Shaking the Sleigh Read online

  "Now, let's see. Miss Hall. I've got you in our Dickens Suite. That's on the top floor."

  "That sounds lovely," I said, accepting my card and ID back and tucking them into my pocket.

  "It's our most festive room during the holidays," Annabelle said with a nod.

  My spirits sank further. Evidently producing the Christmas episode meant everyone I met would automatically assume I was just as Christmas-crazy as the people who decked out every inch of their houses on the show. "Great," I said with no inflection at all.

  "Here's your key, and you call me if you need anything. We've got a cocktail hour every night here in the lobby at five, and there are usually guests in the library after that playing board games and sitting by the fire."

  "Great," I said again, nearly desperate now to just sit down somewhere quiet. The bustle of the workers around the lobby was almost comical. People were dashing to and fro, carrying bells and faux candles. Just as I turned from the desk, a looming presence appeared behind me and I stifled a scream as a life-sized St. Nicholas doll stopped inches from my face and then moved in a jolting progression farther across the lobby.

  "Isn't he amazing?" Annabelle asked.

  "Erm. Yes," I said, watching the enormous old- fashioned Santa make his way to a far corner, carried by a worker about half the statue's size.

  A few minutes later, I was unlocking the door to the Dickens Suite and stepping inside. The young man from the front door was behind me with my suitcase and the oversized Christmas basket in his arms. A festive trail of green and red glitter spilled down the hallway and through my door as he moved past me to put things down, thanks to the exuberant bow on the basket.

  The suite was lovely, if you could overlook the wreaths and glittering globes and the huge tree standing in one corner wafting pine scent throughout the space. The tree was festooned with ribbons and balls, gleaming in the light, and I knew that anyone else stepping into this charming room would feel their spirits lift and would probably experience some kind of warm nostalgia relating to the holiday season. But the sight of the tree and the stockings hanging from the mantle caused a hard knot to form in my gut and settle there as my own memories soured any enthusiasm I might have scraped together for my new job.

  "I'll just put this down here," he said, setting the basket on a table. He left the suitcase by the door, accepted the tip I extended and wished me goodnight, and finally, I was alone. I looked around, a dark feeling of something like sorrow filling me as the tree twinkled merrily in its corner.

  “Nope,” I said, realizing I’d never be able to function in a room decorated to within an inch of its life. I moved quickly through the suite of rooms, removing every holiday item I could easily detach from where it had been stuck, hung or placed, and deposited as much of it as I could in the dry-cleaning bag hanging in the closet. I couldn't think with all the sparkle and cheer around me. The stockings came down, the reindeer was removed, and the festive hand towels in the bathroom were switched out for the plain white ones I found in the top of the closet. I wrestled the glittery bow from the basket, hoping to banish it to the trash can so it couldn't infect one more item with clingy glitter, but I mostly managed to explode the stuff all over the room and myself in the effort.

  When I was finished undecorating, only the tree glittered mockingly from its corner, and I almost believed I could feel my mind clearing, despite the glitter I’d probably never get washed from my hands.

  2

  Take Your Code and Shove it

  Callan

  I pulled my car up to the big iron gates at the address I’d been given over the phone, taking a moment to marvel at the sheer size of the house beyond the gate. It was big, and it was isolated, that was for sure—I’d driven down a long lane with fields on each side, and turned onto that from a quiet country road. I couldn't see another house from where I sat. No people. No cars. No neighbors.

  Good. This was exactly what I told the real estate agent I wanted. And now it was mine.

  As I sat staring at the tall iron gates of my new home, another car pulled down the long lane and stopped behind my own. A tall woman with dark hair slicked into a knot, wearing a huge scarf and big sunglasses got out and approached my window. “Callan Whitewood?" She leaned down, grinning, one hand holding the scarf down to keep it beneath her chin.

  "That's me," I said, trying to sound cheerful or friendly or at least not psychopathic while I tried to figure out the purpose of wearing a scarf so big it tried repeatedly to take over your head.

