5.5 Contingent on Approval Read online

“Finished?” I asked.

  He nodded. “There are prob’ly some presents for you around here somewhere, dontcha think?”

  Probably. However...

  “I’m not worried about it.” I busied myself by putting the lids back on the various containers and slotting them into the refrigerator while Rafe watched.

  “What’s wrong, darlin’?” he asked when I turned around again.

  “Nothing’s wrong.” I reached for the empty milk glasses. “I just don’t care about the presents. I got the only present I wanted last night.”

  It was the truth. A couple of weeks ago, Todd Satterfield had asked me what I wanted for Christmas. The first—the only—thing that had come to my mind was Rafe.

  Of course I hadn’t told Todd so. But I’d gotten Rafe. My life was—currently—complete. Why would I care about the packages in the other room? They couldn’t possibly compare.

  And then there was the side-issue of it not being much fun to open presents with someone else when they have nothing of their own to open.

  “C’mon, darlin’.” He smiled. “Tammy sent you a present. You gotta unwrap it.”

  “I already did,” I said, closing the door of the dishwasher. “She sent you.”

  “She sent me with a gift. You only unwrapped me. The gift’s under the tree.”

  Fine. He seemed bound and determined to get me out there, so I may as well go. And now I was curious about what Tamara Grimaldi might think was a suitable present to send along with Rafe.

  The kitchen is at the back of the house. From the back door to the front door runs a long hallway with doors opening to either side. Eventually, the hallway ends in the foyer: two stories tall with a staircase on either side. We’d gone up one of those stairs last night, although this morning we’d come down the servant’s stairs in the back of the house, leading directly into the kitchen.

  The foyer looked the same as it had last night, when I’d come out of the parlor and had seen Rafe standing there, with snow darkening the shoulders of his leather jacket. The sight had blown any coherent thought out of my head. I’d been vaguely aware of the Christmas tree, the snow falling outside the double doors, and the fact that my entire family was inside the parlor behind me, but I hadn’t cared about any of it. The only thought on my mind had been him.

  Now I noticed the small pile of presents under the tree.

  Correction: the two small piles of presents under the tree.

  One was for me: a present from my brother, a present from my sister and brother-in-law, and a present from my mother. There was also a gift from Tamara Grimaldi. I glanced at Rafe.

  “Told you,” he said.

  I looked at the other stack and swallowed a lump in my throat. “Looks like my brother and sister went shopping for you.”

  They must have been quick about it, to have gotten the gifts here between last night and this morning.

  Or...

  My brother might have been in on this all along. He and Grimaldi could have cooked it up between them. Maybe he’d known all along that Rafe would be here on Christmas Eve. He’d certainly known before I had. Might have been nice if he’d told me.

  “I didn’t bring your gift,” I said wretchedly. “I have one.” A sweater I had knitted with my own two hands, no less, during all those long, long nights when I sat at home alone missing him. “But I left it at home. In Nashville. I didn’t think I’d see you while I was here.”

  He smiled. “Darlin’, you’re my present. And at any rate, I’m more worried about that one.”

  He indicated a tasteful gold gift bag sitting off to the side. It had his name on it in a graceful, curling script. I looked more closely at it and paled. “It isn’t ticking, is it?”

  “Not that I can tell.” Although he eyed it as if it might start at any moment.

  “It’s from my mother.”

  He glanced at me. “Uh-huh.”

  “To you.”

  He nodded.

  “I wonder what it is.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Open it,” I said.

  He shot me another glance. “You sure it’s safe?”

  “I don’t think she’d risk my life just to get rid of you. And she’d have to assume we’re here together.”

  “You’d think.” But he didn’t make any move to reach for the bag.

  “At least open one of the others,” I said. “My brother’s. Open Dix’s gift. Dix likes you.”

  “Where’d you get that idea?” But he reached for the bag. “He’s Satterfield’s best friend, ain’t he?”

  “He is. But he was my brother first. He wants to me to be happy. And he knows—” I broke off, blushing.

