Do Not Open 'Til Christmas by Sierra Donovan (7)

Chloe huddled between her roommates in the crowd at the town square, shivering under the tall pine tree the town was named for.

When she’d first arrived, she’d felt a little short on heavenly peace. Through the first few Christmas carols in the sing-along, she kept arguing with Bret in her head, finding clever, articulate ways to say the things she’d stopped herself from saying at the office. But eventually, the cold starry night and the songs worked their magic, and Chloe felt Christmas seep into her bones.

The series of traditional speeches from city officials came after the sing-along. “The first Tall Pine tree lighting was held in 1947,” Margery Williams of the town council said, “the same year the town was incorporated. It was the day after Thanksgiving. World War II had been over for two years, and the new homes in the area were filling with families. The tree was dedicated by . . .”

She’d probably heard the same speech many times over the years. Until now, she’d never felt the urge to dig in her purse for a notepad. The mental hunt for the next story was getting to be a habit.

It was pretty interesting material, though.

“I think they’re just waiting till it gets even colder before they light it,” Tiffany whispered in her left ear.

“At the end of the first tree lighting,” Margery went on, “those in attendance were blessed with the first snowfall of the season.”

Chloe wondered if that was true. It sounded like it could be a convenient piece of folklore. Maybe she could research it.

Winston Frazier stepped to the microphone, and Chloe felt the crowd’s attention lift. As senior member of the town council, he’d been leading the countdown to the tree lighting ever since Chloe could remember. With his full head of white hair, and teeth that were just a little too straight to be true, he could have passed for anywhere from sixty to a well-preserved eighty. She did some math in her head and wondered which was older, Winston or Tall Pine.

After the countdown, the lights flared on, and Chloe felt the colors wash over her as voices around her joined in a chorus of “Silent Night.” Yes, she’d needed this. She closed her eyes and drank it in.

When she’d left Tall Pine for college, she’d been eager for the independence, trading her small mountain town for a bigger beach town. But with each year of school, she’d found herself increasingly happy to come back home on school breaks. And she’d never missed a tree lighting.

“Silent Night” ended, and Kate and Tiffany each gave her a quick hug.

“Gotta go,” Kate said. “We’re due at the diner in ten minutes.”

Right. Chloe remembered that now. Last year, the three of them had done the same thing—dashing off to work after the tree lighting with no time to spare. She didn’t envy them.

Or did she? There had been a simplicity to it. You worked hard, but when the day was done, it was over.

“See you later,” she said, keeping her tone bright.

And then she was alone, surrounded by the jostling crowd. Some headed for their cars, while others went to line up for Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate or a visit with Santa. Chloe pulled up the hood of her coat—suddenly the cold felt a whole lot colder—and started her lone trek to the parking lot.

“Chloe?” A woman’s voice came from her right.

Absurdly glad to hear a friendly voice, she turned to see Mandy Wyndham in a red coat and blue scarf.

“Hey!” Chloe grabbed Mandy in a hug. “Merry Christmas!”

No other person could have been better, or more natural, to wish her first “Merry Christmas” to. Mandy and her husband Jake ran The Snowed Inn, Tall Pine’s new Christmas hotel. Chloe had interviewed them for their June soft opening a year and a half ago. It had been one of her first assignments as a freelancer for the Gazette.

“Merry Christmas.” Mandy returned the greeting and the hug warmly. “Are you here by yourself?”

“My friends had to leave for work. What about you?”

“We’re shorthanded at the hotel tonight. Jake couldn’t get away. In fact, I’d better get back pretty quick.” Mandy inclined her head toward the parking lot. “Are you going this way?”

Chloe nodded and fell into step with Mandy, feeling just a little unmoored. Mandy, Tiffany, and Kate all had a place where they needed to be tonight. Chloe had already put in a day’s work; she should be glad for the freedom. Instead, she felt a little lost.

“So, you’re full-time at the paper now?” Mandy asked. “I’ve been seeing your bylines with ‘Staff Writer’ underneath.”

“It’s kind of a temporary-for-now thing. The editor’s out of town for a few months, and they needed an extra writer, so I’m filling in. We’ll see how it works out after that.”

“How’s it working out so far?”