  "Jessica Betts," she said, sticking a hand through the window and narrowly missing my face with her long nails.

  I shook her hand, forcing a smile. "Nice to meet you," I said. "Thanks for your help with all this." She had been helpful, I reminded myself. So I could be friendly for five minutes even though I was pretty sure the blackness inside me contained less friendliness than that.

  "Well, we don't usually sell houses sight-unseen over the phone, but I guess we can always make an exception for soccer stars."

  "Or people willing to pay cash," I guessed. I’d signed everything in my agent's office back in San Diego, essentially sleepwalking through the process and dropping my signature wherever I’d been directed. I just wanted to move on, get started with this next phase of my life—the phase that didn’t include being featured as the media’s favorite pity-inducing ex-soccer star.

  She smiled wider. "Right. There was that. The seller was thrilled."

  "I'm sure." I’d pulled the trigger based on location, isolation, and the fact that Singletree, Maryland didn't seem like the kind of town that followed pro soccer. Driving down from DC after arriving from San Diego, I’d figured it was more of a crab or oyster fishing kind of town, maybe a hunting town, a good American football or NASCAR town. Based on my questions to various real estate agents I’d spoken with and the input of my brother, it was not a soccer town. And hopefully that meant anonymity.

  "It's funny," Jessica said, looking at me with a little tilt of the head. "We just had another celebrity buy a place here recently. Maybe southern Maryland is going to be the next hot celebrity escape."

  I really hoped not. I had heard that Juliet Manchester grew up somewhere near here, and that Ryan McDonnell had recently bought a home nearby. But I definitely didn’t make my decision based on them. More on my brother and my own desire to be isolated and far away from San Diego and the career I had loved. The one I’d been great at. The one I couldn’t have anymore. I doubted they even aired the South Bay Sharks games out here in the middle of nowhere.

  "I bet you'd like to go in, lay eyes on the place for real." Jessica's excitement wasn't contagious, but she was right. I wanted to go in.

  “Sure.”

  "Well step out here and I'll show you how to put in the gate code. Normally you'll just drive right up, but since we're both here ..." She stepped back from the car and I swung the door open and then used my hands to help get my left leg out and onto solid ground. My left ankle didn't do much of what I wanted anymore, which was part of the reason I was here in Singletree.

  I stood up, ignoring the pain ricocheting through my left leg and limped to where Jessica stood. She was clearly trying not to look surprised by my unsteady gait.

  "Just type in the code here," she said, her fingers going through four numbers. "And the gate swings open."

  I nodded. "I'll probably just get some kind of swipe access installed.”

  "Right," she agreed. "But for now, you've got the code. Five, six, seventy-two."

  "Right. Five, seven—"

  "No, hon. Five, six, seven, two."

  "Got it." I did. not. care.

  "Do you?"

  "Five, six, seven …" I trailed off. Failing. I was winning at failing lately.

  "Want me to write it down?"

  "Sure." I limped back to my car.

  "Okey dokey," Jessica trilled, heading back to her own car to follow me into the circular drive in front of the huge house.

 
We parked near a fountain that stood quiet and dry like a sentinel, and I gazed up at my new home. It was stately—I guessed that was the right word. It looked like something one of the founding fathers would have lived in—white and colonial, with columns and a sprawling front porch. The place had wings, more rooms than I could ever possibly use filling the enormous space inside the place. But in my mind, all that mattered was that it was isolated, it was far away from San Diego, and it was mine. Jessica unlocked the massive front door, and we stepped into the huge old house.

  "This was originally a plantation house, as I mentioned on the phone," Jessica said, gazing around with clear approval. "And it's been restored and updated, but so many of these wonderful architectural details are original. Once you get it all done up for the holidays, it's going to look just amazing."

  "Great." I was ready for her to hand me the keys and get lost. I didn't have much with me to move in, but I did have a bottle of scotch, a camping chair and a sleeping bag, and between those three items I figured my next forty-eight hours were pretty much accounted for. As far as decorating for the holidays, I had no plans for that, so I ignored this last comment.

