Free Patchouli For Christmas by Bren Christopher Page A

make sure everything gets set up and the caterers are here.”
    “Thank you, dear. And thank you for helping Jude select his paintings. I’m so glad he decided to come himself to make sure they are hung properly.”
    Michael didn’t want to sound too interested in Jude, but he decided to ask the question that had been nagging at him for a while. “Why wouldn’t he want to show his work if there are going to be art collectors and gallery owners here?”
    Mrs. Kendrick waved a gnarled but still elegant hand. “Oh, normally he would. It’s just the time of year.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You know he lost his parents?”
    “He told me they died in a car accident. I’m so sorry.”
    “They were coming back from a ski trip in Maine early in the morning, so they could spend Christmas Day with me. My son always made sure they came to visit for Christmas. The weather was horrible. One of those big semitrucks veered into their lane and hit them head-on. The driver had been awake too many hours, and he lost control in the sleet.”
    She paused. The little lines around her mouth deepened, and she stared vacantly down at her hands.
    Michael’s chest tightened. “It happened on Christmas Day? He didn’t tell me that.”
    “I’m surprised he mentioned it at all. I thank God every day that he was in the back with his seat belt on. The front of the van was crushed.”
    She paused for a moment and then continued in a brisk tone. “Usually he goes into hibernation this time of year. Mopes around wearing that awful patchouli, just like his father did. I think it makes him feel better, as if it brings him closer to his parents. So you see why I’m glad he’s here today, even if he doesn’t seem very happy about it. Still, it’s progress.”
    Michael thought of the rude Jude on the phone and how hostile he’d been when Michael first came to his loft. The almost reluctant smile that came later, and then the fun and laughter they’d had in bed. Why the change in mood? Because of him?
    “I didn’t realize,” he murmured.
    Her old eyes sharpened, and a frown came over her face. “You’re not interested in my grandson, are you?”
    Michael prevaricated a bit. “He’s a good-looking young man, of course. But we don’t have much in common, do we?”
    “Hmm.” She still seemed suspicious. “I suppose not.” Then she stood and thumped her cane against the wooden floor. “Come along. I want to show you the patio. I got one of those big outdoor fire pits yesterday.”
    She headed out the door. He started to follow and then lingered for a moment in front of the painting of the black rock in the middle of the crashing waves.
    It no longer looked angry. It just looked lonely.
    * * * *
    Nothing ever ran like clockwork, but preparations for Mrs. Kendrick’s party had gone as well as expected on the day before Christmas.
    Last minute substitutions in the menu, servers calling in with the flu, and all other crises had been averted. Guests had begun to arrive. The string quartet played Joy to the World with a great deal of enthusiasm. Servers circulated with glasses of champagne and truffle canapés.
    And, Michael noted with relief, several guests had paused to admire Jude’s work. The simple silver and red decorations Michael had added to the living room decor not only offset the dark paintings, but actually seemed to enhance them.
    But where was Jude? Shouldn’t he be near his work, waiting to talk to any of the prominent art lovers who might be interested?
    Michael reached into the pocket of his black wool suit jacket and nervously fingered the small gift he’d picked up that morning on his way to the penthouse. He wanted to find Jude, but the thought of his reception made his palms sweat. Jude didn’t seem the type to make a scene in a crowd of people, but Michael found that cold glint in his eye—so like his grandmother’s—intimidating enough. But if it was true that Michael had really made the artist happy, at