Free Home for the Holidays by Ros Baxter Page B

I’m real sorry for your loss.”
    “It’s Beth,” Beth said automatically. But this time her heart wasn’t in it.  “And I thought Pa hated me?”
    Jim laughed. “I know what you mean,” he said.  “I always thought your Dad hated all us Cannings too.”
    Beth blinked at him. “He did,” she said.
    Jim laughed and started to shrug out of his jacket.  “Same old Lizzie,” he said. “Oops, sorry.  Beth.” He frowned at her.  “You know I’m not sure that’s gonna work for me. You just don’t seem like a Beth.”  He looked her up and down like he was mentally weighing options. “Can we settle on Elizabeth?”  He moved his lush mouth like he was testing it out on his tongue.  “Yep, that’s better.  Same old Elizabeth Gibson.  Tells it like it is.”
    Beth wanted to scream.  Same old Elizabeth Gibson alright. Always getting into fixes, no matter how hard she tried to do the right thing.
    “Anyway,” Jim went on like he was totally oblivious to the murderous look Beth was working really hard to nail him with.  “Like I said, Pa always had a soft spot for you.  That’s why he made Mark marry you.  You know, after the…” Jim made a noise in his throat like he wasn’t having the best day.  He went a little pink and flapped a hand.  “The thing at the Halloween parade.”
    Beth dragged in deep breath.  “How many times do I have to tell everyone that nothing ever happened on that damn float?”
    Jim laughed.  “Well, whether it did or it didn’t, the town still saw it, Mark still got his ass wooped and you two still got hitched.”
    “For a day,” Beth sniffed.
    “True,” Jim agreed.  “For a day.”
    “Where is he now?” While Beth hadn’t exactly gone to the altar willingly, she still figured (and almost everyone she told the story to agreed) that it was the reluctant bride’s prerogative to do a runner after the ceremony and before the big night.  Not the groom’s. 
    That was just plain unmanly.
    “Florida,” Jim sniffed.  He managed to say it like he was saying Mark had run off and joined the circus. “Last we heard.”  He shuffled on the rug like an awkward giant. 
    Beth’s limited grip on her not-terribly-good-at-the-best-of-times patience slid away, slippery and unreliable.  She stalked up to the interloper, feeling big with irritation, and held a hand up to his face.  Well, near his face.  He was, after all, very tall.  And she was, well, kinda short.
    “One,” she said, holding up her index finger. “I did not invite you in.  In fact, I believe I specifically said you could not come in.”   She poked him in the chest with her finger and went on.  “Two.”  She held up a second finger, like he might just need prompts to stay with the program. “A gentleman takes his goddamned shoes off inside a house.” She poked him again, but she had to admit it was mostly to see if he really could be that impossibly well-muscled under all those cold-weather clothes. He was.  “Three.  My name is not Lizzie, Elizabeth or any other thing you decide to dream up.  It’s Beth.”
    “Well beg my pardon, Beth,” Jim Canning said, piercing her up close with that trademark whiter-than-white Canning grin. “I have really gone and forgotten my manners.”  He put a hand to his heart and bowed his head.  “May I please use your phone to ask someone to come get me?”
    And this is what they did.  Those damn Canning boys. They did all the wrong things, took every liberty in the world, trampled all over your wishes, and then went and did the whole apple-pie-boy-next-door thing.
    She held out a hand to the hallstand where the old-fashioned phone sat, looking as darkly judgemental as Old Man Gibson himself. “Be my guest.”
    ***
    When he came back into the room, Beth was standing by the big picture window in the living room watching the snowstorm beat at the trees and the lopsided plough.
    “Phone’s dead.”
    He’d removed his boots and jacket, and