  "I'll just give you the quick tour," she said, heading for a doorway off the entrance hall.

  "Ah, actually," I said quickly, my tone halting Jessica's step and causing her to turn, one hand on the giant sunglasses she wore atop her head and another on the ridiculous scarf. "I'm pretty beat from the drive. I think I can manage."

  "Oh, of course." Her face fell for a second but she shook her head with a laugh and recovered quickly. "Well then, here you are, Mr. Whitewood." She handed me a large silver key. "And may I be the first to welcome you officially to Singletree."

  I repressed a strong urge to roll my eyes. To her, maybe becoming a resident of Singletree was something to be celebrated, but for me it was just the final nail in the coffin of the life I’d had. The one I’d very much enjoyed having. Before. "Thanks, I really appreciate all your help."

  "If you need anything," she said, turning and heading back to the front door.

  "Yep. Got it."

  "I'll check in on you in a couple days." She patted my arm and stepped onto the porch. "And if you need any help decorating—"

  "Won't be necessary," I said, interrupting her. She was really hung up on this holiday thing.

  "Well, you know there is the thing I told you about, the contract—”

  "I've got it," I assured her, ignoring every word and practically pushing her out the door.

  "All right then, talk to you soon!" She skipped down the steps to her car, and a few minutes later, I stood alone on the porch of my new home.

  After unloading my few things from the car, I turned slowly and went back inside. The empty space of the old house seeming to echo and expand around me, making me feel small and insignificant as I stood in the cool silence. I took a deep breath, and for the first time in a long time, I exhaled and felt myself relax.

  I spent two nights in the new house, sleeping on the floor in the living room in my sleeping bag, a whiskey-fueled hangover dogging me through the days, and dark dreams full of doubts chasing me through the nights. I didn't even go upstairs. For one thing, my ankle hurt too damned much to climb the stairs just for the heck of it, and for another, I figured that when you've seen one house, you've seen them all. Just because this one belonged to me now didn't make it special.

  The movers showed up on the third day, their huge long truck lumbering down the lane in front of the house, making the road look even narrower than it actually was. I pressed the button next to the door to let them through the gate, greeted them at the front door, and then limped into the far bathroom to take a much-needed shower. My plan was to hang out on the back porch until they were done, staying out of the way and avoiding conversation—and potential recognition—as much as possible. I’d called my brother that morning to let him know I’d arrived, though I should have done it the moment I’d taken ownership. I shouldn’t have put it off, but even dealing with Cormac seemed like more than I could handle.

  I had just positioned myself back in the folding camp chair, my gaze aimed out at the sweep of the Potomac that wound around the bottom edge of my property several acres below, when I heard a female voice drifting through the open window. I swiveled and squinted inside, but didn't see any female movers hustling furniture about. Just when I decided I’d been mistaken, I heard it again, a soft melodious voice that definitely couldn't belong to one of the movers I’d just let in.

  Wandering the house, dodging moving couches and rolled-up rugs, wasn't what I felt like doing, especially with my ankle protesting every move I made, but my curiosity got the best of me. Was I hearing things now? Maybe I’d been alone a little too long in this strange old house. I went in and prowled the downstairs rooms and then climbed the stairs slowly, cursing the shooting pain that accompanied each step I took with my left foot. The staircase was grand and wide, the oak-planked risers creaking under my weight as I gripped the curving bannister. I imagined myself tripping and falling down the expansive steps, and I could picture the media coverage of that one. Former Soccer Star Callan Whitewood Suffers Another Debilitating Injury! Because I hadn’t been hounded enough after the first one.

  After exploring the upstairs rooms—all gleaming and bright, mostly empty of furniture—I was beginning to doubt myself, and to believe I was most likely losing my mind. I glanced out the second-story window at the moving truck in the drive, and spotted a small silver Honda next to my car. Someone was definitely here, but this stupid house was so big I couldn't find her.

