Kissing Under the Mistletoe (9 page)

But in this instant Gabe didn’t care about Richard or the affair or the big picture. He couldn’t think past this insane connection he felt or how every time he looked at her it was like someone had kicked him in the gut.

They stood silent for a long moment, the rain coming down harder, yet neither moved.

As the wind gusted, a few wet strands of hair clung to her lips. Gabe reached out, tucking them behind her ear, his finger lingering. He felt more than heard Regan’s breath catch, and he knew he was in trouble because his chest was doing some catching of its own. Especially when she worried her lower lip, making it fuller, redder, and wetter.

“The truth, Regan,” he whispered gruffly. “That’s all I want and then this will end. For both of us.”

She stood there, open and vulnerable, her finger tracing the top edge of the side mirror, and nodded. They both knew he was talking about so much more than their rivalry. Just like they both knew that whatever was happening between them, if allowed to grow, would only wind up hurting someone—most likely Regan.

She studied the ground for a moment, shifting her weight, then looked up at him through rain-spiked lashes. “Do you want to hear that I was stupid? That I gave my heart to a man who lied to me? That for the first time in my life, I was happy that my mom had died so I wouldn’t have to see the disappointment in her eyes? Would that make you feel better?”

No, it wouldn’t, and it didn’t. Because he could see that she had been crushed by Richard. Worse still, Gabe had made her life even harder.

“You’d think business trips over Christmas and Easter would have been a sign that something was up. But I was in love,” she croaked out. The look of horror and pain in her eyes was genuine, and at that moment he knew he had made a mistake.

“I didn’t cheat on your sister, Gabe. Richard did. I’ve never even met the woman. But I’m willing to bet she knew as much about me as I knew about her.”

When he didn’t move, didn’t so much as respond, she sagged, her whole body giving in. And this time when her eyes met his, they were filled with tears.

“I don’t know how many more times I can apologize. I’m so sorry for hurting your sister. Sorry for trusting Richard. You have no idea how much I’ve paid for that mistake. In a way, I actually understand why you set out to ruin my life. And your sister...she’s lucky to have a family that cares for her so much.” She brushed angrily at her cheeks.

Is that what he’d set out to do? Ruin a woman’s life? A woman, he admitted, he didn’t really even know?

Looking back, he’d only meant to scare her from trying to use her affair to extort money out of the family. He’d done it
to protect Abby from more pain, to make up for introducing her to Richard. But when he looked into Regan’s face and saw her dump of a car, her well-worn clothes, doubt began to weigh in.

Regan mistook his silence for censure. “Never mind, I don’t even know why I bothered.” She shoved at his hand, which still secured the door shut. “I answered your question. Now move. I. Said. Move!”

He did, and she jerked the car door open, its rusty hinges groaning under the force. She climbed in and slammed it shut. With the car in reverse, eyes forward, she cracked the window and said, “Life is messy, Gabe. It sucks and it’s hard and people get hurt, but they move on. So do me a favor and figure out how long you need to get over this so I don’t have to wonder if today is the day when
I
finally get to move on.”

A
t precisely 1:50 p.m., Regan pulled into Holly’s school. Situated just east of the main part of town, behind St. Helena Corkery, and on the south side of one of the DeLucas’ vineyards, St. Vincent’s Academy looked more like a winery than a private school. The main building was faced with hand-shaped stone and boasted two massive wooden doors at its entrance and a front lawn that could easily host an RV-and-boat fair.

It was Friday and raining, and that meant that the parking lot was packed with high-end cars and moms wielding designer galoshes and matching umbrellas. Regan had just finished her second tour of the parking lot when she gave up and parked down the street by the school’s Performing Arts Building.

“He’s just one man. His opinion doesn’t matter,” she said, flipping down the visor. She gasped when she saw her face. Eyes red, nose even redder, she looked like a woman who had spent the last seven blocks bawling her eyes out. Which
she had. Because no matter how many times she told herself that she could do this, that she wouldn’t let some man hurt her again, it didn’t stop the tears from coming.

