A Proposal for Christmas: State SecretsThe Five Days of Christmas Page 3

  David smiled. He had a nice smile, she noted, a smile touched with humor. Full of straight white teeth. But what was that sad detachment in the depths of his ink-blue eyes?

  “Doesn’t that take up a lot of your time? Teaching, I mean?” he asked.

  Holly dried a lacquered copper mixing bowl to a red-gold shine. She liked the way it looked, so bright and cheery. “I guess it does. I travel a little, write my books. And I keep up a weekly newspaper column, too.” She paused, then shrugged. “I like teaching, though. I get to meet new people that way.”

  “You don’t meet people when you travel?”

  She smiled again, wearily. “Not really. I take classes in other countries, and sometimes I’m the only student. It’s precise, exhausting work and I usually don’t even get to see the sights, let alone strike up lasting friendships. What do you do for a living, Mr. Goddard?”

  “Call me David or I’ll never tell,” he retorted, and even though his glance was pleasant, Holly had a feeling that he was stalling, for some reason.

  “All right. What do you do for a living, David?” she insisted, watching him.

  The navy blue eyes were suddenly averted; he was concentrating on scrubbing a baking pan. “I’m in law school at Gonzaga,” he finally answered.

  The answer seemed incomplete somehow. David Goddard was in his mid-thirties, unless Holly missed her guess. Surely old enough to be through with college, even law school. On the other hand, lots of people changed careers these days. “What kind of lawyer are you planning to be? Corporate? Criminal?”

  He took up another baking pan. “Actually, I’m taking review courses. I graduated several years ago, but I haven’t been practising. I thought I’d better brush up a little before I tackled the Bar Exam again.”

  “The Bar Exam? I thought you only had to take that once.”

  “It varies from state to state. I didn’t study in Washington.”

  He was hedging; Holly was sure of it. But why? “Where did you study?”

  David still would not look at her. “Virginia. Do they pay you extra for washing dishes?”

  The sudden shift in the conversation unsettled Holly, as did something she sensed in this man. In a flash it occurred to her that he might be a very clever reporter looking for a story. Her cooking career usually didn’t generate a lot of interest, but being third cousin to the next president of the United States just might. And what if he knew about Craig?

  Holly paled and withdrew a little. “I can finish this myself,” she said stiffly. “Why don’t you go?”

  Now the inky gaze was fixed on her, impaling her, touching that hidden something that did not want to be touched. “Is there a sudden chill in here or am I imagining it?” he countered.

  Holly kept her distance. Gone was the feeling of companionship she had enjoyed earlier. There was danger in this man; there was watchfulness. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? She fielded his question with one of her own. “Why would a lawyer want to learn to bake fruitcake?” she asked.

  David went right on washing, his hands swift and strong at the task. “For the same reasons the other people in this class do, Holly. There was a bookkeeper, if I remember correctly, and a construction worker—”

  “Maybe a journalist or two,” she put in sharply, glaring at him now.

  “A journalist?” He looked honestly puzzled for a moment, and then a light dawned in the blue depths of his eyes. “You think I’m a reporter,” he said.

  “Are you?”

  “No,” came the firm and immediate reply. And Holly believed David Goddard, though she couldn’t have explained why.

  “You really want to bake fruitcake?” Did she sound eager? Lord, she hoped not.

  David laughed and touched the tip of her nose with a sudsy index finger. “I really want to bake fruitcake.”

  They finished cleaning up and David lingered while Holly put on her coat and reached for her purse.

  “Was there something else?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level. For some reason Number Thirteen had a strange effect on her.

  “Yes,” he answered. “I plan to walk you to your car. It’s late and I don’t want you to get mugged.”

  Holly felt warm. Protected. Though she cherished her independence, it was nice to have someone looking out for her that way. “Thank you,” she said.

  Her car was in a parking tower in the next block, isolated and in shadow. It probably wasn’t safe, walking there alone, but she hadn’t thought of that in her hurry to get to the store and conduct her class. She was glad David was with her.

