Same Time, Next Christmas Read online

  "What kind of adventure are you seeking, Portia?" If I had not jumped to the wrong and embarrassing conclusion earlier, I might have taken his question in an entirely different manner than he intended. But nothing except curiosity sounded in his voice.

  "I'm not seeking adventure at all." I glanced over my shoulder at him. "I misspoke when I said that I was. I have been most content with my life."

  "Have you?" He paused. "I am nothing more than a casual observer, but it doesn’t appear that way to me."

  "Well, I have," I said in a sharper tone than I had intended. Admittedly, in recent months, I had come to the unsettling realization that my life was remarkably dull. A truth I was not about to admit. "Extremely content."

  "There is nothing wrong with content." The tone of his voice indicated he felt otherwise.

  "No," I said firmly. "There isn't."

  "Content is safe, secure, undemanding."

  Never had safe and secure sounded so very boring. I clenched my teeth. "Indeed, it is."

  "Comfortable, complacent . . . expected." He paused. "I suppose one can't ask for more than that."

  "No, one can't." I turned on my heel and glared at him. "Tell me, Fletcher, are you content with your life? Is it everything you expected it to be? Is it something to savor, to relish?"

  "No," he said coolly and sipped his drink.

  "Well, mine is!" I drained the last of my drink. "Now, I believe I shall retire for the night. Good evening." I nodded and headed toward the door before he could utter a word. At the moment, I didn’t want to hear anything he might have to say.

  I didn't know exactly why I was so angry or, for that matter, who I was angry with, but in a few short minutes, this man—this stranger—had defined my life as dull and boring, ordinary and expected. Not precisely in those words, but close enough. Worse, I couldn't refute the charge. Perhaps it was the happiness my friends had found or my aunt's never-ending parade of suitable matches, but more and more, the realization was dawning on me that my life was not as I wished it to be.

  I made my way to my rooms, a dozen unanswered questions in my head. I had never thought there was anything wrong with content. It seemed to me that was what people aspired to. I had been happy with David. Admittedly, we had not shared the kind of grand passion one reads of in tales of romance. But we did love one another, and our life together was good. I was—we were—content.

  Was Fletcher right? Was content settling for something safe and secure and no more than adequate? Was it accepting the rooftops instead of reaching for the stars? Was he simply making me see what was right in front of me all along?

  I sank down onto my bed and stared out the doors onto the balcony and at the night beyond. Perhaps being alone was better than being with someone who made you question everything you thought you knew.

  Even if those questions needed to be asked.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I paced the width of my room, trying to determine if I had any courage at all. The day had dawned dark and dreary. Rain poured from the heavens, an incessant thrumming on the roof that echoed in my head. Even though a small blaze flickered in the fireplace in my room, gloom invaded the villa, more than matching my mood.

  I had awakened later than my usual time, but I had slept fitfully, when I slept at all. I'd had Margaret bring me a late luncheon, relieved to see she was still annoyed with me. I expected Margaret's surly demeanor to continue until we started back toward England and home. If she was to be pleasant now, I would question her health.

  Any number of other questions had nagged at me throughout the long night. What was I to do about Fletcher Jamison? Which really was a much easier question than What was I to do about my life?

  I don't know how the man had done it, but with a few brief comments, he had managed to confuse me about who I was and what I wanted. Why, the man could practically see into my soul, which was most unnerving. And had, as well, made me admit, if only to myself, that I had no answers.

  I had thus far lived my life truly believing that there were things one was expected to do and things one absolutely could not do. The consequences would have been too dire to fathom. Loss of social acceptance, scandal and ruin, among others. It was always much easier simply to follow the rules.

  And has that made you happy? A voice that sounded suspiciously like Fletcher's sounded in my head. Or merely content?