“It’s—” Chloe’s tongue fumbled for an answer.

When most people asked how you were doing, it was pretty much a rhetorical question. When Mandy asked—although Chloe didn’t know her all that well—it sounded as if she really wanted to know.

“It’s—a little frustrating,” she conceded, and she really intended to leave it at that.

But there was a hesitation in her voice, and Mandy heard it. She stopped, empathetic blue eyes focused on Chloe. And the next thing Chloe knew, the story of her day spilled out, about coming in on a holiday weekend and fixing mistakes that didn’t need fixing and barely making it to the tree lighting. Probably half of it didn’t even make sense. But Mandy stood in the cold and listened to the jumble of words until Chloe paused for breath, embarrassed.

“It’ll work out. I can handle it,” she finished awkwardly.

“Of course you can. You’ve been handling it. You’re just a little worn out, and who could blame you?” Mandy nudged her elbow, starting them back toward the parking lot. “Follow me over to the hotel. I know just what you need. A cup of hot chocolate.”

* * *

Bret had most of Saturday and all of Sunday laid out by the time Ned arrived with the camera card of photos from the tree lighting. All Bret needed was one picture to drop into the space he’d saved for it in tomorrow’s paper. A quick caption, and Saturday would be done.

“How do they look?” Ned asked as Bret clicked through the image files on his computer screen.

“Good.” Bret nodded as he contemplated the pictures. Ned had given him an abundance of choices, as always, but this was one time Bret wanted to make his decision as quickly as possible.

Fortunately, as would often happen, one of the shots simply popped out at him. Bret clicked through the rest to be sure, then unerringly went back to the photo of a toddler on her dad’s shoulders. Ned had caught them in a profile shot that included the newly lit tree. What made the picture was the glow on the little girl’s face—an expression of unguarded wonderment.

“That one,” Bret said.

Ned smiled. “I liked that one myself.”

Bret poised his fingers to enter the caption information. “Got their names?”

“Dane Davidson is the dad. The little girl is Gracie.”

“Perfect.” Bret typed the caption and glanced back over his shoulder at Ned. The Gazette’s resident new dad was sporting some reddish stubble these days. Bret wasn’t sure if the photographer was trying for a style, or if having a newborn in the house just didn’t allow much time for shaving. “That could be you and your boy next year.”

“If someone gives me the night off,” Ned said.

“Don’t look at me. Next year you can talk to McCrea about that. Now, go home before I find something else for you to do.”

Ned didn’t need a second invitation. He slipped out, leaving Bret with the pictures still on his screen. He clicked idly through them one more time. A faint pang of envy surfaced at the general look of holiday cheer on the faces, although he had to chuckle at one photo: an eight-year-old boy, his head hunkered down between knit cap and his drawn-up coat collar, brows drawn down in disgruntlement. The little guy looked cold and ready to go home.

So not everyone was jolly.

As he skimmed the photos, Bret caught himself searching the crowd for a certain blond head. If Chloe hadn’t covered it with a hood or a cap, she shouldn’t be hard to spot. Of course, she was also fairly short, and Ned couldn’t photograph everyone. It looked like she’d escaped his camera lens.

Bret finished adding the photo and moved on. Now that the tree picture was in place for tomorrow’s paper, he just had Monday to finish. But as he worked, two images replayed in his mind: the flicker of Christmas tree lights, and the flash of annoyance in Chloe’s eyes as she left.

Okay, he wished the day had ended differently. But what could he do about it?

Curiosity pulled him away from his work again. He opened the database of the Gazette’s archives. Not sure what he was looking for, he typed in Chloe’s byline and the word Christmas.

She’d covered a couple of holiday fundraisers last year. Not surprising. She’d also written up the soft opening of The Snowed Inn a year ago last June. Chuck, he remembered, had covered the big grand opening at the start of last year’s Christmas season.

Bret read over the article. Nice. With well-chosen quotes from Jake and even a couple from Mandy, it displayed Chloe’s knack for capturing a mood without being too sugary. She did have a way with a feature story. If she left the paper before McCrea got back, his editor wouldn’t be happy.

And she had been photocopying résumés a couple of weeks ago.