  He waited beside her sporty blue Toyota until she had found her keys, unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. Toby’s model airplane, a miniature Cessna flown by remote control, was on the seat, and she moved it in order to set down her purse and the small notebook she always carried.

  “Is that yours?” David asked with interest, his eyes on the expensive toy.

  “Actually—” Holly grinned “—it belongs to my nephew, though I do admit to flying it now and then up at Manito Park.”

  Again there was an unsettling alertness in David, as though he was cataloging the information for future reference. But why would he do such a thing?

  “I have a plane like that,” he said, and Holly ascribed her instant impression that he was lying to weariness and an overactive imagination.

  David Goddard was a kind, attractive man, not a reporter or an FBI agent. She was going to have to stop letting her fancy take over at every turn or she would become paranoid. She said goodbye, started the car and backed out of her parking space.

  There was a light snow falling and Holly drove up the steep South Hill at a cautious pace, her mind staying behind with David Goddard.

  He could be a reporter, she thought distractedly as she navigated the slick, slushy streets. He could even be an FBI agent hoping to find Craig.

  Holly laughed at herself and shook her head. “You’d better take up writing fiction, Llewellyn,” she said aloud. “You’ve got the imagination for it.”

  But even as she pulled the car to a stop in her own driveway, even as she turned off the engine and gathered up her purse, her notebook and Toby’s airplane from the seat, she couldn’t shake the conviction that David Goddard was something more than a second-time law student who liked to cook.

  Inside the house, Holly found her housekeeper and favorite babysitter working happily in front of the living room fireplace. Madge Elkins was a middle-aged woman, still trim and attractive, and her consuming passion was entering contests.

  Now, she was busily writing her name and address on one plain white 3-by-5-inch piece of paper after another.

  “What are you going to win this time, Madge?” Holly asked pleasantly, putting down the things she carried and getting out of her snow-dampened coat.

  “A computer system,” Madge replied, tucking a paper into an envelope and sealing it with a flourish. “Printer, software, monitor, the whole shebang.”

  Another person might have laughed, but Holly had known Madge for several years and in that time had seen her win more than one impressive prize in contests. A car, for instance, and a mink coat. “Is Toby sleeping?”

  “Like the proverbial log,” Madge answered, gathering a stack of envelopes, all addressed and stamped, into a stack. “You had a couple of phone calls—one from Skyler and one from a man who wouldn’t leave his name.”

  Again Holly felt uneasy. “What did he say? The man who wouldn’t give you his name, I mean?”

  Madge shrugged, fussing with her contest paraphernalia. “Just that he’d call back. Skyler wants you to call him.”

  Holly was suddenly testy. If Skyler wanted to talk to her, he could darned well call back. She saw Madge to the door and then headed off toward the kitchen, planning to take one of her experiments out of the freezer and zap it in the microwave. She’d been running late before cooking class and hadn’t had a chance to eat dinner.

  Just as the bell on the microwave chi
med, so did the telephone. Muttering, Holly dived for the receiver, afraid that the ringing of the upstairs extension would awaken Toby.

  “Hello?” she demanded impatiently.

  The voice on the other end of the line was haunted, shaky. “Sis?”

  Holly’s knees gave out and she sank into the chair at the desk. “Craig! Where are you? What—”

  Her brother laughed nervously and the sound was broken and humorless, painful to hear. “Never mind where I am. You know I can’t tell you that. Your phone might be bugged or something.”

  “Craig, don’t be paranoid. Where are you?”

  “Let’s just say that this call isn’t long-distance from Kabul. How’s Toby?”

  Holly deliberately calmed herself, measuring her tones. She was desperate not to panic Craig and cause him to hang up. “Toby is fine, Craig. How about you?”

  “I’m all right. A little tired. More than a little broke.”

  Holly closed her eyes. So that was the reason for his call. Money. Why was she always surprised by that? “And you need a few bucks.”

