Nora Roberts - Home For Christmas.pdf

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Home For Christmas
Nora Roberts
Silhouette Christmas Stories 1986
Chapter One
So much can change in ten years. He was prepared for it. All during the flight from London and the long,
winding drive north from Boston to Quiet Valley, New Hampshire, population 326—or it had been ten
years before when Jason Law had last been there—he'd thought of how different things would be. A
decade, even for a forgotten little town in New England was bound to bring changes. There would have
been deaths and births. Houses and shops would have changed hands. Some of them might not be there
at all.
Not for the first time since Jason had decided to visit his hometown did he feel foolish. After all, it was
very likely he wouldn't even be recognized. He'd left a thin, defiant twenty-year-old in a scruffy pair of
jeans. He was coming back a man who'd learned how to replace defiance with arrogance and succeed.
His frame was still lean, but it fitted nicely into clothes tailored on Savile Row and Seventh Avenue. Ten
years had changed him from a desperate boy determined to make his mark to an outwardly complacent
man who had. What ten years hadn't changed, was what was inside. He was still looking for roots, for his
place. That was why he was heading back to Quiet Valley.
The road still twisted and turned through the woods, up the mountains and down again, as it had when
he'd headed in the opposite direction on a Greyhound. Snow covered the ground, smooth here, bumpy
there where was heaped over rocks. In the sunlight trees shimmered with it. Had he missed it? He'd
spent one winter in snow up to his waist in the Andes. He'd spent another sweltering in Africa. The years
ran together, but oddly enough, Jason could remember every place he'd spent Christmas over the last ten
years, though he'd never celebrated the holiday. The road narrowed and swept into a wide curve. He
could see the mountains, covered with pines and dusted with white. Yes, he'd missed it.
Sun bounced off the mounds of snow. He adjusted his dark glasses and slowed down, then on impulse,
stopped. When he stepped from the car his breath came in streams of smoke. His skin tingled with the
cold but he didn't button his coat or reach in his pockets for his gloves. He needed to feel it. Breathing in
the thin, icy air was like breathing in thousands of tiny needles. Jason walked the few feet to the top of the
ridge and looked down on Quiet Valley.
He'd been born there, raised there. He'd learned of grief there—and he'd fallen in love. Even from the
distance he could see her house—her parents' house, Jason reminded himself and felt the old, familiar
surge of fury. She'd be living somewhere else now, with her husband, with her children.
When he discovered that his hands were balled into fists he carefully relaxed them. Channeling emotion
was a skill he'd turned into an art over the past decade. If he could do it in his work, reporting on famine,
war, and suffering, he could do it for himself. His feelings for Faith had been a boy's feelings. He was a
man now, and she, like Quiet Valley, was only part of his childhood. He'd traveled more than five
thousand miles just to prove it. Turning away, he got back in the car and started down the mountain.
From the distance, Quiet Valley had looked like a Currier and Ives painting, all white and snug between
mountain and forest. As he drew closer, it became less idyllic and more approachable. The tired paint
 
