That Christmas Feeling (5 page)

“I care because I’m the police chief,” he called up to the green eyes that were currently hypnotizing him into a jelly-kneed trance.

“I see,” she said, still staring.

Absolutely, he could not let Claire know the effect she
was having on him. He squared his shoulders. “I can’t have the newspaper printing a story about me letting the high school history teacher fall out of a tree while chasing a cat. It wouldn’t look good.”

“Oh, right,” she said. “Well, excuse me for
not
caring about your precious reputation.”

Turning away, she edged farther along the branch toward the cat. Rob swallowed as the slender limb dipped downward. The cat growled, a long guttural emanation that reverberated through the chill air. Claire stretched out the aluminum pole. The noose on its far end slipped over the cat’s head. Claire tightened the loop, and the cat leaped.

“Oh, Rob!” Her arm jerked downward as the big tom’s white paws and black tail flailed in midair, and she clung to the branch with one hand and her knees. “Rob, he’s going to hang. I’m killing the cat.”

“Let him go! Drop the pole!” Rob pulled himself onto a lower branch and started climbing the tree. “Just don’t fall. Let the cat go.”

“But he’s caught in the noose! If I drop him, he won’t be able to land on his feet. He’ll get hurt.”

“Forget the cat, Claire. You’re the one who’s going to get hurt!”

She was trying to lower herself to another branch as the cat squirmed and yowled on the end of the pole. “Help him, Rob! Move him onto a branch, and I’ll try to loosen the—”

She lost her grip and toppled downward right into a large empty squirrel’s nest that had been built in the crossed branches of the tree. Dead leaves flew outward in a puff of
brown dust. The cat dropped to the ground and took off running with the aluminum pole still attached to the noose around his neck.

“Claire, are you okay?” Rob reached for her. The branch under him cracked. “Hang on!”

“
You
hang on!” She scrambled through the leaves to grab him. The branch snapped, and they both went down, sliding through bare limbs and snapping off twigs on their way to the ground.

“Ha! Ha!” Flossie Ross crowed through an open window as Rob rolled off Claire, who was squealing in pain. “Serves you both right! I hope you broke all your arms and legs! And your heads, too!”

Rob caught Claire’s shoulders and lifted her into his lap. “Are you hurt? Is anything broken?”

“Where’s the cat?”

“He’s fine. I can see the pole sticking out from under the porch.”

She let out a breath. “I’m okay, too. You?”

“Other than you just about scaring me to death, I’m fine.”

Looking up into his eyes, she smiled. “Well, Rob West. It seems we’ve just completed our second project together.”

He couldn’t resist stroking his hand down the side of her face. “That is the last time I ever let you climb a tree.”

“You can’t keep me from climbing trees.”

“I’m pretty good at getting what I want.”

“Are you, now? Well, I certainly know what I want.”

Her words rushed through him with all the force of a
dam breaking. When he spoke, his voice came out husky and breathless. “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

Hesitating, she closed her eyes for a moment. When they opened again, he saw that they had gone soft and dark. “Not much, really,” she whispered. Her lower lip trembled, and she cleared her throat. “Actually, I was thinking about pizza.”

He laughed. “Pizza?”

“Over at Dandy’s in Bolivar.” She sat up and tugged her cap back down over her ears. “They make the best mushroom-and-onion pizza I’ve ever tasted.”

“Mushroom and onion? Whatever happened to good ol’ pepperoni?”

“Fine, we’ll order two.” Standing, she took his hand and pulled him to his feet. “Go haul that poor cat out from under the porch, and I’ll meet you at your car.”

Claire was going with him to Bolivar. Rob stared after her as she headed for the open window through which her great-aunt continued to heckle them. Claire Ross was going with him to Bolivar. They would drop the cats at the shelter, and then they would drive to Dandy’s and eat pizza. Just the two of them.

It would be like a date. Only, he had vowed not to date again. This was only geeky Clarence, he reminded himself. So it didn’t count. Not really.

He watched her standing at the window talking to the older woman, assuring Flossie that she would drop by to check on her tomorrow and that she’d return a couple of cats to the mansion within the week. Claire’s auburn curls
covered her shoulders, tumbling over her green coat and down her back. Her slim hips and long legs looked just about too good to be true. As she turned to face Rob again, the setting sun flashed in her green eyes.