  “You can spare it, can’t you?” Craig sounded petulant, far younger than his thirty-six years. “You’re a rich lady, sis. Didn’t I see you on Ellen a few months ago?”

  “Craig, come home. Please?”

  He made a bitter, contemptuous sound. “And do what? Turn myself in, Holly? Give me a break—I’ll be in prison for the rest of my life!”

  “Maybe not. Craig, you’re not well. You need help. And I promise that I’ll stand by you.”

  “If you want to stand by me, little sister, just send a cashier’s check to the usual place. And do it tomorrow if you don’t want me to lose weight.”

  “Craig, listen to me—”

  “Just send the money,” he barked, and then the line went dead. Holly sat for five minutes, letting her ka-bob get cold in the microwave, holding the telephone receiver in her hand and just staring into space.

  Finally she hung up, forced herself out of the chair, and took the ka-bob from the microwave. Although she ate, she tasted nothing at all. The ka-bobs she had taken such pride in making might as well have been filled with sawdust.

  * * *

  David Goddard locked the two Webkinz into the trunk of his rented car, shaking his head as he remembered the way he’d had to scramble for them. He sighed, then grinned. The kids would like them, so it had been worth a few scars.

  On his way back to the parking garage’s lonely elevator, he passed the place where Holly’s Toyota had been. Instantly, his mind and all his senses brimmed with the scent and image of her.

  He reached the elevator and punched the button with an annoyed motion of his right hand. Walt Zigman was full of sheep-dip if he thought that woman was capable of espionage. Holly Llewellyn was harried and she was haunted, but she was nobody’s flunky.

  The elevator ground to a stop; the doors swished open. David stepped inside and punched another button. He smiled to himself, thinking of the first fruitcake he’d ever put together in his life. It was a good thing no one had bothered to taste it; his cover would have been blown then and there. He’d been too lost in Holly Llewellyn’s aquamarine eyes to concentrate on baking.

  Baking. He rolled his eyes. For this I went to law school, he thought. For this I walked the first lady’s dog.

  He reached the first floor of the parking garage, where there was a wine shop and an old-fashioned ice-cream parlor. Ice cream, in this weather? David shivered and lifted his collar before stepping back outside, onto the street.

  At the corner, he paused. Gung ho Christmas shoppers surged past him when the light changed, carrying him along. He went back into the department store where Holly had taught her class and again braved the toy department. This time he bought an airplane, a model that would fly by means of a small hand-control unit. Manito Park, she’d said.

  Half an hour later David entered his apartment, acquired only two days before, with mingled relief and reluctance. It was a small place, furnished in tacky plaids. The carpet was thin and the last tenant had owned a dog, judging by the oval stains by the door and in front of the fold-out sofa bed. At least he had a telephone. David went to it and, with perverse pleasure, punched out Walt Zigman’s home number.

  It was after one in the morning on the East Coast and Walt’s voice was a groggy rumble. “Who the—”

  “Goddard,” David said crisply, grinning. “I said I’d report Monday. This is my report.”

  Zigman swore fiercely. “Goddard, did anybody ever tell you that you’re a son of a—”

  “I met her.”

  “Holly Llewellyn?” Walt’s interest was immediate. Clearly, he was now wide-awake. “How did you manage that so fast?”

  “Simple. I bought yesterday’s paper and read the food section. There was a write-up about her new class.”

  “Her new class in what?”

  David closed his eyes. There was no way out of this one. “Fruitcake,” he answered reluctantly.

  Zigman laughed. “Fitting,” came his rapid-fire reply, just as David had expected.

  “You’re getting corny in your old age, Walt.”

  “Did you find out anything?”

  David unzipped his jacket and flung it down on the couch. It covered the toys and the model airplane in its colorful box—he’d be up half the night assembling that sucker. “Sure,” he snapped. “She fed me grapes and poured out the whole sordid story of her life in the underworld.”

  “Don’t be a smart—”

  “I met her. That’s all. But I can tell you this much, Walt—she’s no traitor. I’m wasting my time here.”