Yeah, that’s what he was concerned about. Just a valuable employee. Nothing to do with her charm or her wit . . . or the way she looked when she bit her lip.

Bret finished reading and decided the last touches on Monday’s paper could wait.

He’d learned to trust his hunches. And somehow, he had a feeling he knew where he’d find Chloe Davenport.

* * *

The moment Bret stepped into the lobby of The Snowed Inn, the scent of evergreen and the sound of carols engulfed him. Okay, what else did he expect? After all, he’d wandered into a Christmas hotel the day after Thanksgiving.

A dark-haired young woman smiled behind the front desk. Bret did a quick memory scan: Alyssa Chen. Tall Pine High. A couple of years behind him.

“Merry Christmas,” she greeted him.

“Hi, Alyssa.” Bret returned her smile, took a deep breath, and followed the sound of murmuring voices into the lobby.

A few months after opening the hotel, Mandy and Jake had started serving hot beverages in the lobby. You wouldn’t have thought their clientele would have reached much beyond the hotel’s guests, but word had spread. Except for the diner, Tall Pine didn’t have anything like a Starbucks; chain restaurants in the little community were still taboo. But to hear people tell it, The Snowed Inn was a cozy gathering place with great hot chocolate, and even a small conference-type room for business meetings.

The next best thing to Starbucks . . . if you were into Christmas.

He ventured farther into the lobby, where people clustered around tables over their cups of coffee and cocoa. He knew local restaurants would be doing a good business after the tree lighting, but The Snowed Inn was definitely getting its share, despite its less central location on the highway leading out of town.

He swam through the sea of white mini-lights and literal boughs of holly. He’d expected a riot of red and green, but there was nothing that garish. No elves on shelves peered at him anywhere, and the place gave off a warmth that Bret couldn’t deny. If it weren’t for past associations—

There she was. Sitting all by herself at a small round table next to the stone fireplace, hands clutched around her cup. At first glance, she looked lonely and plaintive, like the little match girl. But when Bret got a few steps closer, her expression was visibly content, her lips curled faintly upward in a half smile.

Until she saw him, at least. Then her eyes widened, and the mug she held stopped halfway to her mouth.

He stepped up and spoke quickly before he could hesitate. “I won’t take up much of your time.” He indicated the vacant chair across from her. “May I sit down?”

“Sure.” Chloe nodded. She looked puzzled, but her eyes had lost the stainless-steel gray they’d had earlier. Bret dropped into his seat.

He’d barely landed in the chair when a woman spoke beside him. “Hi, Bret. Can I get you anything?”

Where had she come from so fast? He turned to see Mandy Wyndham. “Hi, Mandy. I’ll have a cup of coffee, please.”

Mandy’s brows furrowed, her eyes wandering briefly from Bret to Chloe, before she replaced her frown with a sunny smile. “How about a hot chocolate instead? It’s our specialty.”

“No, thanks. Just coffee. With plenty of creamer.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to try—”

Jake appeared behind Mandy, resting a hand on her shoulder. Bret fought the urge to look past Jake and see if the rest of Tall Pine was forming a line behind him.

“Remember, Mandy,” Jake said, “the customer is always right.” A look passed between them, some kind of unspoken married-couple communication, and then Jake’s eyes went to their table. “Hi, Chloe. Hi, Bret. I don’t think you’ve been in here before, have you?”

“There’s a first time for everything.” Bret gave a tight smile. He’d avoided the Christmas hotel the way vampires avoid the beach, but Jake wouldn’t know about that.

“Good to see you,” Jake said. “Let me know what you think.” One hand still on Mandy’s shoulder, he drew his wife away from their table.

“They’re nice,” Chloe offered.

“Extremely.” It was true. He didn’t think there was a kinder person than Mandy. He’d interviewed Jake once, before the hotel got off the ground, and in the past few years Jake had beaten him at racquetball half a dozen times. In spite of the latter, yes, he was nice.

“So,” Chloe said carefully, “what brings you here?”

It felt like an invitation for him to apologize. Just do it. “I know I’m probably the last person you want to see right now. I’ll keep it quick.”

