Her mission for a copy of A Christmas Carol thoroughly defeated, they returned to the living room, though for what, Kate couldn’t quite decide. Going to bed now would be akin to admitting defeat. She still wasn’t convinced he cared enough about this day or this town or the festival. And, if she was being honest with herself, she didn’t want to leave him. He was, against all her better judgment, fun to be around. She was enjoying herself, even without the trappings of her usual traditions.
Emily, no doubt, would have accused her of seeing him with rose-tinted glasses. Emily always said Kate’s willingness to like people without any proof of their goodness was a sign of her naivete. Maybe she was right. Kate saw it a different way. She didn’t need proof of someone’s goodness. Their being a person made them good; she just had to find where that good was buried. Today, Clark’s humanity peeked out through her excavation of his heart.
On second thought, maybe it was better to think about him like a butterfly stabbed on a cork board. If she thought about him that way, she’d stop thinking about wanting to kiss him or hold his broken pieces back together.
As they navigated the maze of hallways and doors between the library and the living room—Kate finally understood how the game Clue came about. If the house in that game and movie was anything like this house, it’s a wonder they ever found the body at all—Kate whistled absently to herself, a habit she’d had since she was a kid. It got her in trouble with teachers, her father, and coworkers, so when she realized she was doing it now, she braced herself for the worst. Clark didn’t like music, especially Christmas music. The worst never came; the whistling only stopped when they walked into the living room to the sound of the mantel-place clock tolling the hour. It matched her heartbeat, vibrating at the same frequency. Bom… Bom… Midnight. Bom… Bom… Midnight. Bom… Bom… Midnight. Unlike Cinderella, Kate’s magic remained when the clock stilled, and the prince didn’t disappear.
Not that she saw Clark as a prince. Definitely not. Of course not.
“What now? What do we do now?” Clark asked, a jagged edge serrating his enthusiastic voice. Did he… Did he think they were going to kiss? Like on New Year’s Eve? Quick thinking would be needed to avoid any confusion. A list of random activities ran out of her, activities she could use to wedge herself even closer to him without actually getting close to him. In this scenario she’d gotten herself into, Kate existed in the middle of a seesaw. Tipping too far to one side would keep her from her task, from saving her town. Tipping too far to the other would leave her vulnerable to Clark’s half-smiles and thawing eyes.
“There’s plenty we can do.” She paced. “Sometimes people toast marshmallows. Or get out a telescope and look out for Santa. We could call NORAD.”
“What do you usually do at this time on Christmas Eve? You’re the expert. Let’s do what you do.”
Rats. She was hoping he wouldn’t ask that. The midnight tolls on the big clock in the center of Miller’s Point always meant one thing, and one thing only on December 24: the midnight ball. On a night when the festival wasn’t cancelled by a profit-hungry but secretly beautiful-souled out-of-towner, every volunteer and staff member would get dressed in their 1843 best and go straight to the town square, where the guests would be invited to join them for a traditional Victorian ball, complete with warm mulled wine, a live string band, and a fake snowdrift. As the last official event of the night, the twirling and dipping and bowing and swirling lasted well into the early hours of the morning. It wasn’t unusual for the younger members, Kate included, to dance until their shoes broke and the sun rose over the tops of the buildings. Then, they’d welcome Christmas morning with hot chocolate and leftovers from the previous day’s feast before preparing themselves for the Christmas Day crowds.
But dancing would mean getting close to Clark physically…and that would mean the possibility of getting too close to him emotionally. She’d read and believed in enough Jane Austen books to know it only took one dance to fall in love with someone. One minute you’re dancing, the next everything else in the world disappears but the one person you’re meant to be with.
If she danced with him, she could lose her heart to him.
…It also occurred to her she might have been overreacting about the entire thing.
It just wasn’t a chance she was willing to take.
“I don’t think it’s really your kind of thing,” she brushed him off, searching the room for something else to do. Popcorn garlands? Gingerbread houses?
“None of this is my thing. I hate all of this. But I’m trying it for you.”
“Why?”
“Because I promised I would.”
“You still don’t like it?”
“I still don’t like it.” His hands flexed. “But I don’t hate it either.”
Worse people hurled worse things at Kate on a regular basis. Out-of-towners coming in for the festival called her crazy, a zealot for Christmas. They tacked horrible names to her when she pulled them out of the crowd after overindulging on mulled wine or when she confiscated their flasks from their bags. Yet, Clark’s tacit admission sliced her in half. She was failing. He still didn’t believe.
Fine. If he wanted it that way, if he wanted to throw her through the motions without ever really opening himself up to genuine change, fine. She could play his game. Her hands gripped the material of her jeans at the hips.
“We dance. There’s this big dance in the
