The Night Before Christmas Page 8

  “Not lie, exactly,” Mila hedged. “More like forget.”

  “Forget I ever saw you?”

  She nodded.

  Bob shifted, uncomfortably. “Are the police looking for you?” he asked. “Because if they are—­”

  “No,” Mila said, relieved to be telling the truth. “No, I promise, it’s nothing like that. I’m not a criminal. I’m just . . .” She paused again here. “I’m just someone who’s trying to start over, that’s all.”

  Bob gave her a long speculative look. “So you want a fresh start?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you don’t want to bring any old baggage with you?” he asked, with a smile.

  “None,” she said, smiling back. “Except maybe this,” she amended, swinging her suitcase.

  “Okay, that’s fair,” Bob said. “If anyone asks—­anyone not in a uniform, that is—­I’ll say that I’ve never laid eyes on you before.”

  “Thank you, Bob,” Mila said, gratefully, swallowing past something hard in her throat. But she caught herself. Don’t you dare cry, Mila. Because then he really will remember you. Besides, he can’t start comforting you now. The man’s got a Little League game to get to.

  “Well, good luck,” Bob said. He climbed up the rest of the steps, slid into the driver’s seat, and pulled the lever that closed the bus’s door.

  “Thanks again,” Mila called, relieved that the danger of her crying had subsided. Bob held up his hand to her in a good-­bye gesture, started the engine, and eased the bus back onto the road. Mila watched him drive away, then dragged her suitcase over to the bench. She sat down on it, but no sooner had she done this than it began to rain. Not a hard rain. Just a dull, gray rain. Although it had been an unusually warm spring in Minnesota, today, the third day of June, was shaping up to be cool and wet.

  So she stood up and carried her suitcase over to the bus shelter’s narrow overhang, hoping to get a little protection from the rain. It was better there, but not by much. She shivered in her thin cotton blouse and skirt and wished she’d worn something warmer. But she’d tried to dress as innocuously, and as forgettably, as possible, and this was the outfit she’d settled on.

  She saw something then, out of the corner of her eye, and she flinched. But when she turned to see what it was, she realized with relief that it was nothing more than a crow alighting on a nearby telephone line.

  Would this ever end? she wondered. This constant looking over her shoulder? This fear, always, of being followed? Of being discovered? She had a sinking feeling that it would not. Unless the unthinkable happened. And he found her.

  “REID? REID? ARE you listening to me?”

  “Of course,” he lied, though, in fairness to him, he had tried to listen to what his sister-­in-­law, Allie, was saying to him. But the painkillers—­the painkillers that didn’t seem to kill the pain—­were making him a little foggy.

  He watched now as Allie lifted her six-­month-­old daughter, Brooke, out of her stroller and settled her onto her lap. Cute baby, he thought, and, almost as if she knew what he was thinking about her, Brooke wriggled in her mother’s arms and smiled at him, a toothless, charming smile. And then, for an encore, she balled up her tiny fist and shoved the entire thing into her mouth. Very impressive, Reid thought. Funny how he’d never known before how entertaining babies could be. Much more entertaining than adults, he decided, as he watched Brooke suck mightily on her little fist.

  But apparently, while he was doing this, Allie was trying to talk to him, because now her voice intruded on him again. “Reid? Please try to stay with me, all right?” she asked. “Just for a few minutes.” She sounded exasperated. Exasperated and something else. Concerned. Reid tensed warily. Because if there was anything he hated, it was being on the receiving end of concern.

  “Do I sense a lecture coming on?” he asked now, finally tearing his eyes away from the baby. And his voice, even to him, sounded odd. Thick, and cottony. As if he didn’t use it that much anymore. Which, of course, he didn’t.

  “A lecture?” Allie asked now, raising her eyebrows. “No. Not a lecture. Not exactly.”

  “Because that sounded to me like the beginning of a lecture,” he said, reaching for the glass of ice water on the table in front of him. It was hard to reach from his wheelchair, though, especially since when he leaned too far forward, the full cast on his left leg dug into his thigh, and his mending ribs ached from the effort. Still, he reached for it, and, misjudging the glass’s distance, his fingers only brushed against it, knocking it off the table.

  “Damn it,” he said, as the glass shattered on the floor. And, as if on cue, Brooke started to cry.

  “Shhh,” Allie said, trying to soothe her. “Caroline,” she called out to the woman who owned the coffee shop. “We’re going to need a broom and dustpan over here.”

  Reid reached down to pick up a piece of broken glass, but the side of his wheelchair limited his range of movement.

  “Damn it,” he said again, giving up.

