Mistletoe and Holly (9 page)

THE GOLD DOME
of the granite Capitol Building glinted in the morning sunlight. A snow-covered, wooded hillside rose abruptly behind it to form an appropriately rural backdrop for the white statue of Ceres, the Roman Goddess of agriculture, standing atop the glittering gold dome.

There was little traffic on the street as Tagg drove by the State House. Leslie’s gaze was drawn to the statue of Ethan Allen, standing proud and tall on the front portico of the Capitol Building, his arm upraised. This famed leader of Vermont’s Green Mountain Men seemed to be standing guard over the independence they had battled to win from Britain, an independence Vermont had
retained for fourteen years before finally joining the Union formed by the original thirteen.

“Small but impressive, isn’t it?” Tagg noticed her interest in the Vermont State House and commented on it.

“Yes.” Its size wasn’t imposing, but there was a quiet majesty in its classic architecture and a solid strength about its granite walls.

“It always fascinated me when I was growing up. I often wondered whether my perspective as an adult would change that, but it hasn’t,” he stated.

“Are you from Vermont?” Leslie ran her glance over his profile. It was a piece of information she didn’t recall her aunt mentioning.

“Yes, I grew up here.” His attention remained on the street they were traveling, watching the intersections and glancing at the businesses. “Then I left for college, and came back only once or twice since.” His gaze flicked briefly to her, absently amused. “Don’t I look like a crusty native to you?”

“No.” Although she conceded that Tagg had retained that air of reserve even if it was behind a smiling mask. “Did your work bring you back?” It was a probing question since he didn’t appear to do any kind of work.

“No.” The answer was accompanied by a brief, negative movement of his head, but he didn’t seem
to regard her question as prying into his personal affairs. “It was time for Holly to start attending school on a regular basis—and I guess I wanted her to grow up in the kind of background I did. How about yourself?” A traffic light turned red and he slowed the car to a stop, sliding a glance at her. “Are you from New York—or somewhere else?” And Leslie realized that she didn’t know any more about what he did for a living than she had before.

“I was born and raised right in Manhattan,” she answered his question while she tried to think of a tactful way to ask her own again.

“Then you’re a city girl.” The light changed to green and Tagg started the car smoothly forward.

The faintly mocking tone of his remark made Leslie add, “I’ve never thought of myself as a city girl. My parents had a house on Fire Island so we usually spent the summers there. In the winter, we’d go skiing—sometimes here to Vermont and visit Aunt Patsy. So I had a blend of citylife and countrylife, until the divorce changed things.”

“Your parents moved away from New York after they split up?” he asked if that’s what her remark meant.

“Eventually,” she nodded and huddled into her coat, not from the cold since the car’s heater kept the interior warm. Mainly Leslie was withdrawing
from unpleasant memories. “Both of them remarried. Dad and his new family live on the West Coast; and Mom and her family live in Baltimore. ‘And never the twain shall meet,’ as the saying goes.” The last was issued with a certain rawness.

“It was a bitter divorce,” Tagg guessed by her tone. “It was a more bitter marriage.” She shrugged, trying to make believe neither had mattered.

“Do you see them very often?”

“Not any more than I have to,” Leslie admitted dryly. “I’m the spoils of their war, so they’re both still fighting to claim me as theirs alone. And I don’t like being the rope in a tug of war. That’s why I came to stay with Aunt Patsy.”

“I’m glad you did.” Tagg smiled at her briefly, then noticed the store just ahead on the right. “There’s where we’re going—and there’s an empty parking place out front. We’re in luck.”

There wasn’t an opportunity for Leslie to turn the conversation back around and question Tagg about his occupation. So she had to bury her curiosity for the time being while he did his Christmas shopping.

Over an hour later, they returned to the car with his purchases made. Tagg stowed the brightly wrapped and ribboned packages in the back seat of the car, then held her crutches while Leslie maneuvered into the front passenger seat.

