Trading Christmas: When Christmas Comes / The Forgetful Bride. Debbie MacomberЧитать онлайн книгу.
Emily would spend two glorious weeks with Heather, and Charles would have two weeks to explore Washington State—or do whatever he wanted. They were due to trade back on January first.
Two glorious weeks in Boston. Emily realized Heather had to work on papers and study, but she didn’t mind. At least they’d be able to enjoy Christmas Day together and that was what mattered most.
The one negative was that Emily didn’t know her daughter’s schedule. Emily had repeatedly attempted to contact her, but Heather hadn’t returned her messages. Tracy, Heather’s roommate, hadn’t said anything outright, but Emily had the feeling Heather didn’t spend much time in her dorm room. She was obviously working longer hours than she’d let on. Actually, surprising her would be a good thing, Emily thought as she called Heather from Charles Brewster’s condo. It would force her to take some time off and—
Surprise her she did.
“Mother,” Heather cried into the receiver loudly enough to hurt Emily’s eardrum. “You can’t be in Boston.”
Emily realized her arrival was a shock, but Heather seemed more dismayed than pleased.
“I didn’t know you had a cell phone,” Emily said. It would’ve saved them both a great deal of frustration had she been able to reach Heather earlier. She’d called the dorm room as soon as she’d landed and Tracy had given Emily a cell number.
“The phone isn’t mine,” Heather protested. “It belongs to a…friend.”
“Ben?”
“No,” she said. “Ben is old news.”
Information she hadn’t bothered to share with her mother, Emily mused. “Where are you?”
“That’s not important.” Heather sounded almost angry. “Where are you?”
Emily rattled off the address, but it didn’t seem as if Heather had written anything down. Charles Brewster’s condo had proved to be something of a disappointment—not that she was complaining. She’d found it easily enough and settled into the guest room, but it was modern and sterile, devoid of personality or any sign of Christmas.
“I’m so eager to see you,” Emily told her daughter. She’d been in town for several hours and they still hadn’t connected. “Why don’t you come here, where I’m staying and—”
“I’d rather we met at the Starbucks across the street from my dormitory.”
“But…” Emily couldn’t understand why her daughter wouldn’t want to come to her. Her attitude was puzzling, to say the least.
“Mother.” Heather paused. “It would be better if we met at Starbucks.”
“All right.”
“Are you far from there?”
Emily didn’t know her way around Boston, but the Harvard campus was within walking distance of the condo. Emily figured she’d find the coffee place without too much trouble, and she told Heather that.
“Meet me there in an hour,” Heather snapped.
“Of course, but—”
The line went dead and Emily stared at the receiver, shocked that her own daughter had hung up on her. Or maybe the phone had gone dead. Maybe the battery had run out… .
With a little while before she had to leave, Emily walked around the condominium with all its modern conveniences. The kitchen was equipped with stainless steel appliances and from the look of it, Emily doubted anyone had so much as turned on a burner. The refrigerator still had the owner’s manual in the bottom drawer and almost nothing else. As soon as she could manage it, Emily would find a grocery store.
Everything about the condo was spotless—and barren. Barren was a good word, she decided. Charles Brewster apparently didn’t spend much time in his luxurious home. In her opinion his taste in furniture left something to be desired, too. All the pieces were modern, oddly shaped and in her opinion, uncomfortable. She suspected he’d given a designer free rein and then found the look so discordant that he left home whenever possible.
There wasn’t a single Christmas decoration. Thank goodness Emily had brought a bit of Christmas cheer with her. The first thing she unpacked was their hand-knit Christmas stockings.
Emily’s mother, who’d died a couple of years before Peter, had knit her stocking when Emily was five years old, and she’d knit Heather’s, too. It just wouldn’t be Christmas without their stockings. She hung them from the mantel, using a couple of paperweights she found in the study to secure them. The angel was carefully packaged in a carry-on. She unwrapped that and set it on the mantel, too. Then she arranged a few other favorite pieces—a tiny sled with a little girl atop, a Santa Heather had bought with her own money when she was ten, a miniature gift, gaily wrapped.
Her suitcases were empty now, but several Christmas decorations remained to be placed about the condo. Emily thought she’d save those until later, when Heather could take part. That way it’d be just like home.
Assuming it would take her no more than thirty minutes to walk to Starbucks, Emily put on her coat, then stepped out of the condo, took the elevator to the marble foyer and hurried onto the sidewalk. Although it was only midafternoon, it resembled dusk. Dark ominous clouds hung overhead and the threat of snow was unmistakable.
Perhaps Heather would suggest a walk across the campus in the falling snow. They could pretend they were back home.
Emily arrived at Starbucks in fifteen minutes and bought a cup of coffee. While she waited for her daughter, she sat at the table next to the window and watched the young people stroll past. Although classes had officially been dismissed for winter break, plenty of students were still around.
A large motorcycle roared past, and Emily winced at the loud, discordant sound. She sipped her coffee, watching the Harley—she assumed it was a Harley because that was the only brand she’d ever heard of. The motorcycle made a U-turn in the middle of the street and pulled into an empty parking space outside the coffee shop. Actually, it wasn’t a real space, more of a gap between two parked cars.
The rider turned off the engine, climbed off the bike and removed his black bubblelike helmet. He was an unpleasant-looking fellow, Emily thought. His hair was long and tied at the base of his neck in a ponytail, which he’d flipped over his shoulder. He was dressed completely in black leather, much of his face covered with a thick beard.
A second rider, also dressed in black leather, slipped off the bike and removed a helmet. Emily blinked, certain she must be seeing things. If she didn’t know better, she’d think the second person was her own daughter. But that wasn’t possible. Was it?
Heather’s twin placed her hand on the man’s forearm, said something Emily couldn’t hear and then headed into Starbucks alone. The Harley man stayed outside, guarding his bike.
Once the door opened and the girl walked inside, it was all too obvious that she was indeed Heather.
Aghast, Emily stood, nearly tipping over her coffee. “Heather?”
“Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?” her daughter demanded.
“It’s good to see you, too,” Emily mumbled sarcastically.
Heather’s eyes narrowed. “Frankly, Mother, it’s not good to see you.”
Emily swallowed a gasp. In her wildest imaginings, she’d never dreamed her daughter would say such a thing to her. Without being aware of it, Emily sank back into her chair.
Heather pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.
“Who’s your…friend?” Emily asked, nodding toward the window.
“That’s Elijah,” Heather responded, defiance in every word.
“He doesn’t have a last name?”