Keeping Christmas

Prologue

I’m scared, Katie Moran told her sister-in-law as the older woman cuddled Katie’s fifteen-month-old son, Kyle, in her arms. I’m scared to death and I’m getting out of here.

Here was her father-in-law, Andrew Moran’s, palatial beachfront home on Key Biscayne, Florida.

You’re bein’ melodramatic, Patrice said in her soft Georgia drawl.

I’m not, Katie insisted, shaking her expensively highlighted blond head. I’m scared. Instinctively she lowered her voice on the words.

Katie folded her slender arms across her breasts and shivered as cold air from cleverly hidden air-conditioning vents swirled around her bare feet. Except for her lack of footwear she was dressed to go out, in cotton slacks and a matching cotton shell. It wasn’t that the room was uncomfortably cold. But the air was dry and filtered, and the windows sealed, so that they could never be opened to the sea breeze. Katie felt for a moment as if she couldn’t breathe.

She’d never liked the enormous art-nouveau-era villa; never felt at home there during six years of marriage to Andrew’s youngest son. But at least having Michael by her side had made it tolerable. Now he was gone and the huge old house seemed like a prison.

Beyond the plate-glass window behind which she stood, the ruffled blue surface of Biscayne Bay was dotted with expensive pleasure boats of all shapes and sizes. Michael had loved to sail. She had learned to love the sport, too. Someday, he’d told her, when their children were grown and he’d retired from the family investment business, they would sail around the world. Just the two of them, alone with the sea. That conversation had taken place just before Kyle’s birth. Four months later, unexpectedly, tragically, Michael was dead of viral pneumonia. He hadn’t been quite thirty years old.

Below her, on the private beach fronting the estate, she could see Andrew Moran sitting bolt upright in a wooden deck chair, as he did every fine afternoon, bald head shining, a glass of whiskey and soda in his hand, basking in the warm, late-November sun. Katie wondered what he’d do if he learned of this conversation. The thought sent another cold shiver down her spine.

I admit Andrew is a formidable adversary when he’s crossed, Patrice went on, generations of Southern good breeding evident in her carefully chosen words. Katie could see her plump, plain-featured reflection very faintly in the glass. Patrice bent her neck to kiss the top of Kyle’s silky head, then raised her gaze to stare at Katie across the room. But in my opinion, you’re blowin’ things all out of proportion.

Katie spun around ready to do battle. You think that car jumping the curb Wednesday morning was an accident? She held her breath. Surely she hadn’t misjudged her sister-in-law’s loyalty? Patrice was the only friend she had in Miami. Almost the only friend she had in the world.

Yes, I do, Patrice said firmly. It’s just terrible an incident like that had to happen so close to the holiday. But—

It certainly gave me something to be thankful for when we counted our blessings at the table yesterday, Katie agreed with a wry twist of her lips. Yesterday, of course, had been Thanksgiving. And today was Friday. The busiest shopping day of the year, a fact Katie hoped to use to her advantage.

It was an accident, Patrice repeated, a hint of exasperation seeping into her voice. You know as well as I do that Dade County has the worst drivers in the world.

What about the roof tile last month? Katie held out her hands for her son, needing the comfort of his warm, sturdy body in her arms. Patrice gave him up reluctantly, with a last little kiss. The damn thing nearly killed us both. Her grasp tightened involuntarily around the little boy as her mind skipped back to that terrible moment when the heavy clay tile had come crashing down at her feet. Kyle grunted in protest and squirmed to be free.

That was an accident, too, Patrice insisted, although her face had paled at the memory. Andrew would never harm Kyle. Even if— She stopped speaking abruptly. Her soft mouth hardened and she folded her plump beringed hands across her stomach. She was wearing one of those shapeless one-size-fits-all sweaters and a long white skirt. She began plucking at the material with nervous fingers.

Even if Andrew would be more than happy to have something happen to me, Katie finished for her.

Oh, Katie, can’t we change the subject? Patrice asked helplessly. I’m tellin’ you, you’re blowin’ the whole thing out of proportion.

Her sister-in-law hated confrontations of any kind. Katie felt a momentary pang of guilt for forcing the issue. Maybe I am, Katie said, but I can’t take any chances. Don’t you see? I’m all Kyle has in the world.

He has me. And Gregory, Patrice said, hurt evident in her eyes and in the downturned corners of her mouth.

I know you’d protect Kyle with your life if necessary.

