Free Shakespeare's Christmas by Charlaine Harris Page B

I remembered his lips against my hand.
    “And your friend Mr. Leeds? Does he live in Shakespeare?”
    “No, Jack lives in Little Rock.”
    “He works there, too?”
    Did Jack want it known what he did?
    “His job takes him different places,” I said neutrally. “Did Lou have Luke—isn’t that your little boy’s name?—here in the Shakespeare hospital?” People really like to talk about their childbirth experiences.
    “Yes, right here at the hospital. We were a little worried . . . there are some emergencies this hospital can’t handle. But Lou is healthy, and indications were that the baby was healthy, so we decided it would be better to show our faith in the local people. And it was just a great experience.”
    Lucky for you and Luke and Lou, I thought. “And Krista?” I asked, thinking this meal would never end. We hadn’t even gotten our entrees. “Did you have her here? No, she’s at least eight, and you’ve been here only three years, I believe?”
    “Right. No, we moved here from Philadelphia with Krista.” But something about the way he said it was odd.
    “She was born at one of the big hospitals there? That must have been a very different experience from having your little boy here.”
    He said, “Are you older than Varena?”
    Whoa. Change of subject. And a clumsy one. Anyone could tell I was older than Varena.
    “Yes.”
    “You must have traveled around some in your life, too,” the minister observed. The strip lights above the table winked off his blond hair, about ten shades darker than mine and certainly more natural. “You’ve been in Shakespeare for about four years . . . did you ever live here, in Bartley, after you got out of college?”
    “I lived in Memphis, after I graduated from college,” I said, knowing that would probably cue his memory. Someone had to have told him the story, since he’d been living here more than three years. My history was part of town folklore, just like Mrs. Fontenot shooting her equally married lover on the courthouse lawn in 1931.
    “Memphis,” he repeated, suddenly looking a little uneasy.
    “Yes, I worked for a big housecleaning service there as a scheduler and supervisor,” I said deliberately.
    That flipped his memory switch. I saw his pleasant, bland face grow rigid, trying to restrain his dismay at his faux pas.
    “Of course, that was years ago, now,” I said, easing him off the horns of the dilemma.
    “Yes, a long time,” he said. He looked sorry for me for a minute, then said tactfully, “I haven’t had a chance to ask Dill where he and Varena plan to go on their honeymoon.”
    I nodded dismissively and turned to Jack just at the instant he turned to me. Our eyes met, and he smiled that smile that altered his whole face, deep arcs appearing from his nose to his lips. Instead of the tough reserve of his defense-against-the-world face, he looked infectiously happy.
    I leaned over so my lips almost touched his ear. “I have an early Christmas present for you,” I said very softly.
    His eyes flared wide in surmise.
    “You’ll like it very much,” I promised, breathing the words.
    During the rest of the meal, whenever Jack wasn’t engaged in talking to Lou O’Shea or charming my mother, he was giving me little glances full of speculation.
    We left soon after the dessert plates were cleared away. Jack seemed torn between talking to Dill and Varena and rushing me back to his hotel. I made it as difficult for him as I possibly could. As we stood making conversation with Dill, I held his hand and made circles on his palm with my thumb, very gently, very lightly.
    After a few seconds, he dropped my hand to grip my arm almost painfully.
    “Good-bye, Frieda, Gerald,” he said to my parents, after he’d thanked Dill for inviting him. My mother and father beamed happily at him. “I’ll be bringing Lily home later. We have some catching up to do.”
    I could see my father’s mouth open to ask where this “catching up” would take