Merriest Christmas Ever Page 12

  Merett couldn’t help enjoying her discomfort, but this had gone far enough. “I enjoyed my evening with you, in spite of her.” He kissed the tip of Gracie’s pert nose. “I can’t stand Beryl. I didn’t like her in high school. Now you were, and are, a different story. I always liked you. Admired you.” Wanted you. “If I hadn’t been going steady, I’d have asked you out.”

  Her smile was brilliant. “I wasn’t jealous of Beryl,” she insisted.

  Gracie did care. He cupped her chin in his hands. “If you were, I wouldn’t mind.” Her violet-blue eyes grew soft, and he stroked her cheek with the back of his thumb.

  “Show me where I’m going to sleep.” Kirsten appeared and tugged on Gracie’s sweater sleeve.

  The moment shattered like a fragile Christmas ornament, Merett cracked his knuckles. His daughter was spending the night with Gracie, not him. On a ghost mission.

  “Would you make sure Spook isn’t bothering the Christmas tree first, Kirsten?” Gracie asked, her eyes still locked with his. “I heard something in the parlor, and was about to investigate when you came. I don’t want him tearing open any presents.”

  “It’s true.” She smiled at him. “I’m not making up stories to be alone with you.” She cupped his cheek tenderly, and he leaned into her touch. He had Kirsten’s Christmas list in his pocket, and wanted to share it with Gracie, but didn’t know if this was the time.

  “Gracie,” Kirsten called. “I don’t see Spook anywhere. You think it might have been Mirabelle you heard?”

  Merett left so fast, he skidded on the snow on Gracie’s front porch, and after nearly busting his rear, drove off without a backward glance.

  Chapter Eight

  “You’ve got a soft bed,” Kirsten said, bouncing on Gracie’s feather mattress. “It’s like a giant cloud.”

  Dressed in flowered flannel pajamas, teeth brushed and face clean and shiny, she looked exactly like a doll Gracie had yearned for the Christmas she was nine. Grandma and Grandpa had sold off their cows, and sent a check to buy gifts for everyone. So she was sure, just once before she got too old, she’d get a doll. Pop bought her a Bible instead. White leather with her name in gold, it was beautiful, and she treasured it now, but little Gracie wanted a black-haired doll.

  “Lie down, honey,” she said, as Kirsten bounced again.

  Gracie explained about the piano after Merett left, telling Kirsten a wire was probably loose. They’d talked about Mirabelle, with Grace repeating the story and her warnings it was a myth. They’d even gone to the attic where Grace pointed out their findings were typical. School books with yellowed pages. A button collection. Musty-smelling clothes. Pronouncing them all boring, Kirsten was ready to leave when she found an old sleigh.

  “A sled! And it’s big enough for two or three people. Wow. Double-wow.

  Gracie, spotting a photo album she’d never noticed before, picked it up without comment before helping Kirsten take the sled downstairs. “If your grandpa or dad will clean the rust off the runners, the wood is solid,” she said, running her hands over it.

  “You don’t care if I use it?” Kirsten clapped her hands.

  “You can have it.” Gracie bent to look in her sparkling eyes, and was rewarded by the happiness there, plus an all-out bear hug.

  With the sled in the middle of the kitchen, and their stomachs filled with popcorn drizzled with maple syrup, the two of them had finally climbed the stairs to bed.

  Snuggling into the pillows and downy mattress, Gracie yawned and rolled over to kiss Kirsten’s soft cheek. “We’ve done a lot tonight. I’m sleepy.”

  “I’m not. I’m too excited about Mirabelle.”

  “You’re spending the night so I can prove Mirabelle doesn’t live here, and doesn’t visit. Hear how quiet the house is?” Gracie propped her head on her elbow.

  After a moment of listening, she looked at Kirsten, and saw her eyes were closed; dark lashes fanned out on her cheek, breathing quiet and even. Gracie lay back. If Kirsten slept through the night without hearing anything, would she be convinced? If not, what would prove ghosts didn’t exist? This overnight stay was a long shot, but Gracie was determined to make things right with Kirsten, and Merett.