  Rafe looked up in the middle of taking the colorful paper off the gift. “Knows what?”

  “That you’ll make me happy. And that Todd won’t.”

  He nodded. We both busied ourselves opening Dix’s presents.

  Rafe finished first, and chuckled.

  “What?” I said.

  He held up a pair of brown flannel slippers and an old-fashioned carved ivory pipe. “You been talking to your brother about me, darlin’?”

  “I talk to my brother about you a lot,” I said. “So yes, I guess I must have mentioned the pipe and slippers at some point.”

  “Guess he’s telling me to take you up on the offer.”

  The offer I’d made, to meet him at the door every day at five o’clock with a pipe and slippers when he quit doing undercover work and had a normal life again.

  “Do you smoke?” I asked.

  He’d never smoked when we’d been together, but the truth was, we hadn’t ever spent all that much time in the same vicinity. We’d collide, cling for a bit, and bounce off again into our separate orbits. The most time I’d ever spent with him at a stretch was in bed, and some of that had been spent sleeping. But he didn’t smell like smoke. Especially not pipe smoke. My grandfather used to smoke a pipe, so I’m familiar with the scent.

  He shook his head. “Used to, a long time ago. Quit when I went to prison.

  “Too hard to get cigarettes?”

  “You could get’em. I just decided I didn’t want nothing having that much control over me.”

  I wondered whether he was referring to the cigarettes themselves or the people he’d have to deal with to get them, and decided not to ask. “You were a smart kid.”

  “Not so much that you’d notice,” Rafe said. “But at least the slippers fit.” He wiggled his feet inside the brown flannel. “So what did your brother give you?”

  “Apron.” I grimaced. “Frilly, embroidered, circa 1955. The kind with a bib and a big bow in the back, like Donna Reed wore. He must have found it in an antique store. Along with the pipe, I guess.”

  “Maybe he figures you’ll meet me at the door wearing that and nothing else.”

  The idea had a certain appeal. Enough that we were both silent for a few seconds.

  “You ready for Catherine’s gift?” I asked.

  “Sure.” He opened it while I watched.

  “Awww,” I said, touched. “My sister gave you a shirt.”

  And not just any shirt, but a lovely, crisp, white one that would look wonderful against his dusky skin and dark hair and eyes. He could wear it when he went to her house for dinner later. That way he wouldn’t have to wear the same shirt he’d worn yesterday. To tell the truth, the corduroy shirt and jeans weren’t really appropriate for dinner with my mother. Not that I care what he wears—I prefer it when he wears nothing at all, and at the moment, my mother’s feelings of propriety were the last thing I was worried about—but I certainly didn’t want to give her cause for complaint if I could avoid it. She had plenty to complain about already; anything more would be overkill.

  “What about you?” He was already unbuttoning the corduroy.

  “What?”

  He stopped with the shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest and quirked a brow at Catherine’s gift, half-opened in my lap. I blushed. “Oh. This.�
�� I showed him. A box of 365 condoms, one for each day of the year. Some were colored, some were flavored, some were ribbed or otherwise adorned. One, according to the outside of the box, played music. Christmas music.

  Rafe stared for a moment, his hands idle, before he chuckled. “Remind me to thank her later.”

  I nodded, too embarrassed to respond.

  Rafe shrugged out of the corduroy, and I swallowed, my mouth dry. He grinned at me, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking, and took his time pulling the new shirt on. “What d’you think?”

  “I like you better without clothes,” I said honestly. “But if you have to wear a shirt, you could do worse.”

  “I don’t think your sister would appreciate it if I came to Christmas dinner with no shirt on, darlin’.”

  Au contraire. I was pretty sure Catherine would approve wholeheartedly. Any normal, halfway red-blooded woman would. Her husband might not.

  “It’s my mother you have to worry about. My sister’s human.”

  “Right,” Rafe said, “and speaking of your mother...”

  The gifts. I nodded. “Let’s just get it over with.”

  He reached for his. I reached for mine.