showed here and there on some of the outlying houses. Fences bowed under snow. He saw a few new
houses in what had once been open fields. Change. He reminded himself he'd expected it.
Smoke puffed out of chimneys. Dogs and children raced in the snow. A check of his watch showed him
it was half past three. School was out, and he'd been traveling for fifteen hours. The smart thing to do
was to see if the Valley Inn was still in operation and get a room. A smile played around his mouth as he
wondered if old Mr. Beantree still ran the place. He couldn't count the times Beantree had told him he'd
never amount to anything but trouble. He had a Pulitzer and an Overseas Press Award to prove differ-
ently.
Houses were grouped closer together now, and he recognized them. The Bedford place, Tim Hawkin's
house, the Widow Marchant's. He slowed again as he passed the widow's tidy blue clapboard. She
hadn't changed the color, he noticed and felt foolishly pleased. And the old spruce in the front yard was
already covered with bright red ribbons. She'd been kind to him. Jason hadn't forgotten how she had
fixed hot chocolate and listened to him for hours when he'd told her of the travels he wanted to make, the
places he dreamed of seeing. She'd been in her seventies when he'd left, but of tough New England
stock. He thought he might still find her in her kitchen patiently fueling the wood stove and listening to her
Rachmaninoff.
The streets of the town were clear and tidy. New Englanders were a practical lot, and Jason thought, as
sturdy as the bedrock they'd planted themselves on. The town had not changed as he'd anticipated. Rail
ings Hardware still sat on the corner off Main and the post office still occupied a brick building no bigger
than a garage. The same red garland was strung from lamppost to lamppost as it had been all through his
youth during each holiday season. Children were building a snowman in front of the Litner place. But
whose children? Jason wondered. He scanned the red mufflers and bright boots knowing any of them
might be Faith's. The fury came back and he looked away.
The sign on the Valley Inn had been repainted, but nothing else about the three-story square stone build-
ing was different. The walkway had been scraped clean and smoke billowed out of both chimneys. He
found himself driving beyond it. There was something else to do first, something he'd already known he
would have to do. He could have turned at the corner, driven a block and seen the house where he grew
up. But he didn't.
Near the end of Main would be a tidy white house, bigger than most of the others with two big bay win-
dows and a wide front porch. Tom Monroe had brought his bride there. A reporter of Jason's caliber
knew how to ferret out such information. Perhaps Faith had put up the lace curtains she'd always wanted
at the windows. Tom would have bought her the pretty china tea sets she'd longed for. He'd have given
her exactly what she'd wanted. Jason would have given her a suitcase and a motel room in countless
cities. She'd made her choice.
After ten years he discovered it was no easier to accept. Still, he forced himself to be calm as he pulled
up to the curb. Faith and he had been friends once, lovers briefly. He'd had other lovers since, and she
had a husband. But he could still remember her as she'd looked at eighteen, lovely, soft, eager. She had
wanted to go with him, but he wouldn't let her. She had promised to wait, but she hadn't. He took a deep
breath as he climbed from the car.
The house was lovely. In the big bay window that faced the street was a Christmas tree, cluttered and
green in the daylight. At night it would glitter like magic. He could be sure of it because Faith had always
believed so strongly in magic.
Standing on the sidewalk he found himself dealing with fear. He'd covered wars and interviewed terror-
 
ists but he'd never felt the stomach-churning fear that he did now, standing on a narrow snow-brushed
sidewalk facing a pristine white house with holly bushes by the door. He could turn around, he reminded
himself. Drive back to the inn or simply out of town again.
There was no need to see her again. She was out of his life. Then he saw the lace curtains at the window
and the old resentment stirred, every bit as strong as fear.
As he started down the walk a girl raced around the side of the house just ahead of a well-aimed snow-
ball. She dived, rolled and evaded. In an instant, she was up again and hurling one of her own.
"Bull's-eye, Jimmy Harding!" With a whoop, she turned to run and barreled into Jason. "Sorry." With
snow covering her from head to foot, she looked up and grinned. Jason felt the world spin backward.
She was the image of her mother. The sable hair peeked out of her cap and fell untidily to her shoulders.
The small, triangular face was dominated by big blue eyes that seemed to hold jokes all of their own. But
it was the smile, the one that said, isn't this fun? that caught him by the throat. Shaken, he stepped back
while the girl dusted herself off and studied him.
"I've never seen you before."
He slipped his hands into his pockets. But I've seen you, he thought. "No. Do you live here?"
"Yeah, but the shop's around the side." A snowball landed with a plop at her feet. She lifted a brow in a
sophisticated manner. "That's Jimmy," she said in the tone of a woman barely tolerating a suitor. "His
aim's lousy. The shop's around the side," she repeated as she bent to ball more snow. "Just walk right in."
She raced off holding a ball in each hand. Jason figured Jimmy was in for a surprise.
Faith's daughter. He hadn't asked her name and nearly called her back. It didn't matter, he told himself.
He'd only be in town a few days before he took the next assignment. Just passing through, he thought.
Just cleaning the slate.
He backtracked to walk around the side of the house. Though he couldn't imagine what sort of shop
Tom could have, he thought it might be best to see him first. He almost relished it.
The little workshop he'd half expected turned out to be a miniature of a Victorian cottage. The sleigh out
in front held two life-size dolls dressed in top hats and bonnets, cloaks and top boots. Above the door
was a fancy hand-painted sign that read Doll House. To the accompaniment of bells, Jason pushed the
door open.
"I'll be right with you."
Hearing her voice again was like stepping back and finding no solid ground. But he'd deal with it, Jason
told himself. He'd deal with it because he had to. Slipping off his glasses, he tucked them into his pocket
and looked around.
Child-size furniture was set around the room in the manner of a cozy parlor. Dolls of every shape and
size and style occupied chairs, stools, shelves and cabinets. In front of an elf-size fireplace where flames
shimmered, sat a grandmother of a doll in lace cap and apron. The illusion was so strong Jason almost
expected her to begin rocking.
 
