Home for the Holidays Read Online Free Page A

thank you,” he said, a little stiffly.  “For your hospitality.  And your... companionship.”  The little speech was so formal, and so unlike Jim, that Beth felt like they should be back at her father’s funeral.
    She scratched around in the back of her throat, looking for her voice.  “Th... Thank you, Jim,” she said finally.  “It’s beautiful.”
    “Yes it is,” Jim agreed, staring right at her, not the statue.  “It sure is.”
    As they sat together on the sofa, Beth wondered if it was going to happen.  The room seemed to heat up indecently.  Beth looked down at Jim’s big, brown hand on the chair between them.  She longed to pick it up, feel it in her own.  But why?  What good could possibly come of it?  She squeezed her eyes shut against the temptation.
    Finally, Jim exhaled and stood up.  “I’m going to hit the radio and check the roads,” he said.  “See what time I can make a break for it.”
    “Of course,” she said, not trusting her voice, but wanting, suddenly, to say something, anything, to delay him leaving.  “Let’s just have a drink together first.”
    He raised an eyebrow at her. 
    “Toast the season,” she said, swallowing carefully.
    ***
    “How did you find out?”
    Beth was amazed he could even speak.  He’d had at least twice as many whiskeys as she had. The power had gone out, so there was no television, but she’d lit the kerosene lamps, and they still had the fire.
    And as the sweet malt had slipped down, they’d started talking.  She’d been surprised, again, by just how easy he was to talk to.
    “Old Mrs Sayer called,” she said.  “She found him when he didn’t make it to choir rehearsal.”
    He studied her, those dark green eyes soft and warm.  “Are you okay?”  The way he said it, it was different from the way everyone else did.  Just... different. Not like an obligation, not embarrassed, not awkward.  Just like he really wanted to know.  And like he was happy to sit and wait for the answer. For as long as it took.
    She considered the question through the warm whiskey haze.  She stared towards the window, where Jim had rigged up the makeshift Christmas tree with some dessicated tinsel h e’d also managed to dig up. “Yeah, I think I’m okay,” she said.  “I mean, he was.... well, everyone knew what he was.  It’s not like when Ma died.  That was worse, more personal.”
    But as she said the words, she knew she was missing something and somehow that mattered, suddenly.  It mattered that she get it right, explaining this to him.
    “Except...”
    He reached one long brown arm across and refilled her tumbler, pouring an inch of the mahogany liquid into the heavy glass.  “Except?”
    “Except now it’s just me.”  She felt the words fill up her throat and get stuck in her mouth.  “I’m all alone, don’t belong to anything. Soon,” she said, motioning around the room.  “All this will be sold, and I’ll have no reason to ever come back here again.” She looked at him, leaning back on the other side of the long sofa, his bare feet stretched towards the fire and his hands resting behind his neck.  “That must be hard for you to understand,” she said.  “There were always so many of you, so many Cannings.”
    “And only one Lizzie Gibson.”  The way he said her name made her look up at him.  He was staring at her, his face hard to read.  He reached forward and picked up her hand. 
    She snatched it away, irritated at how good it had felt inside his big warm one.  “Are you making me fun of me?”
    “No,” he said, moving closer to her on the sofa.  “Not at all, Lizzie.”
    “Beth,” she breathed, vaguely aware that he was too close, and that she’d had at least one too many whiskeys.
    “Beth,” he breathed back, picking up her hand again.  He was so close she could smell the woodsmokey freshness of him and the sweet whiskey heat of his breath. “All I was sayin’ was there was one Lizzie,