  My gift from my mother turned out to be no big deal. She has excellent taste, and usually ends up buying me something expensive, beautiful, and appropriate; usually something she picks up at her best friend Audrey’s boutique on the Sweetwater town square.

  This year was no different. It was a cardigan, off-white cashmere, with pearl embroidery around the neckline and down the front. Tasteful, elegant, and ladylike. Demure.

  I held it up.

  “Pretty,” Rafe said.

  I nodded. “You?”

  He grimaced. And held up a sweater of his own.

  Chapter 3.

  There was nothing even remotely tasteful or elegant about this one. Nor was it beautiful, or appropriate for anything but a circus.

  It was a bright, eye-searing green, with red and white striped candy-cane piping along the V-neck. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, it also had a row of appliquéd gingerbread men and women around the bottom. Line-dancing.

  “My mother gave you that?” I said.

  He nodded.

  “It’s ugly.”

  “No kidding.”

  I tilted my head. “It’s a test, you know.”

  He glanced at me. “I ain’t stupid, darlin’.”

  Of course not. So he’d already known that.

  “If you wear it,” I said, “she wins. If you don’t, you lose.”

  “Case of ‘damned if I do, damned if I don’t.’ I hate decisions like that.”

  I smiled. “Maybe she just wants to see how far you’re willing to go to impress her. When Jonathan started dating Catherine, mother and dad gave him a pretty hard time. Damn Yankee, you know? I don’t remember anything as humiliating as this, though.”

  He slanted a look my way. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t think there was anything I could say that would make you feel better.”

  “You got that right.”

  “For what it’s worth, if anyone can pull off a sweater like that, you can.”

  He turned to look at me. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re gorgeous,” I said. “Even an ugly sweater can’t change that. What did you think it meant?”

  “You don’t wanna know,” Rafe muttered. “Your mother’s brutal.”

  “In her own ladylike way. Put it on. Let me see.”

  He grimaced, but pulled the sweater over his head. It looked just as bad on as it had when he’d held it up. I flinched. “It’s very bright.”

  “Thank you, darlin’. That makes me feel better.”

  “Sorry. But it’s just a sweater.”

  “Easy for you to say.” But he didn’t take it off. Instead he bent and grabbed another package from under the tree and tossed it to me. “Here. This is from Tammy. Tell me what you think.”

  “You too.” I waited for him to pick up his own package from Tamara Grimaldi before I opened mine.

  It took only a few seconds to remove the paper, and I stared at the contents, my cheeks flaming. Rafe, meanwhile, had taken the wrapping off Tamara’s gift to him, and chuckled.

  “What?” I said.

  He didn’t answer, just held it up. Lingerie dripped from his fingers: slinky red satin with white fur trim and little black bows. Women’s lingerie. Christmas appropriate, like something Santa’s naughty helper might wear.

  “She must have made a mistake,” I muttered, unsuccessfully trying to wrap the paper back around the things in my lap. “Put the wrong name on the wrong package.”

  Rafe shook his head. “I don’t think so, darlin’. What did she get you?”

  I held it up. A Santa hat and a pair of satin boxer shorts decorated with red lipstick kisses, along with a pair of handcuffs with fur lining. They matched the lingerie he’d received.

  Rafe started laughing. “No, she did it right. That’s definitely for you.”

  “And that’s for you?” I indicated the Santa-lingerie.

  He grinned. “Sure is.”

  “How do you figure that? No offense, but while you may be able to carry off the sweater—” and the boxer shorts, “—a satin bra and matching panties is too much, even for you.”

  He shook his head. “Ain’t for me to wear, darlin’. But it’s still my gift. Tammy ain’t stupid. She knows no woman wears something like this for herself, she wears it for a man. The only way you’ll put it on, is if I ask you to.”

  He was right about that. I glanced down at my lap. “I suppose you’ll put these on if I ask you to?”

  “Course. We’ve been talking about handcuffs for a while now, ain’t we?”

  We had. More as a joke than anything else. Although he had once told me that if I wanted to tie him to something, he’d be happy to oblige.