  Merett. His breath warm on her face, caressing her cheek. He must care about her a little. If she was jealous, he wouldn’t mind. Wasn’t that a sign? Gracie fisted her pillow, wishing she could fall asleep as easily as the child beside her. He’d left in a big hurry when Kirsten mentioned Mirabelle, but tonight should dispel her belief in ghosts. At least that was the plan.

  It was odd to have a little girl in her bed. Many years ago, Faith had slept beside her, strawberry-blonde hair fanned out. Where was Faithie now? In a man’s arms? On the street among derelicts? Or safe, and too angry to call.

  Hearing a tiny tinkling sound, Gracie sat up. It sounded like the bell Kirsten had hung on a low Christmas tree branch for Spook, but he was in the downstairs bathroom with the door closed for the night.

  Was that a footstep on the stair? If there was a burglar in the house, Kirsten would carry home an even worse tale.

  The footstep-sound was followed by another, and another, ever so light. Gracie clutched the covers. It was her imagination; it had to be. She heard the sound again, close to the top of the stairs. A cool breeze swept across the bed. She liked the bedroom door closed against winter drafts, but Kirsten had wanted it open so she could listen for Mirabelle.

  Casting an anxious glance at the sleeping child, Gracie eased out of bed. She had to protect Kirsten. The sound stopped. Gracie stopped. The stepping sound began again, and Gracie, hand trembling, picked up the clock on her bedside table. It wasn’t heavy enough to do a thief in, but it might stun one for a moment.

  The house was so quiet she could hear the ticking of the clock in her hand.

  She tiptoed out of the room and down the hall. The crystal chandelier at the bottom of the stairway cast points of light on the steps. She’d left it lit in case Kirsten should awake during the night and be confused by her strange surroundings.

  Three steps down and Gracie reached the landing. A flickering shadow caused her to stop dead, but when it flickered again, she saw one of the chandelier bulbs was burning out. With a sigh of relief, she inched along. Nothing or no one in sight, she crept on until she’d reached the bottom of the stairs.

  It was quiet down there, and she’d passed no one on the way. She checked and the bathroom door was still closed, so Spook hadn’t rung the bell on the tree. Was it possible she just imagined the tinkling sound as well as the footsteps? She found that hard to believe, but she was certain she hadn’t fallen asleep and dreamed.

  Slipping up the steps and back into the bedroom, Gracie crept toward the bed.

  “You missed her.”

  Gracie jumped at the sound of Kirsten’s voice. Moving closer, she saw by the pale light of the electric candle in the window, she was sitting up in bed.

  “You missed the ghost lady, Mirabelle. She was here, and said you’d gone downstairs.”

  “You must have been dreaming, Kirsten.” Quickly returning the clock to the table, Gracie switched on the lamp, expecting to find a trembling girl, scared out of her wits by a nightmare. She saw, instead, a calm child with a beatific smile.

  “I told her I thought she might be Mommy when I heard her, and she said, no, Mommy wasn’t here.” Kirsten’s lip quivered for a second. “She said my mother was in heaven already, so she couldn’t visit, but she was happy. Mirabelle said shadow ghosts like her aren’t happy; they’re seeking something to put their souls to rest.”

  Gracie sank down on the bed, unable to respond.

  “I said I hoped she’d find what she was looking for. Then she disappeared.”

  “You had a dream,” Gracie said, stroking the little girl’s tousled hair.

  “No way,” Kirsten said, smiling and lying back down. “She was here, and when she gets to heaven, she’s going to say hello to my mom. I wanted to talk more, but Mirabelle couldn
’t stay.”

  Gracie sighed, the sound drifting away on the draft from the open door. “Kirsten, I...” She’d fallen asleep. Again.

  * * *

  Merett smiled into the phone when Kirsten called to be picked up at Gracie’s, babbling about a sled, and with no talk of ghosts or her mother. It had been years since he’d been sledding; years since he’d sanded the rust from the blades of an old sleigh and sharpened them in Dad’s workshop in the garage. It just might be fun to take his daughter sledding.

  When he arrived, Gracie and Kirsten were finishing a snowman. Smiling, they waved, and his sense of complacency grew. “Come help,” Kirsten called, as he climbed from the Jeep. “We have a carrot for a nose and buttons for eyes.”