  I hadn't been unhappy, at least not that I'd noticed. Indeed, I would have said my life was quite full. I was sad for a time after David's death, of course, but life continues, and we must continue along with it. Admittedly, I had experienced a certain restlessness of late that I had, for the most part, ignored. The dull state of my existence had already occurred to me. If it hadn't, I probably wouldn't have decided to come to Italy in the first place. Nor would I have continued on my own after Aunt Helena returned to England. And I certainly wouldn't have agreed to share a villa with a total stranger. Why, hadn't I already acknowledged that I was on an adventure?

  Perhaps I had changed. The thought pulled me up short. Or perhaps I was changing long before I ever left England. Subtle, yes, but changing all the same. As soon as the idea struck me, I realized it was true. It might simply have taken removing me from my usual surroundings for me to recognize it. I wasn’t entirely sure how or where it all might lead, but that was more exciting than it was distressing, which in itself was a revelation.

  And did it really matter? Wasn't the unknown part and parcel of adventure? Already, a few minor decisions had made my life far more interesting. I was on the first true adventure of my life, and even though I had decided to embrace it, I really hadn’t. At least not yet. Perhaps the sense of freedom I was feeling had nothing to do with the place or the company, but rather that I had no one to answer to but myself. No one to answer my questions but myself. And my only companion was a man I'd just met, a man I would never see again. A man who didn't know my real name.

  That, perhaps, was true freedom. The thought was at once intriguing and terrifying. And absolutely irresistible.

  I grabbed Miss Broughton's book and headed to the parlor. I was through hiding in my room in a state of uncertainty and indecision. I would settle into one of the comfortable chairs in the parlor and read. Or possibly see what other diversions the villa might offer on a rainy day. If I ran into Fletcher, so much the better.

  After all, a woman of adventure did not let the comments of an arrogant stranger influence her plans. A woman of adventure did not let such a man think for so much as a moment that he had the upper hand. And a woman of adventure definitely did not cower in her room like a chastised puppy.

  I breezed into the parlor as if I didn’t have a care in the world, and indeed, at this moment, I didn't. I noted Fletcher perched on the arm of a chair, arms crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed in thought, gazing out at the rain beyond the roof of the loggia. He stood when I entered the room. I ignored him and moved to the center doors, thrown open to the outside. The air was cool and heavy with moisture but invigorating nonetheless. I drew in a deep, refreshing breath.

  "I believe I may owe you yet another apology." Caution sounded in his voice.

  "There's no need to apologize," I said blithely and continued to gaze out the doors. I could see no farther than the garden gates, the rest of the world lost behind a curtain of fog and rain. I wondered in what direction the smoke from Vesuvius was wafting now. I did not like being unable to see it should it decide to spew something other than steam from its bowels.

  He paused. "You did leave in something of a snit last night."

  "Not at all, Mr. Jamison." I glanced at him. "You simply misunderstood."

  His brow furrowed. "Mr. Jamison?"

  "It seems wise." I cast him a pleasant smile. "There are, after all, conventions of proper behavior that one should not dispense with without due consideration. When I suggested we call each other by our given names, I believe I may have been premature. Perhaps we should know each other better before being quite so f
amiliar."

  "I . . ." His jaw tightened. "As you wish, Lady Smithson." He was obviously irritated. Good. I liked the idea of his being irritated. It seemed fair. "You're certain you're not annoyed with me?"

  "Goodness, Mr. Jamison." I met his gaze firmly. "Why on earth would I be annoyed with you?"

  He chose his words with care. "I may have said things you didn't care to hear."

  "Nonsense." I shrugged. "I admit, I might have been a bit vexed at the time. One always hates to hear one's life analyzed and found wanting, but upon reflection, I realized someone else's assessment of my life is not nearly as important as what I think about it. It's amazing what a good night's sleep can do for one's outlook. Putting things in the proper perspective and all. Don't you agree?"

  He stared, apparently struck dumb by my brilliant reasoning. A distinct sense of triumph swept through me.