  I was just about to head back down the stairs when a woman appeared in the hallway where she definitely had not been before. She had inky dark hair that flowed over her shoulders, and bright blue eyes that glittered in the half-light of the upstairs hallway. She was pretty, I realized, but that didn't begin to explain what she was doing wandering around my house with a clipboard and appearing in empty hallways. "Hello," she said. "You must be Mr. Whitewood. I'm April Hall."

  "Uh, hi," I said, hating the way the confusion made me sound uncertain. This was my house, dammit. Who was this woman? “Where exactly did you come from?"

  The woman gave me a puzzled look, her nose wrinkling in a way that I was sure most found adorable, but that I perceived as her simply not answering my question. "Just now?" she asked.

  "Yes. Just now."

  "Because I came to Singletree from California, but I didn't think that was what you meant." She laughed lightly and then spun around. "There's a secret hallway back here." She pulled open a panel that had been standing slightly ajar. "It was probably a servants' passage. A lot of these old houses have these little nooks and crannies. Part of the charm. If that's your thing." She shrugged and looked at me expectantly, maybe waiting for me to chime in about whether or not old houses and secret passages were ‘my thing.'

  Annoyance flooded me as my ankle throbbed. I didn't like a stranger knowing more about my house than I did, and I didn't like being surprised in my own home. I was also oddly annoyed at the tiny flicker of interest I had felt leap to life in my chest when I’d gotten a good look at this intruder. It was hard to hold onto my annoyance when part of me—the old part of me that was good at flirting with attractive women—was prodding me to keep her talking. I shoved that part down and remembered that I was done with women, done with being good-natured and friendly, done with people in general.

  "Can I ask what you're doing in my house, Miss Hall?"

  "Oh, of course." She had the grace to blush, certainly realizing that she was essentially trespassing. "I'm with Holiday Homes, and you're on my list, and well, the gate and the door were open, and there was so much hub-bub down there with all the men moving things around ..." she babbled, looking nervous.

  "And so you're here because," I began for her, gripping the banister at the top of the stairs as my ankle throbbed.

  "I was looking for you, actually." The bright eyes found my own and then dro
pped to my hands, taking in the white-knuckled grip on the bannister and darkening briefly before meeting my gaze again. "Is there somewhere we could sit?"

  For a split second, I wondered if she knew. That look—it had held a touch of pity, and while I’d come to Singletree to get away from lots of things, pity was first on that list. I straightened, forced myself to put weight on both feet evenly and released my grip on the bannister. "No, actually. There's nowhere we can sit. Maybe you noticed I don't have any furniture just yet?"

  "I did," April said, "and I'm so sorry to just barge in. I just wanted—"

  "I'm going to stop you right there," I said, feeling my anger dissipate into exhaustion. "Maybe you know who I am, maybe you don't. I don't really care. I moved here because I only know one person in town. There's no one here who needs me for anything, no one who expects anything from me. There's no one here who I have to worry about disappointing because they'd hoped for anything at all." The words sounded bitter coming out and I almost regretted them as I watched April's pretty face tighten, her chin lift slightly. "I don't need whatever you're selling. I'm not in the market for candles, makeup, or Boy Scout popcorn, I don't want to save the turtles or the unicorn habitat, and I'm not looking to sponsor a puppy, a wombat, or a child." I waved an arm at the stairway, indicating that April should go down.

  She stood still for a long moment, evaluating me with that sharp gaze. "Okay then," she said. "Good speech, by the way. I liked the part about the unicorns and wombats." Then she stepped past me, toward the stairs, but spun around to face me after descending only two risers, and came back up.

  I sighed. The woman’s eyes sparkled as red spots appeared high on her cheeks, and—was that glitter glinting just below her left eye?

  "I'll be totally honest. I have no clue who you are—I mean, if you're someone I should know, well, I don’t, sorry. So you don't have to worry about me asking you for a selfie or anything like that. And I don't really need anything from you," April said, her words coming fast. "I just need your house."