In the Bleak Midwinter

“Let me get my glasses back on. Whenever I think about Geoff as a father, I get a headache.”

“It’s given him a sense of humor. He told me they were signing Cody up for infant swim classes.” Her eyes glinted. “At least, I think he was trying to be funny.”

He almost snorted coffee out his nose. He put the mug down. “I’m really here to give you this.” He pulled the wide, foil-wrapped package from beneath his coat. “Happy Holidays.”

“For me? You shouldn’t have!” She tore into the paper eagerly. “Oh, Russ.” She started laughing. “Thank you. They’re just what I needed.” She held up the waterproof, insulated, chain-tread-soled boots. “How did you know?”

He laughed. “Lucky guess?” She turned the boots back and forth, admiring them.

“I love them.” She dropped them into the box. “I’ll wear them tonight after midnight mass.”

“It must get crazy for you on Christmas Eve. Everyone else is having a holiday and you’re working your tail off.”

“Like a cop.”

“Like a cop.”

“It easy for me to lose all sense of what I’m here for and turn into this grumpy, harried martinet, obsessing with getting everything done right and on time. That’s why I’m hiding out in my office.”

“Oh. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Oh, no, I’m glad you came. I haven’t seen you since they hustled you off to get your backside dressed at the hospital.” The last light of the sunset was flooding the room, from windows and mirrors. Her hair, caught up in its usual twist, had already come loose, strands the color of gingerbread and fire floating around her face.

“Seems like a long time, yeah.”

“I’ve really missed having you to talk with.” Her words hung in the air.

“Me, too.” There was a long pause. He had a sudden, lung-constricting conviction that coming here had been a mistake, that he had to leave right away, had to climb back into his truck and go home. “I ought to be going.”

“Oh.” She looked at the coffee mug in her hand. “Of course.” She placed it carefully on the desk. “Thank you. Thank you for my favorite present.” They both stood. She reached out and they clasped hands, squeezing hard. She smiled brightly. “Merry Christmas, Russ.”

He pulled her to him without conscious thought and she came, settling against him, their arms wrapped around each other. He held her pressed tightly against his heart. “Merry Christmas,” he said into her hair. It smelled of beeswax and cinnamon.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were very large.

“Clare,” he said.

She swallowed.

“Clare . . .”

She shook her head. “No.”

He touched her face. She closed her eyes and for a moment, pressed her cheek into his palm. Then she opened her eyes and stepped backwards, breaking his hold. He reached for her. She threw up both hands, a barricade against him. “Leave. Now. Go home to your wife.”

He let his hands drop, heavy and useless. “I wouldn’t—”

“Yes, you would. And God help me, so would I. Go. Please.”

He nodded, turned, walked away, through the dim hall, through the scent of pine and beeswax, through the haunting voice of the soloist, singing. “Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone. Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow. In the bleak midwinter, long ago.”

Around the square, the remaining shops were closing, employees chattering down the sidewalks, last-minute shoppers slipping and sliding under the weight of bags and boxes. The fuzzy candy canes and reindeer, the fat lightbulbs, everything the same as it always was, as it always had been. Everything the same. Everything different. Everything.

He climbed into his truck and headed home.

Read on for an excerpt from

Julia Spencer-Fleming’s next mystery:

A Fountain Filled with Blood

Now available in hardcover from St. Martin’s

Minotaur!

The yahoos came by just after the dinner party let out. A few young punks—three or four—picked out as streaks of white in the cab and bed of an unremarkable-looking pickup. Emil Dvorak was tucking a bottle of wine under his arm and reaching to shake his hosts’ hands when he heard the horn, haloowing down Route 121 like a redneck hunting cry, and the truck flashed into view of the inn’s floodlights.

“Faggots!” Several voices screamed. “Burn in hell!” More obscene slurs were swallowed up in the night as the truck continued past. From their run in the back, the Inn’s dogs began barking in response, high-pitched and excited.

“Goddamnit,” Ron Handler said.

“Did you see the license plate this time?” Stephen Obrowski asked.

His partner shook his head. “Too fast. Too dark.”

“Has this happened before?” Emil shifted the bottle under his other arm. The Inn’s outdoor spotlight left him feeling suddenly exposed, his car brilliantly illuminated, his hosts’ faces clearly visible, as his must have been. His hand, he noticed, was damp. “Have you reported it?”

“It started a little after we opened for the season,” Steve said. “Once a week, maybe less. We’ve told the police. The Inn’s on the random patrol list now.”