* * *

As Jake steered her into the kitchen, Mandy had the feeling she was living in an I Love Lucy rerun. Or one of those other old sitcoms, where the husband was always scolding the wife. He stopped her beside the refrigerator, his arm curved around her. They were as far as they could get from earshot of Angie, who was pouring a cappuccino at the counter.

“Mandy.” Jake spoke in a near whisper. “What are you trying to do in there? He ordered coffee. Twice.”

“You don’t understand,” Mandy said urgently. They’d left Chloe alone with Bret. She had to get back in there. “If anybody ever needed a hot chocolate, it’s Bret.”

It had been a weird discovery, and Mandy didn’t understand it herself, but her hot chocolate seemed to have a way of making people more . . . mellow with each other. She and Jake had seen it happen too many times not to believe it. And it sounded like Bret had given Chloe a heck of a day.

“It’ll be okay,” Jake said. “Bret’s a decent guy.”

Mandy sighed. Bret had been two grades ahead of her at Tall Pine High. Back then, she’d only known two things about him: he was quiet and wickedly smart. Certainly nothing like a bully. But from what Chloe said, maybe the power of running the paper had gone to his head.

“They’re not evenly matched,” Mandy protested. “She’s had one and he hasn’t.”

“Mandy,” Jake coaxed. They’d been together three years now, and his direct brown eyes were still every bit as hard for her to resist. “I can’t tell you what to do. But you don’t want to manipulate anyone. Giving Chloe a pick-me-up after a hard day is one thing. Trying to turn your hot chocolate into Love Potion Number Nine is another.”

Was that what he thought she was trying to do? “That’s never happened! It couldn’t make anything happen if they didn’t already—”

Jake was nodding at her significantly. She turned her head in the direction of Chloe and Bret’s table, but the kitchen wall stood in the way.

She frowned. “Really?”

“Those two? Oh, yeah.”

Jake was pretty intuitive, for a guy. He was rarely wrong about people. Had she really missed that?

Her eyes lingered, wishing she could see through the wall into the next room, trying to imagine the pair of them at their table. A smile played at her lips.

Jake sighed. “I said the wrong thing, didn’t I?”

“Excuse me.” With a gentle nudge, Mandy moved away from Jake to join Angie at the kitchen counter. “I have an order to fill.”

* * *

Chloe had already made up her mind that Bret wasn’t going to spoil her good mood. After a little time cozied up by the fire with a cup of hot chocolate, the world looked a lot better. And now that he was outside his domain of the newsroom, Chloe thought she even detected a faint discomfiture from him. It was enough to make a girl feel charitable.

Elbows on the table, she took another sip from her cooling drink, savoring the rich cocoa.

Bret raked a hand through his hair and met her eyes dead on. “I know I haven’t made things easy for you.”

“Really?” She lifted her eyebrows. “‘PM’?”

Bret may have balked, but he recovered quickly. “Résumés in the copier?”

It was Chloe’s turn to balk. “On my own time. With my own paper.”

“And company toner.” Bret shook his head. “Never mind. Not the point. The point is . . .” He shifted back from the table, assuming the familiar arms-folded stance. “I know I’ve been tough on you. There isn’t a lot of ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ in this business. If McCrea ever said anything nice to me, I’d probably have a heart attack. If things were different, I might say, ‘If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.’”

If she’d been hoping for a sugar-coated apology, this wasn’t it. Chloe took another sip of cocoa, clinging to her feeling of peace on earth. “But?”

“But under the circumstances, I really need you to stick around. For one thing—I’m up against it. Filling in for McCrea is a lot more work than I expected. He warned me I’d need extra help, and he was right. For another thing . . .”

Chloe kept her mouth shut and waited. And waited.

“You’re good,” he said finally. The two words were low and quiet, as if it cost him something to say them. “You’re green, but you learn fast. And you have talent. Your hospice piece was excellent.” Bret lowered his eyes and traced the edge of the table. She didn’t think she’d ever known him to break eye contact before. “That’s why I held it for this Sunday. Which—since you’re green—you might not realize is the most-read edition of the week.”

She was going to fall over. If a kind word from McCrea would have given Bret heart failure, Chloe was one step away from a slab in the morgue.

