Deck the Halls. Arlene James
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friends was about all he could manage, frankly.
As he drove toward his old apartment building, a feeling of déjà vu overcame him. He remembered well the day, almost a decade ago, when he’d first moved into the small, bland efficiency apartment. A heady feeling of liberation had suffused him then. He’d felt so proud to have left the home of his parents and struck out on his own, leaving behind two pesky younger sisters and two nosy older ones.
Of course, with more freedom had come greater responsibility. Then had come the hard-won understanding that responsibility itself could be counted even more of a joy than any foolish, youthful notions of “freedom” that he’d once entertained. A fellow could take pride in meeting his responsibilities and meeting them well, whereas freedom—as he had learned—could become an empty exercise in keeping loneliness at bay.
Other lessons had followed. He’d found his best friends in moments of difficulty rather than fun, though that was important, too. Most significant, Vince had learned that those who truly loved him—his family, particularly his parents—were bulwarks of support rather than burdens of bondage. The mature Vince possessed a keen awareness that not everyone was as richly blessed in that area.
For the life he had built and the man he had become, he had his parents, with their thoughtful guidance, patience, loving support and Christian examples, to thank. For his parents, he could only thank God, which was not to say that from time to time they did not make him wish that he lived on a different continent, particularly when it came to his single status.
By the time he pulled into the rutted parking lot of the small, dated, two-story apartment building, Vince was feeling pretty mellow with memories. He was by nature a fairly easygoing type, but he possessed a certain intensity, too, an innate drive that had served him well in building his business. Looking around the old place as he left the vehicle and moved onto the walkway, he saw that nothing whatsoever had changed, only his circumstances.
Onward and upward, he mused, setting foot on the bottom step of an all-too-familiar flight of stairs. His heavy, steel-toed boots rang hollowly against the open metal treads as he climbed. After passing three doors on the open landing, he stopped at the fourth and automatically reached for the doorknob. Only at the last moment did he derail his hand, lifting it and coiling it into a fist. Before his knuckles could make contact with the beige-painted wood, however, the door abruptly opened and a feminine face appeared. Obviously she had heard him coming.
“Who are you?”
Vince looked down into clear green eyes like pale jade marbles fringed with sandy-brown lashes. Large and almond-shaped, they literally challenged him. He backed up a step, lowering his hand and took in the whole of her oval face.
It was a bit too long to be labeled classically pretty, just as her nose seemed a bit too prominent to be called pert. But those eyes and the lush contours of a generous mouth, along with high, prominent cheekbones and the sultry sweep of eyebrows a shade darker than her golden-brown hair made a very striking, very feminine picture, indeed. The hair was the finishing touch, her “crowning glory,” as the Scriptures said. Thick and straight with a healthy, satiny shine, it hung well past her shoulders, almost to her elbows.
Vince suddenly had the awful feeling that his mouth might be agape. He cleared his throat, making sure that it wasn’t, and finally registered her question.
“I’m, uh, Vincent Cutler. You left a message on my—”
“Well, it’s about time!” she exclaimed, sweeping her wispy bangs off her forehead with one hand and then instantly brushing them down again. “I’ve got a whole bag full of your mail here. You must be on every mailing list in the country.”
He nodded in thoughtless agreement, but she whirled away too abruptly to notice. He watched the agitated sway of her hips as her long legs carried her across the floor. She moved toward the narrow counter that separated the tiny corner kitchen from the rest of the single room and he instinctively followed.
“I tried dropping it off at the post office,” she complained, “but they just kept sending it right back to me. Doesn’t matter that it hasn’t got my name on it. It’s got my address. That’s all they care about apparently.”
“Guess so,” Vince mumbled, shrugging.
A raised ten-by-ten-foot platform set off by banisters denoted the sleeping area, and the remaining floor space served as dining and living rooms. A small bathroom containing a decent-sized closet opened off the latter. He knew all this without bothering to look, the apartment being as familiar to him as his own face in a mirror. Besides, his attention was fully taken by the tall, slender, feminine form in worn jeans and a simple, faded T-shirt, mostly obscured by the fall of her hair.
When she bent to open a cabinet door and reach inside, gentlemanly impulse sent his gaze skittering reluctantly around the room. Color jolted him as his eyes took in a bright-yellow wall and a neat, simple plaid of yellow, red and green against a stark white background. Potted plants were scattered about, and he registered a smattering of tiny checks and a few ruffles, but the room was not overly feminine as his mother’s and sisters’ houses were inclined to be. The furnishings were sparse and dated, obviously used, but the overall effect was surprisingly pleasing, much better than the drab, often cluttered place that he had inhabited.
“Wow,” he said, and the next thing he knew, she was flying at him, both hands raised.
“What are you doing? Get out! Get out!”
She hit him full force, palms flat against his chest, propelling him backward. Vince threw his arms out in an attempt to regain his balance and then felt them knocked down again as he stumbled backward through the door, which summarily slammed in his face, just inches from his nose. Automatically reaching up, he checked to be certain that it hadn’t taken a blow and felt the small familiar hump of a previous break. That was when he heard the bolt click and the safety chain slide into place.
For another moment, he was too stunned even to think, but then he began to replay the last few minutes in his mind, and gradually realization came to him. He slapped both hands to his cheeks. Good grief! She hadn’t invited him in; he’d just followed her like some lost puppy, right into her home! Her home, not his, not any longer. No wonder she’d freaked! He dropped his hands.
“Oh, hey,” he said to the door, feeling more and more like an idiot. “I—I didn’t mean to alarm you. I would never…that is, I—I used to live here,” he finished lamely.
She, of course, said nothing.
He closed his eyes, muttering, “Way to go, Cutler. Way to go. Probably scared the daylights out of her.”
Shifting closer, he tried to pitch his voice through the door without really raising it; he knew too well how thin the walls were around here. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”
He waited several seconds, but there might have been a brick wall behind that door rather than a living, breathing woman. Actually, he had no idea if she was even still in the vicinity. She might have been cowering in the farthest corner of the room, though he couldn’t quite picture her doing so.
No, a woman like that wouldn’t be cowering. More likely she was standing there with a baseball bat ready to bash in his head if he so much as turned the doorknob. Clearly, a prudent man would retreat.
Despite recent evidence, Vince Cutler was a prudent man.
He turned and walked swiftly along the landing, then quickly took the stairs and swung around the end of the railing toward his truck. A certain amount of embarrassment mixed with chagrin dogged him as he once more climbed behind the wheel, his errand an obvious bust. Yet, a smile kept tweaking the corners of his mouth as he thought about the woman upstairs.
She was all dark gold, that woman, dark gold and vinegar. Spunky, that’s what she was. He recalled that the top of her head had come right to the tip of his nose. Considering that he stood an even six feet in his socks, she had to be five-seven or eight, which would explain those long legs. It occurred to him suddenly that he didn’t even know her name; that, more than anything else, just