Do Not Open 'Til Christmas by Sierra Donovan (5)

At one time, Bret never would have envisioned himself standing over a hot stove, but it happened with great regularity nowadays. Especially Tuesday nights.

At least once a week, he went over to his dad’s house for dinner. When he did, he made it a point to see that his father ate something that resembled actual food, rather than the processed stuff that lived in David Radner’s kitchen. Stocked with preservative-laden canned foods, salty snacks, and powdered donuts, the inside of his dad’s cabinets looked like the set of a game show called Name That Carcinogen.

He’d already lost one parent to cancer, and it wasn’t going to happen again if he could help it.

The television droned from the next room as Bret leaned to check the steaks in the broiler. Baked potatoes were humming in the microwave, and he’d gone through the motions of bringing a bagged salad that would probably only get picked at. Bret’s skills hadn’t advanced beyond meat and potatoes—cooking was a necessity, not a passion—but properly prepared, they were at least somewhat healthier than the typical bachelor diet.

“Almost ready,” Bret called into the living room. He wondered if the television set ever got turned off. At least it was generally tuned to CNN, not some brain-dead game show or sitcom. But still.

A few minutes later, his dad joined him at the dining room table—another part of the ritual that Bret hadn’t let go of yet, although he knew his father generally ate in the living room or over the kitchen counter.

“So how about those clowns in Washington?” Bret asked. It was a running joke, because on any given week, it always applied.

“Don’t get me started. If they ever start talking to each other, instead of barking over each other, maybe they’d get somewhere.”

“Job security,” Bret said. “If they didn’t keep canceling each other out, probably half of them would be out of work.”

“So I hear you gave up on the clowns on the town council.” David reached for the saltshaker.

Bret winced. “Don’t you think maybe you could taste it before you—”

“Winston said he saw some little blonde at the council meeting, scribbling away at a notepad.”

Crotchety as Winston Frazier was, he got credit for his part in trying to keep his longtime friend involved with the human race. He dragged Bret’s father out to the diner a couple of times a week for lunch or a cup of coffee, sometimes a game of chess.

His dad went on, “He said she looked like one of the waitresses from the Pine ’n’ Dine.”

Up to now, there was one thing Bret never would have pegged Winston for: a gossip.

“I told you about her,” Bret said. “McCrea hired her right before he left. She’s green as—”

“You didn’t mention she was pretty.”

Bret shrugged. “So? Does Winston want me to get him her phone number?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“Tell you what. I’ll start talking about blond reporters when you start a conversation with a woman your own age.”

“You know the answer to that.”

Bret did.

I already had the love of my life, his father had said once, in a tone that pronounced the subject forever closed.

Bret’s mother had died a few days before Christmas seven years ago, and his father had never decorated for Christmas again. The place didn’t just lack a woman’s touch; it looked nearly untouched.

Getting his dad to move out of this house sometime in the years since Helena Radner’s death might have helped. The place stayed fairly tidy, largely because not much got disturbed, and it didn’t look substantially different from the way it had seven years ago. The neutral brown sofa and loveseat set looked a bit more faded; the family photos on the wall hadn’t been updated since Bret’s graduation. The television remote control rested on the coffee table, easily findable. Beside it lay today’s Tall Pine Gazette, neatly refolded in the unlikely event that David needed to refer back to it. Bret knew for a fact that his father read the paper every day, because he always had something to say about one of Bret’s articles.

Bret glanced across the table and had a disquieting sensation he’d experienced before—that he was looking into an age-progression mirror and seeing himself at sixty-six. Similar hair, thick and disobedient, now more gray than dark brown. Similar glasses, although Bret had tried to change that the last time he’d gotten new ones, going with lighter-weight frames. And his father’s questionable diet hadn’t really added any extra pounds to his frame, probably because he didn’t bother to eat often enough.

David Radner had retired from the town council when Bret started at the Gazette, saying he didn’t want to cause any conflict of interest issues for Bret. In reality, the months of his mother’s illness would have made it hard for him to concentrate. Afterward, his dad couldn’t seem to muster interest in much of anything beyond armchair criticism of those clowns in the news. Even then, it felt more like he was trying to do an impersonation of his old self.