  “I was talking about the hat and shorts,” I said, blushing.

  “That’s a shame,” Rafe answered and changed the subject. “Think we’ll have time to stop by the cemetery on Oak on the way to dinner, darlin’? I didn’t go last night.”

  “Of course.” It’s tradition to decorate the graves of your loved ones on Christmas Eve. There’d been no love lost between Rafe and his grandfather, Big Jim, but his mother LaDonna had passed away last summer, and it made sense that he’d want to visit her grave. I had made my own stop at the Oak Street Cemetery yesterday, on my way into town, but I didn’t tell him that.

  “You ready to go?”

  “You have to put on the boxers first.” And I had to put on my mother’s gift over the blouse I was wearing. It’s also tradition.

  He stared at me. “You want me to go to your sister’s house wearing those?”

  “Under your pants. I’m not expecting you to wear only the boxers.”

  “I’d rather wear them than the sweater,” Rafe said but capitulated. “Fine. I’ll go put’em on. While I’m gone, you better make sure you haven’t missed anything.”

  “Like what?”

  But he didn’t answer; he was already on his way down the hallway to the nearest bathroom. “Third door on the left,” I called after him, and heard the door open and close.

  I folded his shirt neatly and put it into the bag where the new shirt had been. And I put the lingerie and handcuffs into the bag with the condoms, since they seemed to belong together. And that’s when I saw it.

  Another present.

  It was small and hung from one of the lower branches of the tree. A tiny box in blue paper with small silver stars, tied in a loop with a blue ribbon. I removed it carefully, apprehension making my hands unsteady.

  There was no tag on the box. No indication who it was from, and no indication that it was intended for me, really. Not apart from the fact that it had hung there above my other gifts.

  My heart was beating hard as I unwrapped it. And lest you misunderstand, it was
beating with dread, not anticipation. The box was just the right size for jewelry, and if there’s one thing I’ve come to fear, it’s jewelry boxes. It was just a few weeks since Todd had asked me whether I wanted diamonds for Christmas. I’d told him no, since I’d been afraid he planned to spring another engagement ring on me, a ring I’d have to turn down in front of my entire family on Christmas Eve.

  Christmas Eve was over, so at least I didn’t have to worry about that. But I still wasn’t looking forward to giving it back. If I could have handed it back to him unopened, I would have.

  It was a jewelry box. Small, black, velvet-covered. And when I opened it, there was a ring inside. A slim band with a small blue stone. Not a diamond this time. It looked like a sapphire, maybe. Just a few shades darker than the paper used to wrap it.

  There was a small slip of paper in the box too, like a fortune from a fortune cookie. I pulled it out and peered at it.

  Contingent on approval, it said. A message from the jeweler, letting Todd know that the ring was returnable if the intended recipient—me—didn’t like it?

  Or a message from Todd, telling me he expected another refusal, but he was going to keep trying anyway?

  The bathroom door opened down the hall, and I snapped the box shut and hid the flashing sapphire. I fumbled the paper back around it again, and shoved the whole thing into my purse before he could catch sight of it.

  “Something wrong, darlin’?”

  He stopped beside me. I looked up and managed a smile. “Nothing.”

  He nodded. “Ready to go?”

  “Sure.” I took the hand he extended and let him lift me to my feet. And then I went ahead of him toward the front door, with the small package tucked away in my purse.

  Oak Street Cemetery is—you guessed it—on Oak Street. It’s been there a long time, more than a hundred years. A few generations of Martins are buried there, while the generations before them are buried in the private cemetery behind the mansion. That’s the way they did it in the old days: the big plantations had their own private cemeteries. Once in a while, mother will get a call from some archaeologist or other, asking for permission to dig up some of the graves. So far, they’ve always been interested in the ones belonging to the plantation slaves; the callers are rarely so uncouth as to ask to dig up our ancestors. Not that it matters. Mother’s answer has always been no, no matter who they want to dig up. As far as I’m concerned, it always will be.