  “You’re getting paid for it. Keep your eye on the ball, Goddard. When it’s time for you to come back to D.C. and follow the new first lady around, I’ll let you know.”

  This time it was David who swore. “Tell me, Walt,” he began dryly, “does she have a dog?”

  “Three of them,” said Walt with obnoxious satisfaction. “By the time the new first family takes up residence, you’ll be back on good old Pennsylvania Avenue, passing out poochie treats.”

  “You’re funny as hell, you know that? In fact, why don’t you take your goddamned job and—”

  “Goddard, Goddard,” Walt reprimanded in his favorite fatherly tone. “Calm down, I was just kidding you, that’s all. You’re a damned good agent.”

  Agent. If he hadn’t felt like screaming swearwords, David would have laughed. “I didn’t work my way through law school so that I could walk dogs, Walt.”

  “You really are unhappy, aren’t you?”

  “In a word, yes.”

  “We’ve been through this before.”

  “Yeah. Good night, Walt.”

  “Goddard!”

  David hung up.

  After a few minutes he hoisted himself up off the foldout couch, dug the stuffed animals out from under his coat and set them on the scarred counter that separated his living room–bedroom from the cubicle the landlady called a kitchen.

  Thinking of his nieces and how they were going to enjoy the Webkinz, he began to feel better.

  Presently, David took a TV dinner out of the tiny freezer above his refrigerator and shoved it into the doll-sized oven. While it was cooking, he stripped off his clothes, went into the bathroom and wedged himself into a shower designed for a midget. After drying off with one of the three scratchy towels the landlady had seen fit to lend him, he went back to the living room and dug his robe out of a suitcase. Someday, he promised himself, he was going to write a book about the glamorous life of a Secret Service agent.

  After consuming the TV dinner, he set about putting the model airplane together. It was after midnight when he finally gave up, washed the glue from his fingers, folded out the sofa bed and collapsed, falling into an instant sleep.

  3

  It was very bad luck that, after a quick visit to her bank that bleak Tuesday morning, Holly encountered David in the neighborhood branch of the post office. Or was it luck?
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  Holly looked at the carefully wrapped parcel in his arms and decided he was only mailing the Webkinz he’d bought the night before to his nieces. No doubt he lived nearby and it made sense that he would be here.

  “Don’t you have classes today?” she asked as they waited in line, stiff pleasantries already exchanged.

  David smiled wanly. “One o’clock,” he answered. He hadn’t looked at the address on the envelope Holly carried, as far as she could tell, but she held it against her coat all the same.

  Soon enough, it was Holly’s turn at the window; she laid the envelope addressed to Craig’s go-between girlfriend on the counter and asked that it be registered. While she filled out the form and paid the small fee, David had ample opportunity to study the address, but there was no helping that. She couldn’t very well turn around and say, “Please don’t look at this envelope. I’m sending money to my brother, who is a fugitive, you see, and there is a chance that you might be a reporter or even an FBI agent.” So she said nothing.

  “See you tonight?” David asked in a deep quiet voice as she turned away from the window to leave.

  Holly hadn’t even thought about the classes; she’d been too intent on getting that cashier’s check sent off to Craig. “Tonight,” she confirmed, but her mind was on the letter she had just mailed. It would reach its destination, Los Angeles, within a day or so. Had she done the wrong thing by making it easier for Craig to keep on running? She knew she had.

  She would have left then, but David caught her arm in one hand and stayed her. “Are you all right?” he asked, ignoring the impatient post-office clerk, who was waiting to weigh and stamp the package he still held.

  Holly nodded quickly and then fled. In her car, she let her forehead rest against the steering wheel for a moment before starting the engine and driving away. As she pulled into a supermarket parking lot a few minutes later, she was still trembling. She loved Craig; he was her brother. But she almost wished the FBI would catch him. That way there wouldn’t be any more lying, any more hiding, any more guilt.