If this was what having a love of your life got you, maybe that was why Bret’s relationships with women tended to stall at a certain point.

He’d try again to correct that. After he got past Christmas.

His father persisted, “I notice you didn’t say she wasn’t pretty.”

Of all the subjects in the world, his dad had to latch on to this one. “It doesn’t matter. She’s an employee. Not going to happen.”

Bret braced himself mentally, preparing to counter his father with reminders of things like business ethics and sexual harassment suits. But wisely, his dad let the matter drop.

Bret took another bite of his steak. It did need salt.

* * *

When Bret returned to the newsroom after lunch the next day, he noticed a tall aluminum can on Chloe’s desk as he passed.

Chloe sat behind the canned energy drink, typing for all she was worth.

The drinks had begun appearing on Chloe’s desk with increasing frequency over the past week or so. The phrase performance-enhancing drugs flitted through Bret’s mind. Energy drinks might be different in degree, but not necessarily in kind.

She’d turned in eight stories last week, a shade below the goal of ten that he’d set for her on her first day. Maybe he should make sure she knew the quota was more of a guideline.

Let it go, he told himself, and kept walking toward his office. As he passed, he saw her forehead faintly creased in concentration.

He hadn’t asked her how the hospice story was coming, and she hadn’t volunteered. He’d told her to take her time on it; maybe she was taking that to heart. Or maybe the story would quietly fizzle. Bret wouldn’t mind. Maybe she’d concluded that she’d bitten off more than she could chew.

Or maybe that was why she was pushing herself all the harder.

Unable to stop himself, Bret found himself backing up a step, then another, until he was alongside Chloe’s desk again.

“How many of those do you drink in a day?” He nodded toward the energy drink.

She raised her head, and it took a moment for the cloudy look to fade from those gray-green eyes. He knew that hazy feeling. She really had been engrossed.

Her gaze shifted to the can on her desk. “I don’t know. Two, sometimes three?”

“Three is the maximum on those things.”

“And I never drink more than that. And only sometimes.” A grin slipped across her face. “You’re looking at a veteran of college all-nighters.”

Bret remembered those years. He held back a smile. “You should stick with coffee. It might not be great for you, but at least it’s a known quantity.”

“The coffee’s pretty gross by the afternoon. And I wouldn’t want to break McCrea’s record.”

“Make another pot. If you keel over, I don’t want to be responsible.”

Her brows descended in the most delicate frown he’d ever seen. “Are you some kind of a health fiend?”

“No. I just try to avoid things that can kill me.”

“This?” She picked up the can and peered into it, one eye closed.

Then, to his surprise, she swung the can in a slow arc toward Bret. Then she swung it back toward herself. Then out again toward Bret, as though she were threatening him with some kind of supernatural wand. Her eyes gleamed. In another context, Bret might have thought she was flirting.

Bret took a step back. “You really are sleep-deprived,” he said. “Or else the chemicals are kicking in.”

Her smile widened, a dimple deepening below one corner of her mouth, and Bret’s knees unexpectedly weakened.

Pretty. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t noticed before. His dad’s report about Winston’s remark shouldn’t have any effect. It didn’t take two elderly men to make him realize a woman was attractive.

She was undeniably pretty—lovely, in fact—but it took more than that to get to Bret.

It was her spark, her humor, her determination. And heaven help him, she was smart.

“I’m serious,” he said. “I don’t want you burning yourself out. And you can’t live on caffeine and ramen noodles.”

She looked a little startled. As if he wouldn’t have noticed that, like Bret, she’d gotten into the habit of staying in the office for lunch most days, and that her lunch generally came out of a Styrofoam cup. More chemicals. But he couldn’t go into a full-scale nutrition lecture. He’d said enough; he’d just have to hope that some of it took root.

For now, her eyes held his, the way they tended to do whenever he challenged her. Her chin tipped up just a fraction, and Bret’s knees turned to butter.

“I’m a big girl,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

“Make sure you do.” He kept his voice brusque, but he felt a smile escape. “Can’t have you falling over, or you’ll miss your deadline.”

