A Merry Little Christmas (3 page)

“Well, I see you’ve given this some thought,” she said ironically. “However, checking off a laundry list isn’t exactly the way to begin a relationship, much less a marriage. Just because you feel like you’re compatible with someone doesn’t mean the two of you are destined to be together. There has to be something more, you know.”

Donnie scowled and opened the refrigerator again. He was about to defend his impulsive behavior when the back door opened and a horde of little girls po
ured in. It wasn’t a true
horde,
it was merely his four nieces
followed by their father, his oldest brother, Andrew. After shouting greetings to their mother, the little girls made a beeline for their uncle, who soon found himself in a tangle of arms, legs, cold cheeks, and wet kisses. Donnie, who was quite adept at removing coats and hats and scarves, made himself useful by getting his nieces out of their outdoor gear. They had been visiting relatives with their father and were quite animated as they told him about their day.

“We saw Granddaddy and
Grandmommy
, Uncle Donnie. And we saw our cousins, too,” reported little Andie. Andie was short for Andrea, and she was a mirror image of her mother, with velvety chocolate skin and big golden eyes. The triplets, Benita, Ceylon and Stephanie, whose chatter was punctuated by the barks of Renee’s little dogs, Patti and Chaka, made additional comments. Donnie was buried under a pile of little girls, all talking and hugging for all they were worth. He adored his nieces and reveled in their attention, but tonight their presence
only served to underscore the unsettled feeling he’d been battling. He could see into the kitchen from his vantage point in the breakfast room and what he saw didn’t help his mood one bit. Even after several years of marriage, Andrew and Renee were in the warm, fragrant kitchen kissing and flirting like teenagers. Their love surrounded them like a halo of light, shining so brightly that only a fool could have missed the fact that they were totally in love with each other. Their closeness only underscored his odd mood, and he was more than glad when Renee announced it was time to wash up for dinner.

Renee’s excellent meal helped restore Donnie’s usual good spirits. Like all the Cochran men, he loved to eat and, luckily for him, all his brothers had married fine cooks who never minded an extra person at the table. His stepmother, Martha, was of the same school and it was perfectly possible for Donnie to have a home-cooked meal every night of the week if he so chose. He tried not to overstay his welcome in any one place, but he thoroughly enjoyed
dining with his family members,
like this evening. His nieces were being taught nice manners by their parents and it was a pleasure to share a meal with them. By the time the table was cleared and everyone had been served dessert, he was so mellow, nothing could have disturbed his mood.
E
xcept for an innocent remark by little Andie
, that is
.

“Guess what, Uncle Donnie? Auntie Angel is coming back tomorrow. Isn’t that good?”

Donnie tried not to let his dismay show on his face, but it was difficult, to say the least. Andrew, who could easily read his brother’s mind, immediately picked up on the remark.

“That really
is
good news, sweetie. We sure will be glad to see her, won’t we?” he asked innocently.

Donnie’s face went through several contortions in an effort to maintain a neutral expression. He knew what Andrew was up to and he wasn’t falling for it this time. He looked at
th
e sweet little faces of his nieces, waiting for his answer, and gamely managed a smile. “Yeah, that’s great. Auntie Paris and Auntie Angel are coming back tomorrow. That’s really nice,” he said with a clenched jaw.

Refusing to let Andrew get the best of him, he looked across the table at his tormentor. “I guess I’ll go pick them up from the airport,” he said, the glint in his eyes at odds with the helpful statement.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Renee said absently as she dabbed at little Stephanie’s mouth. “I talked to Angelique last night and A. J. is going to pick them up. It’s all taken care of.”

If someone had offered him a large sum of money, Adonis couldn’t have explained why he suddenly felt left out. No one was a bigger pain than Angelique and there was no one he wanted to avoid more. So why was he suddenly feeling weird about not picking her up from the airport? Why was he
even thinking
about her at all? What he needed to be doing was going home and taking his dogs out for a run and trying to rid
his mind
of clutter. And after clearing the dishes and loading the dishwasher for Renee, that’s exactly what he did.

Chapter Two

As happy as she had been to see her family, Angelique admitted to herself that she was relieved to be back home. And yes, she did consider Detroit to be home now. She and Paris emerged from the Deveraux Group’s private jet at Detroit Metro Airport to find Alan
Jandrewski
waiting for them. A. J. was not only Ang
elique’s mentor and inspiration
he was one of her closest friends. Her face lit up when she saw AJ.’s tall, lean body walking toward them. She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck for the big hug she knew awaited her.

“Welcome home, Angel. How was your holiday?” he asked after a long, satisfying embrace.

“It was wonderful, how was yours? Did your mom make
chitlin
’
pierogies
?” she teased.

A.J. laughed along with Angelique as Paris caught up with the two of them. A.J. often made jokes about how his African-American heritage blended with his Polish-American heritage in strange and wonderful ways.

“No, she didn’t put
chitlins
in the
pierogies
this time, but I’ll bet we were the only ones in the neighborhood with Czarina
soup
and collard greens in the same meal,” he said cheerfully.

Paris didn’t completely get the joke. “Now, what are
pierogies
again?” she asked.

“They’re these little dumplings that have a filling in them, either meat or potato or cheese, and they’re really good,” Angelique answered before A. J. could respond. “And Czarina
soup
is made with duck blood. It’s delicious.”

While Paris tried to stifle her reaction to the soup description, Angelique hugged A.J. again. “Did your parents like their present?” she asked shyly.