Maybe just one
sort-of
date wouldn’t matter too much. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea. Just two old friends having pizza together and talking. What was the harm in that?

C
laire wiped her fingers on a napkin and sighed as she settled back in the restaurant booth. Nothing like warm toes and a full stomach on a cold winter night. Three hours earlier, she had left Aunt Flossie still hurling insults through the open window of Ross Mansion and had driven home to shower and change out of her filthy duds into clean jeans and a forest-green sweater. Half an hour after that, Rob had picked her up in his squad car.

Back seat filled with yowling, hissing cats in small cages, they’d left Buffalo for the twenty-minute drive to the nearby town that boasted a charming courthouse square, a small Christian university and an abundance of quaint nineteenth-century homes. The manager of the Bolivar animal shelter took the cats, promising to restore them to health and try to find them good homes. And then it was pizza time.

“You only ate three slices,” Rob said, starting on his fifth.

“Enough, already. I’m as stuffed as that crust.”

Chewing, he grinned at her. “You always did like pizza.”

Uncomfortable with the ease of his statement, she knitted her fingers together under the table. They had spent most of the evening chatting about the past—his memories of the football team, her recollections of their different teachers and their mutual reminiscences about the joint history project.

But Claire couldn’t deny that it was disconcerting to have Rob West seated across from her in this dimly lit restaurant booth tonight, his blue eyes gazing into hers and his hand occasionally reaching out to touch her arm. No matter how hard she tried to convince herself otherwise, she enjoyed his company. And not just as an old high school friend. There was something about Rob that drew her. A connection, a soul-deep response, a heart yearning.

Of course, he was handsome. No female in her right mind would deny that. Just the sight of the man sent tingles dancing like snowflakes down her spine. Yet what she experienced in his presence went much deeper than mere physical attraction.

With Rob, Claire felt exactly like herself. Not like the woman she wished to become. Not like a dream image of the perfect heroine in her own life story. Just herself. Claire Ross. For some reason she couldn’t quite understand, that relieved and comforted her.

And it definitely made her reconsider the man she had been so certain she ought to marry. Had she ever known Stephen as well as she knew the man across the table? Cer
tainly she and Stephen had much in common, and Claire had admired him almost to the point of reverence. Young, highly acclaimed and well traveled, Stephen was a writer—a gifted historian whose books she had read and respected. She had been assistant curator of the museum in which he spent much of his research time, and he’d commended the accuracy of her work there.

They’d spent time together quietly discussing differing accounts of a war, or the influence of some long-dead figure, or the findings of an archaeological dig. Stephen had agreed to attend Claire’s church, analyzed the sermons from start to finish and pronounced himself a believer. Though his life hadn’t borne much fruit from that point forward, it had been enough for Claire.

She liked Stephen. Loved him, she’d felt sure. When he had asked her to marry him, she’d agreed, convinced that a future with the man made good sense. Their plans perfectly matched the ideal life she had dreamed up for herself in college. She and Stephen would spend their years in the serene and studious pursuit of historical accuracy. They would attend cultural events together. They would travel to the great places of the world and visit important sites. Okay, so they might not laugh much…or tease each other…or chase cats…

Claire sighed and glanced at Rob. He was nothing like her former fiancé, who had bolted off into the blue after a young admirer had made a fuss over his latest book. Stephen, it turned out, preferred hero worship to fidelity. He craved awestruck veneration over mutual respect.

Rob West, on the other hand, was steady. Authentic. And definitely a lot more fun.

He was smiling gently at her now, almost as though he was untangling and reading the web of confusing thoughts that jumbled her mind. To Claire’s mortification, she realized he probably was.

“You told me your mom and dad used to bake homemade pizza every Friday night,” he recalled. “That’s why you didn’t come to my games. Because you wanted to eat pizza with your family.”

She lowered her focus to her plate. “Those were fun evenings, and my folks still do pizza night when they’re in town. But I might have been giving you an excuse. I didn’t go to football games because I didn’t have anyone to go with. It was a culture, you know, the whole football scene. I didn’t have many friends, and we weren’t big on all that rah-rah stuff.” She paused. “Anyway, I never have understood football.”

He leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “You don’t understand football? What does that mean?”

“Was I speaking a foreign language just then? No, I don’t understand football. My dad never watched it on TV. He was a farm boy growing up, and he didn’t care for athletics. I didn’t have brothers and rarely went to the games. When I did go, I could never find the ball.”

“You couldn’t find the ball?”

She stared at him. “Are you going to keep repeating things? The football is brown and tiny, and it’s always hidden in some burly guy’s arms.”

“Yeah, that burly guy is the quarterback. Me.”

“How can anyone tell who’s who? All the players look alike.”

“They have numbers on their jersey backs. Names, too, in the pros.”

She shrugged. “Anyway, it’s always the same. The teams suddenly burst into action and start running around all over the field, the crowd yells, most of the players fall down and the referees throw yellow hankies everywhere.”

“Flags.”

“Whatever. Then the football reappears, and the whole scenario repeats itself. I never can find the ball, so what’s the point?”

He sat up straight and put his slice of pizza down on the plate. Then he pointed a finger at her. “You are coming over to my house tomorrow, Claire Ross, and we’re watching Sunday afternoon football.”

Claire swallowed. Time alone with Rob West. This was not in her plans. Not at all. She unknitted her fingers and then knitted them back again.

“Well, I do have papers to grade.”

“And I have bad guys to catch. I’ve got a methamphetamine ring scuttling around right under my nose, but they’ll just have to wait a couple of hours to start playing cat and mouse with me again. You and I are watching a game together tomorrow. That’s settled.”

“Is this by order of the police chief?”

“It’s an invitation.”

“It sounded like a command.”

“Seriously, Claire. I can’t let a red-blooded American girl get by without understanding football. That’s not acceptable.”

“I’m not a girl.” She pushed a piece of crust from one side of her plate to the other. “I’m twenty-eight, Rob. This isn’t high school.”

“I know that.” His eyes darkened. “Are you saying you don’t want to come over?”

“Would that be right—you and me alone together in your house? As my grandmother would say, ‘There’d be talk among the people.’ Besides, I don’t care about football.”

“How can you say that? You don’t understand it, so you don’t know how you feel about it. Look, okay? Just take a look at this.”

Rob got up and came around the table. Claire barely had time to scoot over before he climbed into the booth, seating himself beside her and sliding the white paper place mat out from under her plate.

“Now, here’s the thing about football,” he began, pulling a pen from his jeans pocket and drawing a pattern of Xs and Os on the mat. “It’s a game, but it’s more than that. It’s a battlefield, a test of strategy and strength. It’s like that float your students are building—chess come to life.”

Claire tried her best to concentrate on the place mat and the ink marks and Rob’s animated explanation. With the stroke of his pen, players designated with positions such as wide receiver, tackle and linebacker marched back and forth across the white paper field. Yards and downs and penalties appeared and disappeared. Patterns formed, merged, then dispersed as the opposing teams fought to get
the ball or to keep it out of the end zone. A foreign culture with its own language, football took on an unexpected mystique. The battlefield analogy resonated with the historian in Claire, and she was intrigued.

But even as she watched the drama unfold, Rob’s shoulder kept inserting itself into her line of vision and disturbing her concentration. Large, solid, covered in blue denim, the mass of muscle pressed against her own shoulder—a firm reminder that the presence beside her was all man. He smelled of clean, soapy skin and shampoo. And shaving cream, of all things. Had Rob shaved before picking her up? Why? Did men normally do that sort of thing at six in the evening?

His hands kept reaching into Claire’s thoughts, too. Rob had never possessed ordinary fingers, palms, thumbs. Now, ten years later, his hands looked even more amazing to her than they had in high school. They were large and tanned, with long, strong fingers and blunt nails. They had calluses and interesting small scars, and they worked in tandem with their owner’s words. Rob didn’t just talk—he hammered, pointed, jabbed, pounded and thumped his way through a conversation. Sitting beside him, Claire was poked and prodded, her hand regularly tapped, her wrist touched, her elbow bumped.