After a good blow of the nose and a new layer of cover-up, Regan stepped out of the car and, dollar store umbrella in hand, ran down the block. The wind blasted her, causing her umbrella to bend backward.

By the time she made it inside the school, she was officially drenched and reality had set in. All she could do now was find the bathroom, transform herself into some believable form of successful mommy, and then face ChiChi. No matter what the older woman wanted to talk about, Regan understood that she would have to withdraw Holly from the school. She was jobless, practically broke, and, come Sunday, homeless. Talk about humiliating.

She passed the front office, the glass display case that was filled with photos of last year’s graduates in front of the Arc de Triomphe, and had just opened the bathroom door when something caught her eye.

Full-color flyers hung on each stall, one after the next, all the same, spanning the entire length of the bathroom, and making Regan’s palms sweat.

“Missing: Randolph and Christmas Cheer. A $5,000 reward for the safe return of St. Helena’s most beloved mammal.”

It even had the heart-melting photo of Gabe when he was a boy hugging the ceramic statue. Dropping to her hands and knees, she checked to ensure that every last stall was empty. Coast clear, she scrambled to her feet and went to work, ripping down one, then the next. She got to six when she noticed that Randolph’s sad little face was also plastered on the insides of the stalls. They must have been posted by
the high school basketball team because some were taped to the ceiling, dangling like banners.

Hiking up her skirt, she closed the lid on the first toilet, crawled on top, and, teetering dangerously on her heels, gave a hard tug on the flyer just as someone cleared their throat.

Frozen, hand in mid-rip, Regan turned to find herself staring down at not one but three gawking grannies. Besides their clothes, they looked like a trio of Mrs. Clauses: all with white hair. All with little round glasses perched on their noses. And all looking up at Regan like she had lost her mind.

Regan did what any grown woman would do when caught committing a crime. She stepped off the toilet, shoved the flyers behind her back, and slammed the stall door. Then she sat on the toilet lid and pulled her legs up to her chest.

Maybe if she closed her eyes and waited long enough they would forget that she was in there. And leave.

The seconds ticked by. Regan heard the squeak of someone’s orthopedic shoes, followed by the clicking of kitten heels, getting closer. She shut her eyes and rested her head against her knees. She would wait until the Mrs. Clauses left, grab Holly, and e-mail ChiChi with the sad news. They could be halfway back to Oregon before the humiliation of the day’s events even hit.

Then what? She had no job or house there either. No real support system. And she would be no closer to securing Holly’s Christmas wish.

The stall door flew open, slamming against the wall with enough force to shatter the tiles. Regan opened her eyes and looked at the Mrs. Clauses, who were, surprisingly, smiling.

“Hi, ChiChi,” Regan began, wondering how, if at all, she was going to get through this conversation. She had lost her last hope of finding gainful employment in this town. Holly was going to be devastated to lose her forever home with a kitty of her very own and a best friend.

And now Regan was a wanted deer-napper who had, for the second time in so many days, vandalized the property of the one person in the DeLuca clan who had treated her with kindness.

She opened her mouth to apologize, fess up, drop a ten in the Dirty Jar for her sins, when the smaller and rounder of the three, who was holding a basket of pastries and treats, pulled out a truffle and shoved it in Regan’s mouth.

“Don’t talk, dear, you might say something stupid,” she said. And based on the Hasselhoff T-shirt, red boa, and life-altering truffle, Regan assumed that this was Pricilla.

“Oh. My. God,” Regan moaned around a mouthful of chocolate and peppermint. “What’s in this? It’s incredible.”

“If I told you, then I’d have to—” Pricilla sliced a finger across her neck, punctuating the gesture with added sound effects.

Regan smiled at her joke. The other women didn’t.