A J. smiled down at Angelique and put an arm around her shoulders. Kissing her on the cheek, he assured her they had loved the photograph she’d given them. It was a shot she had taken of A
.
J. the summer before when they were in Africa. It seemed to sum up everyth
ing there was to know about him in one shot.  He’d been
leaning against the mud-spattered jeep that had been their transportation through the remote villages they’d visited. He’d been wearing a ratty T-shirt, baggy khaki shorts and hiking boots, and, as always, had an expensive camera around his neck and a light meter in his hand. Angelique had captured the rakish essence of him with the radiant smile that showed off his perfect white teeth, the cleft in his chin, the golden warmth of his skin and the genuine happiness in his dark, long-lashed eyes. Even after the surgery to remove the
tumor that had invaded his brain, and the grueling radiation and chemotherapy that had followed, A. J. was
still
an incredibly handsome man.

After the usual delay in getting the myriad suitcases and bags into AJ.’s Range Rover, the trio was at last on their way to the duplex Paris and Angelique shared. It was near Indian Village, one of several big brick houses owned by Andrew and Renee. Before his marriage to Renee, buying and remodeling older houses had been Andrew’s chief hobby; now he kept them for investments. After hi
s marriage, his main occupation,
other than his medical pra
ctice in reconstructive surgery,
was doting on his wife and children. The house Paris and Angelique now occupied had been Andrew’s last residence before marrying Renee. It was typical of the houses of that era, with hardwood floors, ornate woodwork and large, beautifully proportioned rooms. The baby grand piano that was once the center of the living room was gone now, but the rooms were still attractive and welcoming to the eye.

Angelique was the one in charge of decorating; she had a flair for combining colors and finding unusual objects that made the rooms lively and inviting. She had chosen a warm color palette, with a golden apricot glaze on the heavy plaster walls. The deco-style sofa, which she’d found at a resale shop, was an unusual shade of citron with bright pillows in hot pink, red and orange. The tall windows had bamboo blinds and colorful curtains made of Indian bedspreads from Pier 1 Imports, one of her favorite stores. The coffee table and the end tables were authentic Danish modem, circa the 1960s, and had come from the Salvation Army. After a long weekend with both women working very hard, they now looked brand-new, gleaming with polish. There also was a beautiful shelving unit that housed Paris’s colorful collection of ceramic water pitchers and teapots in fanciful shapes.

The armchairs came from IKEA, and the cushions were covered in geometric prints that echoed the colors of the throw pillows. The big rug in the middle of the room also combined the warm colors in stripes; the rug was typical Angelique—she’d found colorful, handmade cotton rag rugs at Target and sewn them together by hand to yield a big, bright accent that pulled the room together beautifully. Anyone who came into the room would think a professional had decorated it, but it was just Angelique’s creativity at work. Although, as A.J. frequently reminded her, she
was
an artist and a professional. Further evidence of this was present in the big, happy abstract painting over the fireplace, and the photographs displayed; all were Angelique’s work.
 
The total effect was charming as well as relaxing, as attested to by Paris and A.J., who lounged comfortably while
Angelique hauled bags and suitcases upstairs. On one of her forays through the living room, A.J. grabbed her arm and pulled her down on the sofa beside him.

“Can you chill for a minute?” he said playfully. “You’ve been racing around here like a madwoman. Those suitcases aren’t going anywhere; sit a while and talk to us.”

Paris eyed her active cousin with a smile. “Please make her be still for a minute
, A.J.! She has way too much energy,
that’s why she never gains a pound.”

“And she’s compulsively neat, besides. The whole time we were traveling, our tent always looked like a Martha Stewart layout.” A.J. gave Angelique a one-armed hug and grabbed her hand to prevent her from hitting him with a throw pillow.

“I’m not compulsive,” she defended herself. “But I have to be organized, you know that. And it was really nice being home and seeing all my babies again. How was your Christmas?” she asked, deftly switching the focus of the conversation.

They chatted for a while and made plans for dinner and salsa dancing later in the week, and then both women walked A. J. to the door. After he left, Paris turned around and leaned on the heavy oak door. Heaving a deep, theatrical sigh, she closed her eyes and moaned.

“Dang, dang,
dang
that man is fine!
I mean he is
phoine
/” She gave the word the “sistah girl” pronunciation. “Girl, are you sure you two are just friends? Don’t you want to just tear his clothes off and have your way with him?” When she realized her cousin wasn’t hanging around for the inquisition, she followed her into the kitchen. Finding Angelique in the process of getting out cleaning materials for the microscopic amount of dust that had accumulated while they were away, she repeated the question, this time demanding an answer.

Angelique laughed the way she always did when Paris brought up the subject. “Paris, AJ.
is
my friend. He’s like a brother to me and, no, we don’t secretly have the
hots
for each other. I used to have a crush on him a long time ago, but he’s been so good to me, and taught me so much, that the crush just went its own way. I do love him, I love him a lot, but I’m not
in
love with
him,
” she said honestly. “He really is good-looking, I’ll grant you that
But
believe it
or not, as handsome as he is on the outside, the
inside is ten times as beautiful.” She looked pensive for a moment, and then issued a soft sigh of her own. “Besides, he thinks he’s too old for me. Just because he’s forty, he
thinks
I’m too young!”

Paris’s matchmaking instincts,
never far from the surface, sur
ged to the fore. “So it’s an age thing,” she mused, twirling a strand of her thick hair around her finger. “Well, all we have to do is show him that age is nothing but a number and you’ll be on your way.”

Angelique held up her hand and pointed a spray bottle of Windex at her dearly loved cousin. “Paris, don’t even
think
about it,” she said evenly. “A.J. is my best friend and nothing else. I don’t want to change that; we’re both very happy with our relationship the way it is, thank you very much. And if you’re so geeked up about matching folks up, why don’t you do something about your own crush?” The pink flush on Paris’s cheeks let Angelique know she’d made her point
.  With
a mischievous smile, Angelique sauntered off to dust and
polish
the living room furniture.