Christmas in His Bed: Talking in Your Sleep... / Unwrapped / Kiss & Tell. Carrie Alexander

for more than the bigger paycheck. If this is what you want to do day in and day out for years to come. If you have—”

      “Passion,” she finished for him, flatly.

      “Yes. Exactly.”

      Joy withered, sinking back into her chair, thanking Ken as he left. What could she do? It seemed passion was the thing lacking in her life overall, and she had no idea if she’d ever had it, or how to find it.

      RAFE WAS GRINNING ear-to-ear as he pulled into Warren’s driveway. He stepped out of the car to see Bessie getting out of her own car across the street, starting to take out sacks of groceries from the trunk. Rafe trotted over to give her a hand. He liked Bessie, and she always fed him when he came over—it reminded him of his own neighborhood back home, where someone was always trying to feed him something. Thankfully his job and time at the gym worked it off.

      “Hey, let me give you a hand with those,” he said, lifting the bags out of her arms.

      “Well, now, they don’t make many like you anymore, Rafe. I hope that young woman across the street knows she’s found herself a real gentleman,” Bessie complimented him. He acknowledged the words with silence, secretly thinking that if this nice old lady knew what plans he had for Joy later that night, she might not think he was much of a gentleman.

      “Lots of groceries here,” he commented, changing the subject as they walked up the steps. “Doing a lot of cooking this week?”

      “Oh yes. Baking for church and for friends—among which you may count yourself—and of course my family will be here soon, so I need to start now. They all have good appetites, and I like to make everyone’s favorites,” she declared.

      Rafe felt a little twinge of loneliness for his own family. His mother did the same. His favorite was the manicotti that was standard Christmas-Eve fare, along with the homemade custard-and-cheese cannoli. His mouth watered thinking about it.

      “You can put those down on the table, thank you very much. Can I make you some lunch?”

      He smiled and then shook his head. “Don’t tell my mother if you ever meet her, but your soup is as good as hers, Bessie. There isn’t much that would keep me from it, but I have a Christmas tree tied to the top of Warren’s car, and I need to get it down and inside the house to surprise Joy.”

      Bessie’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, you’re a romantic one, too. I’ll send some soup over later—enough for both of you.”

      “We won’t say no,” he assured her with a wink.

      He returned back to his car, and before long had hauled the Christmas tree into Joy’s house, along with a boatload of decorations he’d bought at the store. He wasn’t going to decorate it for her, but they’d have some fun—and some fun—doing it together.

      Still, he looked at his watch and wondered where she was. Time had slid by while he’d put up the tree, and he hadn’t realized it was already a half hour later than Joy normally came home from work. He knew this was a busy week. Maybe she’d gotten caught up in something. He was willing to wait.

      Still, she hadn’t replied to any of his text messages after the first few, and he hoped he hadn’t ticked her off again. He sat with an old magazine and the undecorated tree until the sun went down and the Christmas lights were all blinking outside the windows. Finally he gave in to his worry and called Second Chance. No, Joy wasn’t there, and Pam hadn’t heard from her.

      By the time he called her cell and left a message, a little chunk of fear had lodged itself in his gut. He’d seen the results of too many times when someone didn’t make it home one night, and it was hard for him not to imagine the worst.

      Still, what could he do? He didn’t really know Joy all that well, certainly not enough to expect her to check in with him.

      Worry turned to annoyance, which transformed into irritation and near anger again as he saw her headlights turn into the driveway, then relief took over. She was fine, just late. Going out on the porch, he met her on the steps.

      “Hey, you’re home late,” he observed, unable to keep the slight accusation out of his tone.

      “You were waiting for me?”

      Something about that stung; they hadn’t had firm plans, but he thought it was pretty clear they were getting together that evening. The fact that she obviously hadn’t even given him a second thought put a big dent in the masculine ego.

      “Not really, I just stopped by,” he lied, his pride digging in.

      “Oh, I’m sorry, Rafe. I was out driving.”

      “Where?”

      “Around. I had to think.”

      Rafe’s irritation dissipated as he detected the tone of confusion in her voice, and he went the rest of the way down the steps and took her hands in his.

      “Think about what? Us?”

      “No … Sort of. Related. I had to think about why I have no passion.”

       What the hell?

      “This sounds like a conversation we need to sit down for. Did you eat?”

      She shook her head and they entered the house. Rafe ordered some takeout and then took her coat, leading her over to the sofa to sit with him. Gathering her in his arms, he drew her near and was gratified when she curled in a little.

      “You bought a tree.”

      “I thought we could have some fun decorating it.”

      “I haven’t had a tree in forever. Never as an adult.”

      “Really? You did say you aren’t that into Christmas.”

      She twisted to face him. “I’m not, and don’t you see, that’s it.”

      “What?”

      “At Christmas, when everyone is excited, when there’s shopping and gifts and all these celebrations, I don’t get into it. I’m left flat.”

      “Why is that?”

      “My father pretty much gave up on Christmas the year my mother took off with her lover. He would buy me a gift each year and leave it on the kitchen table, but we didn’t do trees or any of those things. I think it was too painful for him—it all reminded him of her.”

      Rafe paused, absorbing what she’d said. “She took off at Christmas?”

      “Yeah. He—the man she was seeing—was taking her to Paris for the holiday. So she went. We never heard from her again. I don’t even know if she’s alive, or where she is,” she stated matter-of-factly. She didn’t really have any emotional trauma over the issue anymore.

      “That must have been a huge blow.”

      “Yes, it was. Dad was never the same. He worked hard, made a decent living and we had a good life, but I guess our life wasn’t glamorous enough for her. He worked a lot, long hours—”

      “I meant for you, Joy. Sure it was hard on your father, but he was an adult. What about you? To have your mother leave you like that. How old were you?”

      She shifted uncomfortably. “Nine.”

      “Old enough to know what was happening.”

      “I understood as much as I was able, yes. I heard them arguing the night she left. I took care of him the best I could—we took care of each other, I guess.”

      “It sounds like it was difficult for both of you, but to never have Christmas again? That’s harsh for a kid.”

      She shook her head. “I didn’t want it either. If I had asked, he would have done it, but it reminded me of everything bad, too, so why bother? I guess I still feel that way about the holiday.”

      She was partly lying. A few years after her mother