  A good old-fashioned snowman, but why should that surprise him when Gracie was a sweet old-fashioned girl? Fresh snow had fallen overnight, and it was a crisp, cold, beautiful morning. “I’ll get twigs for arms,” she said, flashing him a smile. “The snow broke some off a tree behind the house.”

  Kirsten grabbed his arm the minute Gracie was out of sight. “Guess what, Daddy? I met the ghost lady, and Gracie didn’t. She got out of bed for something, and Mirabelle came while she was gone.”

  Merett, button halfway to the snowman’s face, froze.

  “I woke up and saw this shadow standing between the window and bed, and she said, ‘Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you. I’m looking for someone.’ And I said, ‘I know.’ Then real quick, in case she might decide to leave, I told her about Mommy, and asked if she could visit us. The lady said no, that Mommy went straight to heaven because she died happy, and not to feel sad, because it’s beautiful there.”

  “So I asked Mirabelle—I’m sure that’s who it was—why she didn’t go there. She said she wished she could. Then pow, she disappeared. I think she left because she heard Gracie coming back up the stairs.”

  When his daughter’s fast-paced tale ended, Merett, hand on chest, gasped cold air. “You must have dr...”

  Kirsten’s dark eyes flashed. “That’s what Gracie said, but I didn’t.”

  “Here we go.” Gracie rounded the house, holding out two sticks with forked ends.

  “Oh good! The ends look like hands.” Grabbing the twigs, Kirsten poked one in the side of the snowman’s body. As she inserted the second, she bumped herself in the mouth. “Oh, look My toof came out.”

  She tucked her tongue in the hole in her gum as she smiled and held up her tooth.

  “You look funny,” Gracie said, chuckling.

  “Daddy said I looked funny before,” Kirsten complained, shining her bloody tooth on her pant leg.

  “Kirsten! Look what you did.” He pointed to a smear on her ski pants.

  “That’s okay. Santa Claus is going to bring me new ones that aren’t pink.”

  Gracie flashed Merett a smile as she pointed to Kirsten’s tiny tooth. “I’ll bet the fairy’s been waiting for that.”

  “You believe in fairies, and you don’t believe in ghosts?” Kirsten stared at her, openmouthed. “Not even when I saw one?”

  Gracie whirled, fear and concern evident on her face, but Merett couldn’t answer the questions he saw in those lavender-blue eyes until he’d had time, alone, to think. He didn’t believe for a moment Kirsten conversed with a ghost, but something she’d reported simmered inside his head. He took her hand. “We’d better go sledding. Thanks for letting her stay, Gracie.”

  * * *

  “I have something I want to do before we go,” Merett told Kirsten when they reached the house. “Grandpa used to help me clean and sharpen the blades on my sled. Why don’t you ask him to take a look at yours?”

  “O-kay!” She bounced up the steps and through the front door. “Then I can tell Grampa about Mirabelle.”

  Taking the steps two at a time, Merett shut his bedroom door behind him, and pulled a photo album off the top closet shelf. Sitting in the armchair by the window, he leafed slowly through the pages of his and Holly’s life together. Their elaborate wedding. Their honeymoon. Their apartment. Baby Kirsten. Holly dressed for the opera. Him giving Kirsten a bath. Holly with shopping bags in her hand. Him asleep on the couch. A photo of the three of them—they’d stopped a passer-by to take a picture—holding Kirsten between them, Holly looking at him with love in her eyes.

  She was happy. He’d done the only thing he knew how; strive for success. It was what he’d always done, but this time, it was hard, and not knowing why added to his stress. She’d said she didn’t mind their small apartment. She just wanted him to stop working so much so they could go out more. But neither of them could change, so she’d enjoyed city life, and thanked him for taking her to New York. He was the one who looked unhappy and thin in their later pictures. He’d started out doing it for her, but in the end, he was doing it for himself. But it was all he could do. Closing the album, he took it into Kirsten’s room and tucked it away on a shelf for her. He couldn’t have saved his wife if he’d worked less, and she was happy. And he’d done his best, so it was time to put the matter to rest and move on with his life.

  * * *

  Snow was falling again. Fat flakes drifting to earth. If it kept this up, Gracie would have to buy that shovel. Taking a broom from the pantry, she cleared the snow from the porch swing with quick swipes. Snow that blew back from the swing clung to her clothes, and shaking herself off, she studied the front yard. The white stuff was definitely sticking and would be great for sledding.