"I'm sorry to keep you waiting." With a china doll in one hand and a bridal veil in the other, Faith walked
through the doorway. " I was right in the middle of..."
The veil floated out of her hand as she stopped. It waltzed to the floor with no sound at all. Color rushed
away from her face, making the deep-blue eyes nearly violet in contrast. In reaction, or defense, she
gripped the doll to her breast. "Jason."
Chapter Two
Framed in the doorway with the thin winter light creeping through the tiny windows she was lovelier than
his memory of her. He'd hoped it would be different. He'd hoped his fantasies of her would be ex-
aggerated as so many fantasies are. But she was here, flesh and blood, and so beautiful she took his
breath away. Perhaps because of it, his smile was cynical and his voice cool.
"Hello, Faith."
She couldn't move, forward or back. He trapped her now as he had so many years before. He didn't
know it then, she couldn't let him know it now. Emotion, locked and kept secret for so long struggled
against will and was held back. "How are you?" she managed to ask, her hands like a vise around the
doll.
"Fine." He walked toward her. God, how it pleased him to see the nerves jumping in her eyes. God, how
it tormented him to learn she smelled the same. Soft, young, innocent. "You look wonderful." He said it
carelessly, like a yawn.
"You were the last person I expected to see walk through the door." One she'd learned to stop looking
for. Determined to control herself, Faith loosened her grip on the doll. "How long are you in town?"
"Just a few days. I had the urge."
She laughed, and hoped it didn't sound hysterical. "You always did. We read a lot about you. You've
been able to see all the places you always wanted to see."
"And more."
She turned away, giving herself a moment to close her eyes and pull her emotions together. "They ran it
on the front page when you won the Pulitzer. Mr. Beantree strutted around as though he'd been your
mentor. 'Fine boy, Jason Law,' he said. 'Always knew he'd amount to something.'"
"I saw your daughter."
That was the biggest fear, the biggest hope, the dream she'd put to rest years ago. She bent casually to
pick up the veil. "Clara?"
"Just outside. She was about to mow down some boy named Jimmy."
"Yes, that's Clara." The smile came quickly and just as stunningly as it had on the child. "She's a vicious
competitor," she added and wanted to say like her father, but didn't dare.
There was so much to say, so much that couldn't be said. If he had had one wish at that moment it would
 
have been to reach out and touch her. Just to touch her once and remember the way it had been.
"I see you have your lace curtains."
Regret washed over her. She'd have settled for bare windows, blank walls. "Yes, I have my lace curtains
and you your adventures."
"And this place." He turned to look around again. "When did all this start?"
She could deal with it, she promised herself, this hatefully casual small talk. "I opened it nearly eight years
ago now."
He picked a rag doll from a bassinet. "So you sell dolls. A hobby?"
Something else came into her eyes now. Strength. "No, it's my business. I sell them, repair them, even
make them."
"Business?" He set the doll down and the smile he gave her had nothing to do with humor. "It's hard for
me to picture Tom approving of his wife setting up a business."
"Is it?" It hurt, but she set the china doll on a counter and began to arrange the veil on its head. "You
always were perceptive, Jason, but you've been away a long time." She looked over her shoulder and
her eyes weren't nervous or even strong. They were simply cold. "A very long time. Tom and I were di-
vorced eight years ago. The last time I heard he was living in Los Angeles. You see, he didn't care for
small towns either. Or small-town girls."
He couldn't name the things that stirred in him so he pushed them aside. Bitterness was simpler. "Ap-
parently you picked badly, Faith."
She laughed again but the veil crumpled in her hand. "Apparently I did."
"You didn't wait." It was out before he could stop it. He hated himself for it, and her.
"You were gone." She turned back slowly and folded her hands.
"I told you I'd come back. I told you I'd send for you as soon as I could."
"You never called, or wrote. For three months I—"
"Three months?" Furious, he grabbed her arms. "After everything we'd talked about, everything we'd
hoped for, three months was all you could give me?"
She would have given him a lifetime, but there hadn't been a choice. Struggling to keep her voice calm,
she looked into his eyes. They were the same-intense, impatient. "I didn't know where you were. You
wouldn't even give me that." She pulled away from him because the need was as great as it had always
been. "I was eighteen and you were gone."
"And Tom was here."
She set her jaw. "And Tom was here. It's been ten years, Jason, you never once wrote. Why now?"
 

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