“And now to find someplace to eat,” he declared as he slipped behind the wheel and took the car keys out of his pocket. “Hungry?”

“Just starting. I cheated and had toast and jam this morning,” she confessed.

“So did I.” Tagg chuckled softly, his glance moving over her. As he turned the car onto the street, he said, “I think I’ve figured out why you pretend not to like Christmas. It gives you a perfect excuse not to go through all this rigamarole of buying presents for people.”

“Wrong.” She laughed. “I just don’t wait until the last minute to do all my shopping. My parents insist on giving me gifts—and a few of my friends. So I’m blackmailed into buying presents for them.”

“A lot of people are too proud to accept a gift in the spirit that it’s given,” Tagg replied in understanding, then winked at her. “Of course, that’s where Santa Claus steps in. How can a person say no to Santa Claus? He combines the joy of giving with the joy of receiving.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Leslie leaned back in her seat to mull over that perspective of the Santa Claus myth.

The restaurant Tagg picked was relatively empty of customers. It was too early for lunch and the coffee break crowd had already left to return to work.
So their service was quick and their food was hot. After the waitress had cleared away their dishes, she refilled their coffee cups.

Leslie noticed Tagg glance at his watch to check the time. “Is it getting late?”

“No. Holly won’t be getting out of school for another hour. We’ll be able to take our time driving back,” he assured her.

There was a stirring of activity at the restaurant entrance, the relative quiet disturbed by the arrival of a small group of businessmen meeting for lunch. The distraction brought a lull to their conversation as the hostess led them to a table. One of the men, a white-haired gentleman still in the prime of health, spied Tagg and immediately broke away from the group.

“As I live and breathe, if it isn’t Tagg Williams,” he declared and grabbed Tagg’s hand to shake it before Tagg could stand up. “I didn’t know you were back in these parts. How are you, son?” The man didn’t wait for a response as he turned a twinkling look at Leslie. “What pretty lady are you romancing this time?” He reached across the table to shake Leslie’s hand and introduce himself. “The name’s Kyle Clarehorn. I’m an old friend of Tagg’s family. And who might you be? I have to ask because he’ll never tell me your name. He’s afraid I’ll steal you away, that’s why.”

“Leslie Stiles.” She was half-surprised that she
was being given the chance to answer, but the man had to draw a breath sometime. His greeting had turned into a non-stop spiel. She was both amused and amazed at his energy, considering he was probably seventy if he was a day.

“Fine-looking woman, but you always did know how to pick them,” he informed Tagg with an admiring shake of his head. Again, he split his attention to Leslie. “Better watch your step with this guy. Every time I see him, he’s with a different lady. He draws them like flies to maple syrup.”

“Holly has already warned me about him,” Leslie assured him on a laughing note.

“Holly?” The name threw the white-haired gentleman for a moment.

“My daughter.” Tagg pulled his keen glance from Leslie long enough to jog the man’s memory.

“Your daughter, of course.” He snapped his fingers in a gesture of self-impatience for forgetting. “How is that blue-eyed little charmer? It must be three years since you stopped by with her to visit. Cute as a button, she was. I’ll bet she’s got a long list made out for Santa Claus.”

“Not a long one,” Tagg replied. “But she’s got a dog at the top of the list. Thankfully she’s old enough to know that when she
asks
Santa for something, it doesn’t necessarily mean she’s going to get it.”

“Every child should have a dog,” the man insisted. “You tell Santa I said so. You couldn’t pick a better Christmas present to teach a child the true meaning of love. Try spelling
dog
backward once. It’s
god
. And if you think about it, a dog is always sad when you leave it and happy when you come back—never asking where you were in between—just as long as you come home. You make sure Santa brings that girl a dog,” he ordered. “I wish I had time to stay and chat, but I have clients waiting.” With a wink at Tagg and a hand gesture at Leslie, he said, “Better hang on to this one.”