  She’d love to go flying down the hill with Merett and Kirsten. Huddled close, fitting like spoons, laughing and shouting, but he hadn’t invited her. Her ghostbusting plan had failed, and though he didn’t act angry, she didn’t know what to expect. Moving back to New York to satisfy Kirsten would be a drastic measure, but if he wanted to go back to the city bad enough, Gracie had provided him with a ready excuse.

  The phone was ringing when she closed the front door behind her. “Special Effects. Gracie speaking.”

  “Special Effects? I hope you’re not running a brothel.” Laughter, harsh and unnatural, flowed through the wires.

  “Faithie.” Grace clutched the receiver to her ear. “Where are you?”

  “Not in Ferndale, that’s for sure.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine.” Dropping the caustic veneer from her voice, Faith sighed. “How about you, sis? What’s with the way you answered?”

  Sis. It sounded so good to hear her say that, to hear her voice. “Special Effects is my small decorating business. I’ve been so worried. Why haven’t you called?”

  “I’ve been out of work, and you’d lecture, and I’m in Chicago.”

  Chicago, the lonely city. “Do you have enough to eat? A place to stay?”

  Faith sighed loudly. “I’m not homeless or starving, just short on cash. Actually, I’m better than I have been in a while. I met a really nice guy, Gracie, and I’m in love.”

  Again.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s right this time. Thing is, he’s out of work too, so he can’t help me. I could really use a loan.”

  A loan. How much money had she already sent Faith? And what happened to it? Gracie sank down on a chair beside the workroom phone. “Tell me about this man.”

  “He’s a truck driver, but a heavy load fell on his accelerator foot so he can’t drive. It will be a couple of months before he gets the cast off.”

  “What else?”

  “His personal history, is that what you want? Okay, he’s been married and has two kids who aren’t in school yet whom he supports.”

  “Been married? Is he single now, Faith?”

  “If you’re going to give me the third degree...”

  Gracie chewed her lip, but remained silent.

  “He’s going to get a divorce as soon has he has money for a lawyer.”

  “If that’s what this is about, I’m not giving him—”

  “I need a few hundred bucks for a place to live until I get a job. You don’t want
me living with him, do you?”

  Grace twisted the phone cord around her finger, wishing she had the portable so she could pace. She was reading between the lines, but she’d bet Faith was with him right now. If she really needed money for herself, that was one thing, but she wasn’t paying for a man to divorce his wife. Or for an apartment for Faith to share with him. Besides, Gracie didn’t have money to spare. “I’m out on a financial limb. I bought the old Larraby house.”

  Faith whistled loudly. “Sounds like you won the lottery.”

  Gracie explained that the price on the house was low. “But I have a lot of outgo, and at present, little income. Just come home, and I’ll take care of you here. It would be like old times, the two of us together. Tell me your address, and I’ll send you a bus ticket.”

  The slam of the phone brought tears to Grace’s eyes. “Faithie,” she whispered softly. “How could you?”

  She’d failed with her sister. She’d loved her and cared for her, but something had gone wrong. When Gracie left at nineteen, Faith was a lanky kid, torn between playing with Linda Warren’s hand-me-down Barbie dolls, and playing sandlot ball. Four years later when Grace visited, Faith was thirteen, going on thirty. Crimped hair, eye makeup, and according to Mom and Pop, a disgrace to the family. A hussy. Bad seed.

  The closest Pop had to a favorite daughter, Faith betrayed him by dressing “in a worldly fashion.” Jeans, tight tees, and boots were typical teen fashions, Gracie argued. Mom said she didn’t know the truth about Faith because she’d been gone too long. Feeling guilty, just as she was supposed to, Grace backed off. But they lit into her then, with both barrels. It was her fault. She’d spoiled Faith. All her fault.

  Gracie paced to the front window of her house and looked out. It would be better if she never had kids. She’d make a poor mother. Her own parents as much as said so. She fingered the edge of the drape, a tear sliding down her cheek. Inadequate or not, how did mothers learn to let go? How could she have told her little sister no? What if Faithie went hungry, slept on the street?