  I glanced around the parlor and decided the chair he had been perched on was best for reading, as it was near the doors and the light was somewhat better. Besides, he was no longer using it. I stepped around him to reach the chair. A distinct scent caught my attention, and I paused. "You smell of oil—linseed, I believe. Are you working?"

  "I was."

  "But not on the balcony, I assume."

  "No, there is a sitting room off my bedroom that is an enclosed balcony. I have set up my easel there to best take advantage of what little natural light is available today."

  "And is it going well?"

  He shrugged. "Not really."

  "I suspect you're eager to get back to it, then." I sat down and opened my book. "I won’t keep you."

  I knew he was once again staring at me, but I refused to look at him. The man was obviously not used to being dismissed.

  "Will I see you at dinner?" His tone was a bit too sharp for my liking.

  "Of course. I look forward to it." I turned a page, not that I had read so much as a word. "Fish, I assume."

  "I would assume that as well, especially given the day." He paused. "Have a good afternoon, Lady Smithson."

  "Best of luck with your work, Mr. Jamison." I turned another page.

  He hesitated a moment longer, then started for the door.

  "I believe I shall ask Agostina for tea a bit early today. Shall I have her bring you something as well?" I said in an offhand manner, extending, if not an olive branch, then at least a twig.

  "That would be most appreciated," he said shortly and took his leave. I now had the rest of the afternoon to myself, which was, in many ways, a great pity.

  Still, there was a point to be made, and I was determined to make it. I had indeed left in a snit last night, and I was still irritated by his charges, no matter how discerning they might be. But then, I supposed none of us ever really wanted to hear the truth about ourselves. How we dealt with that truth was another matter entirely, and I was still not certain how to deal with mine.

  And while I did think the old adage about killing the messenger was not entirely fair to the messenger, I could for the first time fully understand it. I had no intentions of killing Fletcher. I simply wanted to make him pay, just a little. One should pay for making someone else feel they were lacking in some respect. No matter how insightful or accurate, it still wasn't very pleasant.

  The book was amusing, but not nearly as intriguing as Mr. Fletcher Jamison. I had barely read for any time at all when I realized that I was paying as big a price as he. His conversation, even when he said things I didn’t wish to hear, was far more interesting than any work of fiction. It had been a very long time since I'd had a candid conversation with a gentleman. Apparently, I missed the man.

  I believe that is what is known as karma.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dinner was cordial and even friendly, as if we had both decided to move forward. I was still flushed with what I had considered a victory, and my continued sense of confidence. We ate in the dining room for the first time, earlier than usual, as Agostina and Silvestro were to join their family in the village for Christmas Eve. I had very nearly forgotten it was Christmas Eve, and the thought was more than a little disheartening. I tried to ignore it.

  Tonight's meal was not just one type of fish, but seven different fish offerings. The soup currently before me, a tasty broth with an assortment of seafood, was excellent. Fletcher explained this was a traditional Christmas Eve dinner in this region of Italy. Which only served to remind me of my own family's Christmas traditions and the fact that I was very far from those I loved.

  "My family," Fletcher began, as if he sensed the direction of my thoughts, "was never one for Christmas. As soon as I was old enough to do so, I was sent to stay with my grandmother and her sister for Christmas."

  "Oh." I stared at him. "I am sorry."

  "Don't be." He smiled. "It was always . . . exactly how a child thinks Christmas should be. My grandmother and great-aunt wintered in a large house overlooking the sea. They were both firm believers in Christmas, in the magic of the season. My memories of those Christmases are filled with love and laughter and enchantment." He chuckled. "You wouldn’t think two elderly ladies would know how to enchant a little boy, but they did." He paused, no doubt gathering his memories. "I know the Christmases we spent together were probably not as perfect as I remember them, but they did seem perfect at the time, and looking back, they still do. My grandmother made certain every Christmas we shared was special. Although, admittedly, they could have been merely adequate, and they still would have been far better than being with my parents."

  "Really?" I couldn’t imagine such a thing. "Your family wasn't . . . happy?"