And, as briskly as he could with faulty knees, he started back toward his office.

* * *

He’s going to hate it, Chloe thought, seconds after she sent the hospice piece over to Bret Friday morning.

She reminded herself she’d felt this way before, whenever she turned in a paper to a demanding professor in college. The urge to second-guess herself, wishing she’d given her work just one more look. But she knew this story backward and forward by now; on the last pass, she’d found herself changing back changes she’d made earlier.

She knew the panic was normal. Up until she sent the article, she’d been sure it was the best thing she’d ever written. She’d wanted to make it the best thing she’d ever written—not just to prove herself to Bret, but because she owed it to the people she’d interviewed. She’d turned up uninvited in the lives of surviving families, asking them to reopen healing wounds and share a little of their grief with her. It had taken more of her heart and soul than she’d expected. One of the hospice workers had even brought her near tears when she talked about reading Marley & Me to a patient.

She had cried when she wrote it up. And if that wasn’t the way a reporter was supposed to feel about a story—well, she didn’t know any way around it.

She glanced at Bret’s office, just the top of his head visible behind his computer screen, and had no idea whether he’d seen the article land in his in-box.

But it was literally out of her hands, and she had work to do. By the end of the day, thanks to the late-night hours she’d been putting in at home, she’d be able to finish her tenth story of the week.

* * *

Bret got the e-mail from Chloe late that afternoon: Did you get the hospice piece? Sent it over this morning.

Well, at least she was getting the hang of communicating by e-mail within the office. The first time he’d e-mailed her from across the room, she’d been bewildered. But it was the best way to communicate quickly and keep interruptions at a minimum.

She was catching on to AP style and office communications, all right. Learning patience appeared to be taking a bit longer.

Of course he knew how it felt. Waiting to hear back from an editor on an important article could feel like hanging from a rope over Prospect Lake, not quite able to get the rope swinging enough to put you back over the shore. He knew how it felt because he’d been there. Chloe would just have to learn, the same way he had, that it went with the territory.

But it was only humane to e-mail her back: Got it. Working through the stories I’ll need for the weekend first.

A few minutes later, he watched Chloe take one of her frequent strolls to the coffee machine. He admired the resolute set of her shoulders, covered in a slate-blue cardigan sweater. She must have a cardigan for every day of the week, and each one looked just a little softer than the last.

Bret could use some of that coffee himself, but he’d need to walk past her to get to it.

Instead, he pulled himself up straight and opened the file Chloe had sent him this morning. Her headline read: LEAVING WITH DIGNITY.

His throat tightened. He closed the file.

Maybe he’d look at it tonight. After everyone else was gone.

* * *

When Chloe came in Monday morning, instead of the customary one-on-one meetings, Bret announced a meeting of the newsroom staff. Which meant herself, Bret, and Chuck. Bret stood facing them, arms folded, leaning back against the desk where he did his writing.

“This is Thanksgiving week,” Bret said, “which means we have five days of holiday weekend to cover, including next Monday, before the office closes Wednesday. That means we go into what McCrea calls ‘crank’ mode. We need to generate as many stories as possible, to fill the days when the office is closed. So we start now. Let’s look at the articles we can work on ahead of time. Chuck, what have you got?”

Chuck seemed prepared. “Holiday traffic projections. Ski conditions up at Mount Douglas. I’m interviewing the church that does that annual Thanksgiving dinner. And I got some quotes last week from the kids at the elementary about what’s on their Christmas wish lists.”

“Okay. A good start.” Bret gave a spare nod, and Chloe wondered if that was as effusive as praise from him ever got. He picked up a yellow legal pad from the desktop behind him. “I jotted down a few to dish out. A rundown of the restaurants in town that serve Thanksgiving dinner—I’ll take that one. The annual toy drive at the town hall—Chuck. Turkey tips to run Wednesday—Chloe.”

“Why me?” Chloe interrupted before she thought.

“I’m sorry?” Bret’s eyes shot to her. His glare seared like a laser.