  “It doesn’t matter, Reid,” Allie said, reaching over to pat his hand, which was resting on the arm of his wheelchair. “It’s just a glass. I’m sure it happens all the time here.”

  “But I scared the baby,” Reid said, wondering what kind of a jerk you needed to be to scare a baby.

  “Reid, she’s fine,” Allie said, putting the baby up on her shoulder and patting her on her back. “She’s just tired, that’s all. She’s overdue for her nap.”

  Caroline appeared then with a broom and a dustpan.

  “I wish I could tell you this was our first broken glass of the day,” she said to Reid, sweeping up the fragments of glass. “But it’s our third. And today was a slow day, too.” Reid looked away and mumbled an apology.

  Caroline left with the dustpan and broom and came back with another glass of water, this one with a bendy straw in it. She handed the glass to Reid and waited until he had a firm grip on it before she let go of it.

  “Thanks,” Reid said, sipping from the straw.

  “There you go,” Caroline said, sounding pleased. But Reid felt himself sink a little farther into his wheelchair. Is this what it’s come to? he wondered. Holding my own glass and drinking from a bendy straw now constitutes a major accomplishment?

  “Allie,” Caroline said. “Why don’t I take Brooke for a little while? You and Reid are obviously trying to talk.”

  “Trying being the operative word,” Allie murmured. But she smiled as she handed Brooke over to Caroline. “We just need a few minutes,” she said, shifting her gaze back to Reid. A few minutes, Reid thought hopefully, as the sound of the baby’s fussing receded into the background. Even he could handle a few minutes of being lectured to.

  “Look, Reid,” Allie started again, “I can only imagine how difficult it’s been for you since the accident. And Walker and I have tried to be patient, and we’ve tried to give you time to adjust to all the changes in your life. But, Reid, sometimes we feel like we’re the only ones who are trying.”

  Reid sighed wearily. So this was about his attitude. Which, admittedly, was pretty poor. But he was in a wheelchair, for Christ’s sake, dependent on other ­people for all but his most basic of needs, and there were days, still, when the pain was so bad he was convinced the pills he took were nothing more than placebos.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” he muttered now. “I’ll do better, okay?”

  “Reid, you said that the last time we had this conversation.”

  “Well, I mean it this time.”

  Allie didn’t look optimistic. “Reid, as of last week,” she reminded him, “you’ve been through two home health aides.”

  “I know that,” he said, still sipping from his straw. “But I can’t help the fact that they were both completely incompetent.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” she said. “Walker and I, for instance,
are of the opinion that they were both perfectly competent.”

  “Right. Well, maybe that’s because you didn’t have to live with either of them.”

  “Maybe,” Allie conceded. “But the fact remains that both of them quit, Reid. And they both gave the same reasons for quitting, too. They said that you were condescending, rude, and uncooperative.”

  Reid, knowing this was a fairly accurate representation of his behavior, chose not to defend himself.

  “The agency we’ve been using, Reid,” Allie continued, “has refused to place another aide with you.”

  He shrugged. “No great loss there. They were clearly scraping the bottom of the barrel already.”

  Allie frowned, and a line appeared between her pretty hazel eyes. Reid immediately felt bad. He liked Allie. Most of the time, in fact, he liked her even more than he liked his brother, Walker, who, though younger than Reid, had lately developed the annoying habit of behaving like an older brother. But still, Allie didn’t understand what it was like to have these ­people—­these home health aides—­living in your house. These ­people whom you had nothing in common with, but who were nonetheless privy to every detail of your life. He shuddered now, just thinking about the enforced intimacy he’d had to endure with the last two aides.

  “Look,” Allie said, pressing on, “I know how much you value your privacy. And I know having someone you don’t know well living with you hasn’t been easy, Reid, but it has been necessary. Because as much as we’d like to take care of you ourselves, we can’t. We have Brooke and Wyatt,” she said, Wyatt being their nine-­year-­old son. “And Walker’s running the business by himself until you’re ready to come back to work, and I’m heading into the busy season for the Pine Cone Gallery,” she added, referring to the gallery where she’d worked for several years before buying it from the owner the previous summer.

  “Allie, look, I know how busy you both are,” he said. “But I don’t expect either of you to babysit me. In fact, I don’t want either of you to babysit me. Especially since I’m capable of taking care of myself. As in all of the time,” he stressed. “Really, Allie. I’m ready to live alone again.”

  At this, Allie crossed her arms across her chest and leveled Reid with a you have got to be kidding me look.

  “I’m not kidding,” Reid said, to her unspoken comment. “I’m completely serious. I’ll be fine on my own. And, if I need help, you and Walker are only a phone call away.”

