Snowkissed. Jessica Gilmore

I think they’ll go for it because of all the TV shows. My plan is that everyone has a go at Christmas cookies and gingerbread. It will be friendly—they can judge each other. Or the ones who really don’t want to bake can judge. It will make a nice start to the festivities. Then they can eat Tony’s pizzas and chill, play some games, maybe catch a Christmas movie. I’ll make popcorn.’

      ‘That sounds like a lot of work for you.’ Ethan hesitated; he didn’t want to hail on her parade or dim her enthusiasm, but... ‘You do know that these kids...they may not appreciate your good intentions.’

      ‘Don’t worry. I know I’m coming across all Pollyanna, but I have kept a reality check. I’ve got in extra fire extinguishers, plus I’ve cleared out all the sharp knives, though I’ve decided cookie cutters won’t be lethal. I know there is a chance none of them will engage. But...’ Reaching up, she attached a gold bauble. ‘I’ve got to try. Because if we get through to even one of these kids and create a happy memory of Christmas then it will be worth it. Even if they aren’t in a place to show their appreciation.’

      ‘The “dilute the tainted memories” approach?’ he said.

      ‘Yup.’

      For a second Ethan wondered if that were possible—then knew he was deluded. It wasn’t. He wasn’t even sure he wanted it to be.

      Once he’d believed the best thing to do was obliterate the chain of memories with mindless anger. Beat them into oblivion. Especially the memory of the Christmas after Tanya’s death. His mother, him, and the ghost of Tanya. In the end rage had overcome him and he’d hurled the microwaved stodgy food at the wall, watched the gravy trickle and blend in with the grungy paint. Once he’d started he hadn’t been able to stop—had pulled the scrawny tree from its pot, flung it down. Stamped on it, kicked it—as if the tree had been the bully who had driven Tanya to her death.

      His mother hadn’t said a word; then she had left the room with a curt, ‘Clean it up.’

      Seconds later he’d heard the sound of the television and known that it was the end of Christmas. By the following Christmas she’d consigned him to social services and he’d taken to the streets, consumed by grief, anger and misery. Then finally he’d decided to take control—to leash the demons and channel his emotions in order to succeed.

      With an abrupt movement he stood back. ‘I’m done.’

      Seeing the snap of concern in her blue eyes, he forced his lips into a smile. Ruby’s way wasn’t his way, but that wasn’t to say it wasn’t a good way—and she was right. If her way could help even one of these teenagers then it was worth every moment.

      ‘It looks spectacular.’

      That pulled an answering smile, though her eyes still surveyed him with a question. ‘It’s a work of art.’

      It was definitely a work of something—though Ethan wasn’t sure what.

      ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘We need to do the star. It’s the pièce de résistance.’ She walked across the room and rummaged around in a box before twirling round. ‘What do you think?’

      Ethan blinked, all darkness chased away by a star that could only be described as the Star of Bling. ‘Wow. That’s...’

      ‘Eye-catching?’ Ruby handed it up to him. ‘I think you should do the honours. Really.’ Her voice softened. ‘This is your scheme. I know I’m banging on about the magic of Christmas, but without you these teens wouldn’t be going anywhere. So I think it’s right that you should put the star on top.’

      Ethan hesitated, a frisson of discomfort rippling through him at her tone. Too much admiration, too much emotion...best to get this whole interlude over with.

      In an abrupt movement he placed the star on top of the tree, nestled it into the branches and jumped down off the stepladder.

      ‘There. Done. Now, how about we get some work done?’

      ‘Sure...’

      Ethan frowned at the note of hesitation in her voice, saw her swift glance at her watch and sighed. ‘Unless you have more Christmas magic to sort?’

      ‘Not magic...just something I need to do. But I can do it later. It’s not a problem.’

      Curiosity warred with common sense and won. ‘Okay. I’ll bite. What needs to be done?’

      ‘Now I’ll sound like Pollyanna on a sugar rush. I’ve bought them all gifts. Out of my own money,’ she added quickly.

      ‘The money’s not an issue.’ Affront touched him that she’d thought it would be.

      ‘I know that! I just wanted to make it personal. I’ll sign the tags from you as well. Though it would be better if you—’ She broke off.

      ‘If I signed them myself? I can do that.’

      ‘Fabulous. I’ll run up and get all the gifts now. Maybe we could wrap them whilst we discuss the seating plan?’

      Ethan opened his mouth and then closed it again. What he’d meant was that Ruby could give him the tags to sign. No need for him to see the presents—presumably she’d bought them all chocolates or key rings. But she looked so pleased...

      ‘Sure,’ he heard his voice say.

      ‘I’ll be back in a mo...’

      ‘Bring them to my office.’ At least that way he could pretend it was work.

      Ruby toted the bags out of her bedroom and paused on the landing. Time for a pep talk. It was wonderful that Ethan had bought into her ideas, but she had to grab on to the coat-tails of perspective before it disappeared over the horizon. Sure, he’d helped decorate the tree, but that was because she had given him little choice—he’d done it for those teens and so that she could resume her restaurant manager duties more quickly. Not for her.

      It was time to get these gifts wrapped and get on with some work.

      So why, when she entered his office, did she feel a small ripple of disappointment to see Ethan behind his desk, intent on his computer screen, exuding professionalism?

      His glance up as she entered was perfunctory at best.

      She hesitated. ‘If you want to get on with some work I can wrap these later.’

      ‘No, it’s fine.’ One broad hand swept the contents of the desktop to one side.

      ‘Right. Here goes. I’ve got a list that details each person and their gift.’

      His body stilled. ‘You bought individual gifts?’

      ‘Yes. I called the social workers, got a few numbers for foster carers and residential home workers and chatted to some people. Just to find out a bit about them all, so I could buy something personal.’

      His eyes rested on her with an indecipherable expression.

      ‘Hey... Like you would say, it’s no big deal.’

      ‘Yes, it is.’

      ‘No—really. To be honest, it’s kind of therapeutic. In a weird way I feel like I’m doing it for myself. The me of all those years ago. Because I can remember what it was like in care, being the person with the token present. That was the worst of it—having to be grateful for gifts that were impersonal. Don’t get me wrong—some carers really tried. But they didn’t know me well enough to know what I wanted. Others couldn’t be bothered to get to know me. So I’d get orange-flavoured chocolate when I only liked milk, or a top that I loathed and that didn’t fit.’

       For heaven’s sake!

      ‘That all sounds petty, doesn’t it? But I want these kids to get a gift they want—not something generic.’

      ‘Like a key ring or a chocolate bar?’ he said, and a rueful smile touched