The one on the left of ChiChi was dressed in a pair of sexually ambiguous pants and a green men’s button-down. She studied the wadded-up flyers in Regan’s hands while clutching a scraggly cat, who had an elf hat Velcroed to its head, against her ample bosom in a protective gesture. “Is there something you want to tell us?”

Regan felt the tears well up again.

“Lucinda, don’t make the poor girl cry,” ChiChi said. “She’s had quite a day. Haven’t you, dear?”

Regan nodded and wiped at her face with one of the flyers. Lucinda frowned at the pile of crumpled Randolph posters at her feet.

Regan gave an apologetic shrug.

“Yes, well, next time use toilet tissue.” Lucinda reached into a denim fanny pack and offered up a gingham handkerchief. “It took us hours to make those flyers.”

Regan accepted the cloth, relieved that the older woman was questioning her possession of the flyers and not Mr. Most Wanted himself. After a sniffle, she finally spoke. “I’m sorry, ChiChi. I know you wanted to meet with me about a favor, but—”

“Yes, I had assumed you would come to my office, though.” ChiChi’s maternal stare locked on Regan, who suddenly felt like she had been given a test and failed.

“Yeah, well”—Regan glanced at the flyers—“I got distracted, and I apologize.” She swallowed. “For everything. I know you took a risk hiring me and an even bigger risk recommending Holly to the school. They were already at full capacity and made an exception because of you.” She shifted on the toilet seat, the motion causing it to flush. “But things didn’t work out,” she yelled over the rushing water. “As I’m sure you’ve already heard I was fired, and so Holly and I won’t be staying in St. Helena. So, if you could e-mail me the total costs accrued, that would be great.”
Just great
.

All three women exchanged a meaningful glance that Regan couldn’t decipher. Then they all smiled and walked closer. Regan wanted to lean back but was afraid she would set off the auto-flush again.

“Let us get this straight—” Pricilla said.

“You want her to bill you for two weeks that you assumed would be free.” Lucinda poked Regan in the shoulder. She had surprisingly bony fingers for such a muscular woman.

“It was a perk of working for Ryo, but you intend to pay it back in full?” The corners of ChiChi’s lips twitched with something Regan didn’t understand, but somehow it reminded her of her mother.

Her fingers strangled the snotty flyers. She hated owing people money, but under the circumstances she saw no other choice. “To be honest, I’m not sure when I’ll be able to pay you back, but if we could set up some kind of payment plan...I know that this is probably not a request you receive often, but if you could make an exception.” Her throat closed on the last word, making it come out strangled.

“Quite the moxie,” Pricilla said.

“Stubborn
and
honest.”

“It’s refreshing.”

“I won’t take up any more of your time.” Regan stood, smoothing down her skirt, leftover rainwater trickling out the toes of her pumps.

“Sit,” ChiChi ordered.

Lucinda’s cat hissed, sending a reprimanding glare from beneath the fuzzy white ball at the end of his hat.

“Now, Mr. Puffins,” Lucinda cooed, her voice dropping to a soothing singsong.

Over their blue-haired haloes, Regan looked around the room, taking note of the sole exit. Knowing the only way she could escape would be to take out a granny, she grunted and plopped back down on the toilet. Her heart plopped with her.

As if understanding her need to run, the three ladies fanned out, blocking the opening of the stall.
So this is what
timeout feels like,
Regan thought, taking in how ridiculous she looked cowering on the too-small toilet.

“Because my bullheaded grandson acted so
incredibly
out of character—” ChiChi paused to smile, as if she found her words
incredibly
amusing. Apparently everyone but Regan saw the amusement, because even the cat was grinning.

Regan could think of a few select and more accurate words than bullheaded to describe Gabe but settled on a nod.

“You are out of a job. And we”—ChiChi glanced at her two friends, who appeared equally as worried—“are in desperate need of a new look.”

Regan looked at the St. John’s–wearing granny, then down at her own wrinkled and wet suit, and frowned.