  “No, absolutely not,” Allie said, shaking her head. “You’re not living in that cabin by yourself.”

  “Why not? You two had it completely retrofitted while I was in the rehabilitation center. I can use the bathroom by myself, get in and out of bed by myself—­”

  But here Allie interrupted him. “Look, it’s great you’re able to have some independence. But someone needs to be with you at all times. I’m sorry if that’s hard for you to accept. But you were in a serious accident, Reid. You almost died. The doctor said it’s going to be months—­many months—­before you fully recover.”

  “If I fully recover,” Reid offered. After all, it was what they were both thinking.

  “I didn’t say that, Reid. And I didn’t mean it, either. You will recover. But it’s going to take time. And during that time, you’re going to need help. However galling it may be to your pride.”

  What pride? Reid wondered, looking down at his damaged leg. It had been a long time since he’d felt anything even remotely resembling pride.

  But if he was wallowing in self-­pity now, Allie chose not to see it. She had something else on her mind, Reid realized. Something else she needed, but didn’t want, to say to him. He watched while she bit her lower lip, something he knew she only did when she was nervous.

  “Allie, what is it?” he asked quietly. “What’d you bring me here for? I mean, other than to tell me I need to improve my attitude?”

  Allie sighed. “Reid, that is why I brought you here. That, and to tell you that we’ve found another home health care aide. This one from Minneapolis.”

  “Minneapolis?”

  She nodded. “We had to find a new agency, remember? Anyway,” she said, glancing at her watch, “Walker’s picking her up at the bus stop right now, and then he’s bringing her here to meet us.”

  “Like a blind date?” Reid asked, cringing at the thought. “Is that really necessary?”

  “Yes, it is, Reid. Because this time, you’re going to make an effort. This time, you’re going to be civil, right from the start, in the hopes that your civility will be habit forming. Because Walker and I have both agreed that if this placement doesn’t work out . . .” She hesitated here. “If it doesn’t work out, you’re going to have to go back to the rehabilitation center.”

  “What?” Reid said, aghast. “Allie, you can’t send me back there.”

  She wavered, and Reid knew how difficult this was for her. She liked him. Even when his and Walker’s relationship was at its most acrimonious, Reid and Allie had always gotten along.

  “We don’t want to send you back there,” she qualified. “But we will. If you can’t make in-­home care work, we won’t have any choice, Reid.”

  He shook his head, disgusted. When he’d first arrived at the rehabilitation center, after three weeks in the hospital, he’d been in too much pain to really know where he was, let alone to care. But as he’d started to improve, and to take stock of the situation, he’d come to appreciate how truly depressing the place was. Even thinking about it, he could smell the disheartening odor of disinfectant overlaid by furniture polish, and he could hear the constant drone of a roommate’s television set, always tuned, somehow, to the same inane game show.

  “I won’t go back there,” he said now.

  “Then make this work,” Allie said, almost pleadingly. “It’s only for three months, okay? After that, hopefully, you’ll be ready to live on your own again. In the meantime, just . . . just be nice to this woman. Her name is Mila. Mila Jones. And, for some reason, she wants to spend the summer two hundred and forty miles from her home in the Twin Cities. And, not only that, but she comes highly recommended from the woman who owns the agency in Minneapolis. So please, Reid. Please try.”

  He looked at Allie. She looked hopeful. Hopeful and trusting. But more than that, he thought, she looked tired. And it made him feel guilty. Paired with the arrival of a new baby, his accident, he knew, had been a lot for Allie and Walker to handle. Not that they ever complained about it. They didn’t. They left the complaining to him.

  “All right, I’ll try,” he said finally, forcing himself to smile one of his increasingly rare smiles. “This time, I’ll really try.”

  About the Author

  New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Mary McNear is a writer living in San Francisco with her husband, two teenage children, and a high-­strung, minuscule white dog named Macaroon. She writes her novels in a local donut shop, where she sips Diet Pepsi, observes the hubbub of neighborhood life, and tries to resist the constant temptation of freshly made donuts. She bases her novels on a lifetime of summers spent in a small town on a lake in the northern Midwest.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Also by Mary McNear

  Butternut Summer

  Up at Butternut Lake

  Credits

  Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Excerpt from MOONLIGHT ON BUTTERNUT LAKE copyright © 2015 by Mary McNear.

  BUTTERNUT LAKE: THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS. Copyright © 2014 by Mary McNear. All rights reserved under International and Pan-­American C
opyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-­book on-­screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-­engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of Harper­Collins e-­books.

  EPUB Edition December 2014 ISBN 9780062396396

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