Mandy returned, buying Chloe a moment to recover. Mandy set two mugs in front of Bret. He looked up at her questioningly.

“There’s your coffee,” she said. “And I made a hot chocolate by mistake. Habit. It’s our most popular item. That one’s on the house, of course.”

“Mandy.” Bret’s eyebrows lifted in an I-don’t-buy-it expression.

Mandy straightened, both hands raised. “Sorry. I can’t take it back once it’s on the table. Food service regulations.”

“Okay.” A smile twitched at Bret’s lips, his tone milder than usual. “Thanks.”

Mandy walked away with a light, brisk step. Bret looked after her bemusedly, and Chloe remembered what he’d said in the newsroom: he didn’t care for chocolate. But he eyed the mug for a moment, shrugged, and took a tentative sip.

He sniffed the drink. “Cinnamon?”

Chloe nodded. “She puts in some vanilla, too. I asked her how she makes it, but she wouldn’t tell me exactly.”

“Not bad.” Bret took another drink and set it down, regarding the two mugs in front of him. Then looked at Chloe. “I should go,” he said. “I said my piece, and I promised I wouldn’t keep you. See you Monday?”

“Of course. I’m not going anywhere. But—”

She cut herself off as Bret started to rise. When she broke off, he hesitated, halfway out of his chair.

“—But you have two drinks,” she said.

“Thanks to our generous hostess, yes.” His eyes flicked to hers; it wasn’t quite the usual incisive stare. “Hanging out with the boss probably isn’t quite what you had in mind.”

Chloe shrugged. Manners aside, she found she didn’t really want him to go. Maybe because he’d actually said something nice for a change. “We’re off the clock.” She smiled a little. “Just don’t tell me what to do and we’ll be fine.”

Bret settled back into his seat. “You can have the coffee, if you want.”

“That works.”

Bret slid the coffee cup across the table to her. Mandy had added the creamer, per Bret’s specifications; he drank it the same way Chloe did. She eyed her near-empty cup of cocoa and saw the solution. Picking up the coffee, she upended the cup and poured most of it into her remaining cocoa. Bret flinched in alarm, but the coffee went safely into her mug without spilling.

She grinned. “When you’re a waitress, you learn how to pour.”

He relaxed visibly, sat back, and took another sip of cocoa. And suddenly they were in uncharted territory.

“So,” Bret said, “tell me about your book.”

“Seriously?”

“I asked before. I wasn’t kidding.”

Chloe hesitated. She didn’t talk about her writing much to anyone—largely because she didn’t get much of it done. Especially these days. And hardly anyone ever asked. Bret was asking, and he looked as if he might even be listening.

She took a sip of cocoa-tinged coffee and confessed, “It’s a murder mystery.”

His eyebrows lifted, but it wasn’t quite the astonished reaction she’d expected. “And?”

And it would help if I could decide who did it. She bluffed, “A good mystery writer never reveals her plot.”

“Oh, not fair.” Bret smiled—actually smiled, a real smile—over his cup. It sent an unexpected warmth through her. Or maybe it was the coffee. “Do you go home at night and try to think up new ways to kill editors?”

“Not yet. Although that’s an idea.” She fingered the handle of her mug. She liked this new version of Bret, and her mouth got ahead of her brain. “Can I say something? Without fear of reprisal?”

This wasn’t safe. She shouldn’t bring it up. But sitting by the fire in the middle of The Snowed Inn, for some reason, she did feel safe. And of course, now that she’d started, Bret wouldn’t let it go.

He nodded. “You said it before. We’re off the clock.”

He might remember this Monday, when they were back on the clock. But it felt too late to turn back, so Chloe forged ahead. “You can be . . . a little . . . sexist.”

He blinked. “You’re kidding.”

He looked honestly surprised.

In for a penny, in for a pound. “When I told you I was writing a book, you immediately assumed it was a romance or a children’s book. Why is that?”

“Because you write stories about Christmas hotels and nice old ladies who knit?”

“Those are the kinds of stories McCrea assigned to me.”

“They’re also the kinds of stories you’ve been proposing, except for the hospice piece.”

She considered. “Well, I don’t exactly know where the bodies are buried in this town. I know the people I meet at the Pine ’n’ Dine. So, a lot of the stories I have material for are . . .”