Under any circumstances, no one could ignore Rob West, and on this night Claire could hardly focus. Along with his big shoulder and constantly signaling hands, she had to contend with the fact that the long plane of his thigh pushed against hers, demanding her attention. His dark
hair gleamed in the lamplight, and his perfect profile sent tiny butterflies circling around in her stomach. She felt as though neon lights flashed around him, blinking the word
Male
. Tall, dark, handsome male. Brave, fascinating, intelligent male. Wonderful, amazing, desirable male.

Forcing the willful word and its accompanying distress from her mind, Claire listened closely enough to manage several fairly sensible questions. Rob answered with infinite detail and more diagrams. Lots more diagrams. As the waiters began shutting down the restaurant for the night, Claire realized her place mat was covered front and back, and Rob’s was looking a little like a Jackson Pollock painting.

“So a field goal is worth three points?” she asked. “Why is that?”

“Why? Who cares why?”

“There ought to be a reason.”

He studied her face for a moment. “There’s not a reason for everything, Claire. Sometimes things are just the way they are. Like you and me. Neither of us planned a lot of what happened in our lives.”

“Random acts of circumstance and fate?” She pointed to the place mat. “Or do you believe some heavenly head coach is up there moving things around like players on a football field—planning events, maneuvering us into position, causing things to happen to us?”

“I believe the same as you. God is in control of everything, and He knows everything. But He gives us choices, too. Look at your great-aunt. Florence Ross didn’t have to become a crotchety old bat, but she made decisions that
molded her character. I’m sure God knew how she was going to turn out.”

“I don’t know, Rob. Maybe Aunt Flossie didn’t choose to become so angry and bitter.”

“She chose it. Babies aren’t born bitter. Things happen to us, and we decide how we’re going to react to them. God gave us the freedom to do what we want, and the ability to respond to whatever happens. I didn’t have to get Sherry pregnant. I could have listened to my friend Claire and behaved like a gentleman. I didn’t have to marry Sherry, either, but this time I was thinking about what my friend Claire would have said. She’d have told me to do the right thing and accept my responsibilities. Sherry losing our baby was one of those sorrows in life that happen—whether by God’s design or the enemy’s or just a confluence of events, I’m not sure. But I’m the one who chose how to respond. I imagined what my friend Claire would say—”

“You really thought of me as a friend?”

“Didn’t you?” Consternation furrowed his brow. “Didn’t you see me as
your
friend?”

Claire lowered her head, thinking. During most of high school she had been so lonely. Her few companions had been in the French club or the chess club or her church youth group. They had done some fun things together—silly teenage stuff. But the one person she had always been able to count on was Rob West.

He showed up for their meetings. He did his part on the project even though he clearly considered it a boring assignment. Most important, though, Rob talked to her. They
rambled on and on for hours while combing through history books or painting posters or designing charts. Claire had told him everything about her family, her hopes, her dreams, her faith in Jesus Christ. And he had shared his goals and beliefs, too.

He had never been to church or had a family who deeply cared about him, and it was as if he drank in Claire’s words each time she spoke of such things. He teased her and made her laugh and protected her from the taunts of anyone who dared to put her down as a skinny redhead. If friendship meant communication and support and fun, then Rob certainly had been her friend.

“I never really worked it out in my mind that way before,” Claire finally said. “But yes, Rob, you were my friend. Maybe my best friend.”

His mouth curved into the hint of a smile. “I like that.”

“So do I. And by the way, despite not listening to my great words of wisdom as well as you should have, you turned out all right. I’m proud of you, Rob. It’s wonderful that you went into law enforcement. And I’m thrilled that the aldermen appointed you chief.”

“Really?” He blinked as if stunned. “I mean, that was
my
goal, but I never thought…it didn’t occur to me that anyone else would…” He looked at her. “No one has ever said they were proud of me.”

“Are you serious? When I heard about you being police chief, I thought, Well, what do you know? That dimwit Rob West made something of himself after all.”

He chuckled. “That’s not why I went after the job. I
mean, I’m glad you feel good about what I do. But I really didn’t give a flip what anyone thought of me.”