A Gift For Santa. Beth Carpenter
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of the Santa throne in the bed of the truck. “How long until you go back to work?” he asked Marissa.
She flashed him a look of suspicion. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On when I find a job.”
Chris closed the tailgate. “You didn’t have one lined up before you quit? That doesn’t sound like you.”
“I didn’t quit. The facility I was working at closed down.”
“Why?”
“Lack of funds.” She pushed a lock of hair away from her face. “Don’t worry. I’ve got applications out and a headhunter looking. I’m sure I’ll find something soon.”
“And in the meantime, you’re staying here?”
“This is where my family lives.” She crossed her arms. “Why? Is Alaska not big enough for the both of us?”
“Just asking. I figured you’d need to get back to a husband, or at least a boyfriend, who misses you.”
“Well, I don’t.” She spoke a little too quickly. “I don’t have a boyfriend and I’m not looking for one. Right now, I just want to get Becky and Oliver through the Christmas season and then get my career back on track.”
Chris smirked. “So, you’ve made a few changes to the master plan?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know, the plan where you’ve established your professional reputation by thirty, and by thirty-five you have two or three children and a golden retriever. You’re what, thirty-four now? You’re running a little behind.”
A strange expression flashed across her face. “Very funny.” She spun away from him and flounced across the parking lot.
What was that all about? Marissa never backed down from a good sparring match. He trotted after her. “Marissa?” She didn’t slow. He finally caught up with her and caught her by the elbow. “What’s going on?”
She spun around, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. “Nothing. Leave me alone.”
“Look, I’m sorry if I said—”
She jerked her arm from his grasp and turned away. “Forget it. Just go away.”
“But you’re upset.”
“Don’t talk to me. I don’t want you here. How much clearer can I be?”
“Bo, I didn’t mean—”
Her head shot up. “Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that. Just go.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, I’m going. Whatever it was, I’m sorry.”
“Fine. Go.”
Chris crossed to his own truck and got in, but instead of starting the engine, he sat there watching her. She stood at the edge of the parking lot, her back rigid, as if it was taking all her strength not to burst into tears. Which was crazy. Marissa didn’t cry. She planned.
Where most people hung posters or art on their walls, she posted goals. She created notebooks full of lists, time lines and flowcharts, color-coded and with footnotes. She made contingency plans, and if those fell apart, she wasted no time on regrets, but immediately started a new plan. Chris had to admire her ability to strategize and follow through.
Even so, he’d never been able to resist the occasional urge to sabotage her daily schedule. “Sometimes you’ve just got to throw out the plan and follow your heart,” he’d tell her. He showed her the joys of spontaneity, of ducking out of a party early to spend the evening wrapped in blankets, gazing at the stars from the bed of his truck. Of blowing off a dinner reservation in favor of an impromptu picnic. Of stolen kisses in elevators and coat closets. And she’d loosened up a little, learned to let go, while she’d taught him how to organize his business. They were good for each other. When he’d needled her about her grand plan just now, he’d meant to tease, the way they’d always teased each other. Hadn’t he?
Or maybe there was a part of him that wanted to hurt her, the same way she’d hurt him when she made it clear her love for him only extended so far. That her desire for motherhood trumped her promise to marry him. Maybe he’d done it on purpose, to see her suffer.
If so, it had backfired, because he felt no satisfaction, watching her pain. Only an overriding desire to make it stop. But it was too late. The damage was done.
Marissa stood motionless for several minutes. It was only after she disappeared into the community center that Chris started his truck and drove home. There was really no reason to feel guilty. So he’d stepped over a line he didn’t know was there. He’d apologized. Several times. That’s all he could do. Besides, why should he care about Marissa’s feelings? She wasn’t concerned about his.
He parked in the driveway of the split-level house at the end of a cul-de-sac that backed against the woods in Bicentennial Park. The smell of fresh-baked cookies greeted him as he opened the front door. “Dana?” Kimmik ran to greet him, his tail thumping against the banister railing as he led Chris upstairs to the kitchen.
Wire racks full of shaped Christmas cookies covered most of the kitchen island, but Dana’s bag was missing, as were her keys. Chris grinned. If she didn’t want him to eat the cookies, she shouldn’t have left them unguarded. He helped himself to a slightly lopsided star, breaking off a corner for Kimmik before taking a bite himself. Yum. The quality of food had improved considerably in this house since his sister moved in. He finished the cookie before shedding his Santa hat and coat. Kimmik whined and scratched at the door, so Chris let him into the backyard before heading for the shower to wash the dye from his beard and eyebrows.
He emerged fifteen minutes later and thirty years younger. He threw on old jeans and a flannel shirt, and padded barefoot across the room to let Kimmik inside. But when he whistled, no dog appeared. He leaned out the door to look for him, but saw only an empty yard with the gate standing open.
Shoot. He couldn’t lose Sam’s dog. He crammed his feet into shoes, threw on a jacket and hurried out. Let’s see, where would a loose dog go first? Probably straight into the woods. Chris would just have to pick a trail and follow it, hoping the sound of his voice would bring Kimmik home.
He shivered. Frosty weather and wet hair wasn’t a good combination. He should have grabbed a hat. He was considering whether to go back for one when he spotted Kimmik up Bunchberry Street, chasing after a stick and returning it to someone Chris couldn’t see behind a bush.
Letting out a breath of relief, he trotted toward them. “Here, Kimmik.” But the dog didn’t come. When Chris reached the bush, he spotted a boy in a baggy green jacket determinedly holding on to the dog’s collar while Kimmik, still holding the stick in his mouth, struggled to break loose and answer Chris’s call. As soon as Kimmik saw him, he stopped struggling and wagged his tail.
“Hi, I’m Chris. Thanks for taking care of Kimmik.”
The boy studied Chris with skepticism. “That’s his name?”
“Uh-huh. It means dog in Inupiat. Right, Kimmik?”
The dog wiggled in agreement, but the boy didn’t release his hold on the collar. “Kimmik likes to fetch sticks.”
“He sure does, but he shouldn’t be out of his yard unsupervised. Do you live around here?” Chris was familiar with most of the kids on the street, at least by sight, and was pretty sure he’d never seen this boy before. He was seven or so, with brown hair spilling forward from under the hood of his sweatshirt, and he was eyeing Chris with contempt, as though he could barely bring himself to answer such an absurd comment.
“He wasn’t unsupervised. He was with me.” Chris noticed the boy didn’t answer the last question. He decided not to push it.
“Yeah, it was lucky you were there when he got out so