  "We weren't unhappy. And if we were, no one would ever have admitted it." He thought for a moment. "I don't know how to best describe us. A family of individuals, I think, each going our separate ways, each standing on our own two feet. That sort of thing. My father was usually busy with his business interests, my mother with her social concerns. I spent most of my life away at school."

  "Do you have brothers and sisters?"

  "No, I'm afraid it’s just me. I have a handful of distant relations, but even including them, my family is quite small. I believe it was always a regret of my father's, that he did not have more children, that is. I'm not sure why he would have wanted more. He never seemed especially concerned with the one he had. He died several years ago."

  In spite of his offhand manner, as if he were telling someone else's story rather than his own, my heart twisted at thought of the little boy sent away for Christmas.

  "My condolences."

  "Thank you. My mother, on the other hand, never wanted more than one child. I suspect she was eternally grateful when I turned out to be a boy." He pinned me with a wry look. "She had done her duty and felt she needn't do anything more, if you will."

  "I have no siblings either. My parents died when I was quite young, and I grew up in the home of my aunt and uncle and seven cousins."

  "Seven?"

  "My family is substantial. And boisterous." I paused, remembering Christmas Eves with everyone gathered around the table. "Christmas Eve was always wondrous, filled with merriment and anticipation and magic." A wistful note colored my words. "That day, we would find the largest tree possible for the house—we were usually in the country at Christmastime. Decorating the tree and the house itself would take all day, and we would begin the burning of an enormous Yule log. After dinner, someone would read Mr. Dickens's A Christmas Carol, although, inevitably, one or more of us, depending on age, would fall asleep before the reading had ended." I smiled with the memory. "I don't believe I ever heard the end of the story."

  He gasped with feigned disbelief. "You never heard God bless us everyone?"

  "I'm afraid not. Well, not as a child, that is."

  "I am shocked, Lady Smithson," he said in a stern voice, "at such an affront to Christmas."

  "I suspect I have been forgiven." I picked up my wine and took a sip. "As Father Christmas was quite good about bringing me what I truly wanted ever
y year."

  "No empty stocking on Christmas morning?"

  "Never," I said staunchly.

  He raised a skeptical brow.

  "Never," I said again, resisting the urge to laugh at his skeptical look. "Goodness, Mr. Jamison, you needn't look at me like that. I think we have already established that I have never been one to flout the rules of proper behavior and expectations."

  "Although one does have only your word for it." He shook his head in a manner that would have been most irritating had I not been well aware that he was teasing.

  "I assure you—"

  "Shall we do that after dinner?" he said abruptly. "Read A Christmas Carol, that is."

  "Oh, I think not." I cast him a grateful smile. "But thank you for suggesting it."

  "You seem a bit"—he searched for the right word—"melancholy tonight. I thought perhaps you were missing your family."

  "I am." I sighed. "However . . ." I forced a bright smile. "Here is where I chose to spend Christmas this year, and I refuse to regret that choice."

  "Because it's an adventure?"

  "Exactly." I nodded. "An adventure that is my Christmas gift to myself. Besides, it's not as if I was a child taut with excitement at the thought of Father Christmas's impending arrival. I daresay he wouldn’t know where to find me this year anyway."

  "It has always been my understanding that Father Christmas is not confined by borders." His tone was solemn, but his eyes twinkled. "He will find you, you know."

  I laughed, my mood at once lighter. No, this was not the Christmas Eve I had always experienced. Which did not mean it couldn’t be every bit as nice. Different but nice. After all, here I was in a cozy villa in Italy, with a fire burning brightly, an excellent meal in front of me and a charming man trying very hard to lift my spirits. It was very nice indeed. "I should hope so. I would hate for my Christmas wish not to come true."

  "And what is your Christmas wish, Lady Smithson?"

  "My dear Mr. Jamison." I shook my head in a mournful manner. "If I told you, then it certainly would not come true. I daresay that's one rule it would be foolish to break."