In the same flurry of energy that he had descended on them, the man was departing to rejoin his group. Leslie felt slightly out of breath, and the elderly man had been the one who did all the talking.

“He’s quite a character,” Tagg declared wryly. “You can say that again,” Leslie agreed.

“What did you mean when you said Holly had warned you about me?” His gaze narrowed on her with sharp curiosity.

“Oh that.” Leslie tried to shrug it away, but realized he would persist until she explained. “She told me that all the girls fall in love with you and wondered if I would, too.”

“I’m going to have to talk to that girl,” Tagg declared in mild exasperation. “Between her and
Kyle, they’re making me sound like a regular ladykiller.”

“Aren’t you?” she chided to get his reaction.

“Why would anybody want to be labeled a ladykiller or a playboy?” he reasoned. “The first implies that you kill ladies and what man would want a dead woman on his hands? And a playboy might have spent a lot of time in the company of the female sex, but I doubt if he’s ever known one woman well.”

“And you feel that’s important?” Her voice was soft. Something inside her was waiting for his answer.

“You can’t love an object, but you can love a person.” Tagg reached for his coffee cup, breaking the intangible spell that had led them both into a topic with such underlying seriousness. “There’s supposed to be a full moon Friday night, providing the sky is clear. How would you like to go on a sleigh ride with Holly for a chaperone?”

Leslie followed his lightning change of mood, arching a light brown eyebrow. “Jingle bells in a one-horse open sleigh?”

“You’ve got it,” he grinned.

“I came here to escape all the Christmas hokum and I’m being deluged with it instead,” she decried in mock protest.

“Bah humbug,” Tagg mocked. “Even Scrooge was
converted into a believer. And I don’t think you’re as tough as he was.”

“Is that right?” Leslie didn’t attempt to deny it. Her position was steadily being undermined.

“Are you game for the sleigh ride, weather permitting?” he asked.

“Why not?” Her shoulders were lifted in a helpless shrug of mock defeat.

Tagg finished his coffee and glanced at Leslie as he set his empty cup on the table. “Are you ready to start for home?”

The ride back began in a companionable silence with Leslie gazing out the window at the picturesque countryside. The mountain state was sparsely populated, consisting of mainly valley farms, quaint villages, and small cities. The winter snows had given the rolling and wooded hillsides a serenely peaceful look, slumbering restfully to prepare for spring’s burst of green growth.

As the road curved past a farmhouse, Leslie noticed a man out back, chopping wood. The sight turned her thoughts to her curiosity about Tagg’s occupation. Candor seemed her only hope in obtaining an answer.

“What kind of work do you do?” Her sudden question after such a long silence seemed to briefly startle him.

As his attention swung back to the road, the side of his mouth was lifted up by a smile. “At the moment, none,” he replied dryly. “I have a law degree and I’ll probably open an office here after the first of the year. My father was a District Court Judge for a number of years before he died. I’m finally getting around to following in his footsteps.”

“But what did you do before now?”

“I was a professional skier. Unlike golf or tennis pros, professional skiers are a relatively unknown breed. Unless a skier has competed in the Olympics, which I didn’t, the public generally never hears about him. So don’t be embarrassed because you’ve never heard of me,” Tagg said as if he knew Leslie was trying to remember if she had heard his name before.

“I admit I haven’t,” she said.

“Mostly I competed on the European circuit. That’s how I met Cindy. She was the daughter of one of my sponsors,” he explained with no expression showing on his face. “After we were married, she discovered the skiing circuit wasn’t the glamorous life she thought it would be. Two years later, we separated. I didn’t know she was pregnant until a mutual friend told me before a meet in Grenoble. I flew to Colorado to see if we couldn’t work things out. That was in November, and Holly was born the day after Christmas that year. You know the rest of the story.”

“Is that when you quit skiing?” Leslie quietly studied him, realizing now how his skin had become so darkly tanned from the constant exposure to the glare of sun and snow and why he was in such superb physical condition when many men in their thirties were developing paunches.