Pick your battles, she reminded herself. But the female-centric assignment rankled. She tried to hold her ground gracefully. “I mean, that sounds like something we could get off the wire.”

Bret’s eyes stayed fixed on hers. From her peripheral vision, Chloe caught a glance from Chuck. She had the feeling that, if he’d been able to, he would have been waving his arms over his head in warning.

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Bret said crisply. “The more we rely on the wire, the less local we are. The less local we are, the more likely the corporate office is to start thinking about all the money they could save if they got rid of some of the human beings around here.”

That deadly look didn’t release her, and Chloe wondered why she hadn’t transformed into a puddle of sizzling goo by now.

“Turkey tips,” Bret concluded quietly.

Adjusting his glasses, he returned to his list.

* * *

By Wednesday afternoon, Chloe had a vivid understanding of what Bret had meant by “crank” mode.

She’d whipped out fourteen stories in three days, if you counted news briefs taken from press releases. But with five days of newspaper to fill, those seemed to be fair game.

All through the week, Bret had never said a word about the hospice article.

A few minutes after four, Chuck stood and shrugged into his coat. “I’m headed to the airport. Wish me luck.”

“You’re kidding.” He’d mentioned he and his girls were going to visit family; she hadn’t realized he was flying out of town tonight. “You’re a brave man.”

“Brave or foolish.” Chuck grinned at her on his way out. “Have a happy Thanksgiving.”

Must be nice, she thought, but she couldn’t begrudge him his early freedom. Besides the fact that he was a nice guy, she knew by now just how much of the paper Chuck wrote.

So now the newsroom was down to Chloe, her monitor, and one more story to finish before she left. While Bret sat in his editing cage. Mount Sinai, Chuck had called it.

It had been a busy week. She knew that. But was Bret going to run the hospice piece or not?

Every fiber of her being warned her not to nag him, especially after their face-off Monday. But the waiting and wondering was driving her nuts.

Concentrate. The article refused to come together. Maybe because her brain was starting to fizzle out. Chloe eyed the coffee maker, but that seemed wasteful this late in the day. She’d finished her last energy drink a couple of hours ago, trying not to notice the way Bret’s eyes lingered on the can, almost imperceptibly, as he passed. Even the way he didn’t comment on it amounted to a comment.

She pulled herself straight and took a couple of long, deep breaths, trying to pull in extra oxygen to revive herself. Then she started slogging at the article again. If she could just stop moving words around and write the darn thing . . .

“Chloe.” Bret’s voice jarred her like an alarm clock going off way too early in the morning.

Her head jerked up. How in the world had he managed to sneak up on her in plain sight? He stood in front of her, arms folded, and she wondered what it meant that he hadn’t e-mailed her as usual.

He asked, “What have you got left for tonight?”

“Just finishing the interview with Arnie Jacobs about the goose problem at Prospect Lake.”

She willed him a telepathic message: What-about-the-hospice-piece?

If Bret was telepathic, he showed no sign of it. “So, you’ve got about half an hour, forty minutes left?”

I wish. “Something like that.”

He passed a hand through thick dark hair that already looked mussed. Appealingly mussed—if it had been anyone else. And if it had been anyone else, she might have said he looked just a tad uncertain.

Then Bret spoke, squelching any fatigue-induced delusions before they could take root.

“There’s still a lot of work backed up.” The words came out quick and flat. “Can you come in on Friday?”

Chloe’s mouth went dry. In a flash, she saw her shopping plans go down the drain.

She’d planned to hit the big mall out of town with Tiffany and Kate first thing Friday morning, gunning for the kind of after-Thanksgiving doorbuster sales that didn’t exist in Tall Pine. But when your brand-new boss made a request, it wasn’t really a request.

“You don’t have to come in first thing,” Bret added. “Ten o’clock is good. And I’ll feed you. Breakfast and lunch.”

Breakfast and lunch. Which meant she’d be here quite a while.

It wasn’t really a request, and she didn’t really have a choice, even though he was trying to make it seem otherwise.

She squared her shoulders and kissed her bargains good-bye. “Okay.”

As if he’d notice.