When Christmas Comes / The Forgetful Bride. Debbie Macomber

“I tried,” Emily burst out. “I talked to Tracy five times and left that many messages. Tracy said she’d let you know I’d phoned.”

       “She did… .”

       “Then why didn’t you return my calls?”

       Heather dropped her gaze. “Because I was afraid you were going to send me on a guilt trip and I didn’t want to deal with it.”

       “Send you on a guilt trip?”

       “You do that, you know? Make me feel guilty.”

       Despite her irritation, Emily did her best to remain calm. Now she understood why her daughter had insisted they meet at the coffee shop. She didn’t want Emily to make a scene, which she admitted she was close to doing.

       “I left five messages,” Emily reminded her.

       “I know—but I’ve been staying with friends and didn’t realize you’d phoned until Tracy got in touch with me.”

       Staying with friends? Yeah, right. Emily’s gaze flew out the window. Her daughter and that…that Neanderthal?

       “I love him,” Heather said boldly.

       Emily managed to stay seated. “If that’s the case, why don’t you bring him inside so we can meet?”

       “Because…” Heather hesitated and then squared her shoulders as if gathering her courage. “I didn’t want him to hear what you’re planning to say.”

       “About what?” This made no sense whatsoever.

       “None of that matters. I’m leaving town with Elijah. In other words, I won’t be in Boston over the holidays.”

       Emily shook her head slightly, wondering if she’d heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

       “Elijah and I and a couple of other friends are riding down to Florida.”

       “For Christmas?” Emily knew something was wrong with her hearing now. There simply had to be. “On motorcycles?”

       “Yes, for Christmas. And yes, on motorcycles. We’re sick of this weather and want to spend our holiday on the beach.”

       Emily was completely speechless.

       “You don’t have anything to say?” Heather asked angrily. “I figured you’d have lots of opinions to share.”

       Emily’s mouth opened and closed twice while she gathered her thoughts. “I traded homes with a stranger, traveled across the country and now you’re telling me you won’t be here for Christmas?” Her voice rose on the last word.

       Heather’s eyes flashed. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’m of age and I make my own decisions.”

       Emily’s jaw sagged in dismay. “You mean you’re actually going to abandon me here—”

       “You didn’t bother to check your plans with me before you boarded that plane, did you, Mother? That’s unfortunate because I’ve made other arrangements for Christmas. As far as I’m concerned, this problem is all yours.”

       “You said you had to work.” That clearly had been a blatant lie.

       “There you go,” Heather cried. “You’re trying to make me feel guilty.”

       “If you’d been honest—”

       “You don’t want me to be honest!” Heather challenged.

       The truth of it was, she was right. Emily would rather not know that her daughter was associating with a member of some motorcycle gang.

       “Go then,” Emily said, waving her hand toward the door. “Have a wonderful time.”

       Heather leaped out of the chair as if she couldn’t get away fast enough. “You can’t blame me for this!”

       “I’m not blaming you for anything,” she said tiredly. Heaven forbid her daughter should accuse her of throwing guilt.

       “This is all your own doing.”

       Emily stared silently into the distance.

       “Nothing you say is going to make me change my mind,” Heather insisted, as if wanting her to argue.

       Emily didn’t imagine it would. She felt physically ill, but she held on to her dignity. Pride demanded that she not let her daughter know how badly she’d hurt her.

       Rushing out the door, Heather grabbed the black helmet, placed it on her head and climbed onto the back of the motorcycle. Elijah with no last name was already on the bike and within seconds they disappeared down the street.

       Emily’s opinion of this coming Christmas did an about-face.

       This was destined to be the worst one of her life. Not only was she alone, but she was in a strange town, without a single friend. And her daughter had just broken her heart.

      Five

      “For heaven’s sake, what is this?” Charles stood outside the gingerbread house in the middle of Santa’s village feeling total dismay. There had to be some mistake—some vast, terrible mistake. Nothing else would explain the fact that after flying three thousand miles, he’d landed smack-dab in the middle of Christmas Town, complete with ice-skating rink, glittering lights and Christmas music.

       He closed his eyes, hoping, praying, this nightmare would vanish and he could settle down in a nice quiet prison community. When he opened them, it was even worse than Charles had imagined. A little kid was staring up at him.

       “I’m Sarah,” she announced.

       He said nothing.

       “I lost two teeth.” She proceeded to pull down her lower lip in order to reveal the empty spaces in her mouth.

       “Is this where Emily Springer lives?” Charles asked, nodding toward the house. He was uncomfortable around children, mainly because he didn’t know any.

       “She went to Boston to spend Christmas with her daughter,” Sarah informed him.

       “I know.” So he was in the right town. Damn.

       “She keeps the key under the flower pot if you need to get inside.”

       Charles cocked his eyebrows. “She told you that?”

       “Everyone in town knows where the key is.” As if to prove it, Sarah walked over to the porch, lifted up the pot and produced the key, which she proudly displayed.

       A one-horse open sleigh drove past, bells ringing, resembling something straight off a Christmas card. It didn’t get any more grotesque than this. Ice skaters circled the rink in the park directly across the street from him. They were dressed in period costumes and singing in three-part harmony.

       Rolling his suitcase behind him and clutching his laptop, Charles approached the house. It reminded him of an illustration, too cozy and perfect to be true, with its scalloped edging and colorful shutters. The porch had a swing and a rocking chair. Had he been Norman Rockwell, he would have found a canvas and painted it. Charles sighed heavily. This must be his punishment for trying to avoid Christmas.

       “My mom’s bringing you cookies,” Sarah told him as she followed him up the steps.

       “Tell her not to bother.”

       “She does it to be neighborly.”

       “I don’t want neighbors.”

       “You don’t?”

       The little girl looked crushed.

       He didn’t mean to hurt the kid’s feelings, but he wasn’t interested in joining a Christmas commune. He simply wasn’t socially inclined. All he wanted was to be left alone so he could write—and ignore anything to do with Christmas.