Christmas Every Day Part 6

"Fine." The word shot out as if it was a bullet. "She and Larry moved to Arizona three years ago."

Or maybe it was four. Sara had lost track after her mother had distanced herself from her daughter. It arose from the fact that each time she looked into Sara's face, her mother saw traces of her failed dreams there.

"He raises cattle. She frequents the artsy-crafty places. It works out." Sara felt as if she was reciting a human interest story about two people who were strangers to her.

Selectively, Raymond remembered soft laughter and better times. "I'm glad she's finally happy."

A blouse held tightly in her hands, Sara raised her eyes to her father's face, but said nothing.

The silence vibrated like an oppressive dirge within the room. Raymond wished he was on a stakeout, or some Christmas where where he had a clue as to what he was doing, what was expected of him. He had no clues here. He had no idea what to do or what to say next. The road between then and now was littered with so many mistakes he was at a loss as to how to begin to clear a path to his daughter.

Frustrated, helpless, angry, he gestured toward the kitchen. "Have you eaten? I could whip up a macaroni and cheese ca.s.serole. Remember how you "

She didn't want to remember. Anything. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I have eaten. I had lunch at a place called Sinclair 's on Coast Highway. Know it?" Raymond shook his head. His experience ran to fast-food places. Both his line of work and his finances dictated it.

Sara continued removing things from her suitcase. She hardly knew what she was handling. She just knew she had to keep her hands busy. She had a feeling that when she finished she'd have no idea where anything was.

She placed her nightgown in the bottom drawer of the bureau. "I'll be working there."

"Working?" Raymond's face brightened. It was as if the sun had come out after forty days of rain. "Then you're going to "

"Stay?" She second-guessed him.

The word turned as if it were a knife in his gut. Raymond could tell by the way she said the word that she wasn't.

"No." She slammed the bottom drawer with finality. "But I don't like vegetating, either." Returning to the bed, she realized that there wasn't anything left inside the suitcase to remove. She closed it and lifted the second one onto the bed. "I looked in on Brom before flying down here. He's married again ."

She wondered if her father even knew that Brom had been married before.

Or that his first wife had died suddenly. Probably not. He was too busy with his own life to know. Or care.

On automatic pilot, she began to unpack the second case. "And his new wife's part owner of Sinclair's." She lined up a few tubes of makeup on top of the bureau. "Seems they need a temporary accountant. And that's me."

Her eyes met her father's in the mirror above the bureau. "Temporary."

Her tongue wrapped around the word carefully , as if it was jagged. Her father looked away. "Just pa.s.sing through. I don't like to stay anywhere for very long:" A briskness underscored her manner as she emptied the rest of the suitcase on top of the bed. "There are too many places to see and too many things to do in life to let myself stagnate in one place too long."

It was his fault. All his fault. He'd known it for years. But for reasons other than she thought. Raymond reached out to touch her arm.

"Sara, I-"

Sara's head jerked up and she pinned him with a look that had her father dropping his hand impotently to his side.

Raymond Santangelo backed down from the slight, darkhaired woman the way he never would from a confrontation with any hood on the streets.

He shook his head. "Nothing. I'll leave you to your unpacking" He hesitated as his tongue nervously outlined the border of his dry mouth.

"Maybe later you'd like to just sit and talk? "

Sara's immediate reaction was to refuse, to say no, they couldn't sit and talk now. "Talking was something they should have done years ago when it still could have done some good. But she let her temper cool, and nodded. " "Sure. You can fill me in on your doctors' names and the rest of the details about your tests and diagnosis." It was the accountant in her speaking. She knew she was on safe ground if she just stuck to cut-and-dried details. Things she could maintain at an antiseptic distance.

Sara already had her back to him. She tried to sort out the clothes on the bed that were swimming before her as her eyes grew moist. Pressing her lips together, she curled her fingers into her palms, digging in with her nails. The moisture abated.

"Sara?"

Under control, she still refused to turn toward him. "

He stood, looking at her back, remembering. And was grateful. "It's nice to have you here, even under these conditions"

Without realizing it he ran his hand over his chest. The small, nagging pain was with him almost constantly now. An irritant to a vital, active man who had once thought himself on the edge of immortality.

She turned and caught the unconscious movement. She refused to let it penetrate her wall. "These were the only conditions under which you could have me here," she answered quietly, her voice a single, steely note. Turning her back on him again, she returned to her sorting.

"I'm a Culhane And Culhanes don't ignore their responsibilities."

Raymond opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. There was no point in it right now. "I'll see you after you've settled in."

Sara knew she would have slept better if she had slept on a bed of nails. Spending the night in her father's house had her tossing and turning for endless hours, haunted by thoughts, by memories. And by guilt. Guilt she felt she didn't deserve. But it gnawed at her anyway, like a hungry mouse at a huge ring of cheese.

She rose at first light, more dead than alive. Forcing herself to move quickly, she showered and dressed, hoping to leave the house before her father was up.

She succeeded.

Maybe it was the coward's way out, she thought as she made her way down to Coast Highway. But she just couldn't bring herself to sit across from her father over breakfast. Dinner had been hard enough with the ghost of years past sitting right there between them. She was good at small talk when the need arose, but last night she had had to dig deep to keep the stillness at bay.

The stillness and the hurt.

After a sleepless night she was in no mood to wage another war.

Especially not when she had a full day of work before her.

Her stomach grumbled a protest. Sara was used to eating first thing in the morning. The beauty of working at a restaurant , she told herself, was that she could get her breakfast there.

Provqided Mr. Personality didn't have some rule against employees eating on the premises. She thought of Nik, and her mood shifted from tension to amus.e.m.e.nt. He reminded her of the type who was accustomed to exercising complete control over things. She could relate to that.

And enjoy sparring with him.

Anything to get her mind off the house on Avalone Drive.

When she pulled in to the gray, graveled parking lot, there was only one other car there. It was a battered old car, vintage unknown. Its color depended on the side she was standing on. It had a red hood and beige right side and rear. The left side was black. The rickety car was a composite of accidents.

She wondered if it was Nik's. It was rather early to be here, but Nik struck her as the type to open up the place on his own. If it was his car, the man was definitely eccentric.

Her stomach grumbled again as she got out of her car. She rubbed it, as if that would stave off the pangs that were growing.

Sara knocked twice on the back door. There was no answer With a sigh she knocked once more. Nothing. Time to find a fast-food take-out place, she decided.

She had crossed to her car and was just taking out her key when the back door of the restaurant opened.

A snowy head peered out. The man squinted at her from behind his gla.s.ses. "We're closed," the man announced, his spidery fingers splayed on the door.

Sara was back before him in a minimum of steps. "Yes, I know. But Mr.

Sinclair wanted me to get an early start on the accounts." Before the man could say a word in protest, Sara had slipped her hand into his and was shaking it heartily. "I'm Sara Santangelo. I'll be working here for the next few weeks."

The old man blinked as he pushed his wire-rimmed gla.s.ses up his short, wide nose. His expression was still rather doubtful. "Mr. Sinclair didn't tell me nothing about anyone coming in here before him."