“Soft.” Bret shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with that, really. Nice, human interest stories about nice people—there’s no shortage of those in Tall Pine. And you do them well. Not because you’re a girl. It’s just part of who you are. You like positive things, and most of those stories tend to be light. It’s one of the reasons I underestimated you.”

She raised her eyebrows. “So you’re admitting you were wrong about me?”

“I thought I already did.” Bret cracked another smile. “But cut me some slack. You walked in your first day smiling like Mary Poppins. Complete with magical bag.”

“Briefcase.”

“Still. What was I supposed to think?” He shifted forward. “Can I give you an honest piece of advice? If you want people to take you seriously, don’t put volleyball on your résumé.”

She blinked. So he’d actually read her résumé. “It’s a highly competitive sport. And I was good at it.”

“Chloe.” A glint of humor lit his eyes. “Think about it. A Southern California blonde. Who plays volleyball. Who went to college in Long Beach.”

“And that’s not sexist?”

“All I’m saying is, the world isn’t a fair place, and you do fit a certain stereotype.”

She frowned, feeling a little of her good will dissipate.

But Bret wasn’t looking at her now. He was gazing down as he swirled the remaining cocoa in his mug. For someone who didn’t care for chocolate, he’d managed to go through more than half of it.

When he raised his eyes, their serious expression caught her completely off guard. “What I’m really trying to say is: never let anyone underestimate you.”

Bret regarded her, dark eyes solemn, giving Chloe the feeling he was really seeing her. The sensation was hard to define, but it made her feel warm, and she felt color fill her cheeks.

Or maybe the combination of cocoa, coffee, and the fireplace beside her was more potent than she’d realized.

It felt like a good time to shift the conversation over to Bret. “Meanwhile, what you’d like to write about is a real murder mystery.”

“Not exactly.” Bret rested his elbow on the table, leaning his head against his hand. “Chuck and I joke about it all the time, but that’s not what I had in mind when I went into journalism.”

I knew when I was ten. He’d said it her first week. Chloe asked, “What did you want to write about?”

“You’ll laugh.”

Her? Laugh at Bret? She shook her head.

“When I was ten years old,” he said, “my dad left a copy of All the President’s Men lying around, and I read it. I’d read anything.” That, she believed. “But when I read it—that was what I wanted to do. Other kids wanted to play cops and robbers. I wanted to crack a story like Watergate.” He gave a self-deprecating grin. “Of course, that’s not what all reporting is. I know that now. But the idea of finding the dirt, righting the wrongs . . . I wanted to be the next Woodward and Bernstein. To expose a corrupt president, or something else important. The kind of story that makes a difference.”

His eyes had drifted past her, and Chloe wondered what he was seeing. Some imaginary time and place, maybe, taking anonymous phone calls, meeting informants in an alley. It made her wonder why he’d stayed in a place like Tall Pine—where, as far as she knew, there weren’t any bodies buried. Admittedly, she liked it that way. It was why she’d moved back here after college. But from Bret, across the table, she felt a wistfulness that pulled at her.

She thought of an answer. “Maybe those aren’t the only stories that make a difference,” she said. “Maybe the soft stories make a difference, too. Maybe positive stories about everyday people really need to be told.”

“And you’re writing a murder mystery?” Bret shed his pensive look with a shake of his head and a wry grin. “Come on, tell me. Who gets killed? How far along is it?”

“Oh, no, you don’t.” She folded her arms smugly, enigmatically. Bluffing again. “You’ll have to find out when it’s finished.”

If that ever happened.

As she stared across the table at her complicated boss, keeping her Mona Lisa smile in place, Chloe realized how quickly Bret had deflected the topic back to her. He didn’t like being the subject of conversation, she realized, and she suspected it had been some time since anyone had asked him any serious questions about himself. Perversely, it made her want to dig deeper. Maybe those reporter instincts really were becoming ingrained.

But she’d glimpsed a yearning underneath his customary crispness. And under that, maybe, something else. A melancholy, for lack of a better word. Whatever it was, the puzzle of Bret suddenly intrigued her far more than the mystery she’d been trying to write.