Katie forced herself to harden her heart against the glitter of tears in Patrice’s soft green eyes. Her sister-in-law had never felt the constrictions of living under Andrew Moran’s thumb, not the way Katie felt them. Perhaps it was the difference in their backgrounds? Patrice had been the middle child of a well-to-do, loving family. Her father was a strong man, who ruled his wife and children with a firm but benevolent hand. She had gone to an all-girl, Southern school and had married Gregory Moran right after graduating from college. She was content to be a stay-at-home, country-club sort of wife. Katie was not. She had never had anyone but herself to rely on. It made her look at people, at life, differently than Patrice.

The truth is, Gregory is as much his father’s pawn as Michael was. And whether you want to admit it or not, you’re as much a prisoner in this gilded cage as I am.

That’s not so. But Patrice looked disturbed, as though she, too, was realizing the shakiness of her argument. After all, she and Gregory had lived under Andrew’s roof for twelve years, their entire married life. If you just didn’t always argue with him so much, tried to be a little more accommodating....

Katie sighed. She was letting her fears get the best of her. And she was alienating Patrice, her only ally. Maybe you’re right, she admitted grudgingly.

I know I’m right. Patrice hurried on before Katie could qualify her statement. Andrew isn’t a bad man. You can’t take Kyle away from him. He’s his only grand…son.... She looked down at her hands, folded protectively across her stomach, and deliberately unclasped her fingers.

Katie felt a quick stab of sympathy for her sister-in-law. Patrice was thirty-three, seven years Katie’s senior. She and Gregory had no children of their own. She never complained about her barrenness, but Katie knew how desperately Patrice wanted a baby.

I won’t have him grow up under that old tyrant’s thumb, Katie declared.

Patrice sighed. It was a familiar argument between them. One they’d never settle.

I know you’ve been unhappy here since Mike died....

I’ve never lied to you about that. Katie was determined to say what was on her mind, despite Patrice’s obvious reluctance to hear it. I won’t have Kyle brought up to be a criminal.

Andrew’s not a criminal. Patrice’s denial lacked conviction.

He worked for organized crime for years. Michael told me so, just before he died. He wasn’t lying. He was too sick. He’s the one who told me to get Kyle away from here.

Why did he say such a thing? Patrice looked genuinely confused.

Katie shrugged. She’d asked herself the same question over and over. I think he was afraid of Andrew. He didn’t want Kyle to grow up in fear of Andrew, the way he did. I don’t want Kyle to grow up living on the fringes of organized crime.

Andrew’s connections with…those people…were severed years ago, Patrice insisted. Gregory told me.

Gregory manages Andrew’s business interests. What did you expect him to tell you?

Gregory wouldn’t lie to me.

I’m not so sure. Katie narrowed her eyes. You see the men who come here to talk to Andrew, the same as I do. They’re not your average run-of-the-mill businessmen.

Katie, please. Don’t make me choose sides like this.

I’m sorry, she said. She didn’t want to argue anymore. Patrice couldn’t understand her fear because she didn’t have a child of her own. And she had never been to jail, like Katie had. Andrew Moran wants Kyle to grow up to be just like him. Cold, ruthless, determined to have his own way at any cost. The thought made Katie’s blood run cold.

If you would only talk to Andrew. Or Greg, Patrice tried again.

You don’t need to cheerlead for Andrew. It won’t make any difference. I’m leaving, she said abruptly, sitting beside Patrice. I’m going. Today. Now.

Now! Patrice’s mouth dropped open for a second, then shut with a snap. Just like that?

Just like that, Katie agreed with a sharp nod that sent short, silky tendrils of hair bouncing against her cheek. I’ve got it all planned. But I need your help.

Katie…

I’m not going to ask you to tell Greg or Andrew any lies. I won’t even tell you where I’m going except that it’s somewhere there is winter and snow.

Years ago she couldn’t wait to get away from the cold northern winters. Now she couldn’t wait to go back.

How will you support yourself and Kyle?

Waiting tables, probably, Katie said. I’ve done it before. I was on my own from the day I turned sixteen. I can do it again.

She’d been raised—if that’s what you could call her grandmother’s haphazard attempts to keep her in line after her parents split up—in Pittsburgh. She’d run away as soon as she could, quitting school, drifting south, ending up in Key West where she’d met Michael, a college senior who was there on spring break. He’d married her and brought her back to Miami. That had been the only time, she suspected, he’d ever gone against his father’s wishes. But Michael, weak, fun-loving Michael, had died and left her alone.

Her grandmother was dead, too. She had no idea where her parents were. There was nothing for her in Pennsylvania anymore. But she was going north. She was going to spend Christmas where it snowed.

You’ll have to leave Kyle with strangers most of the time—or at day care. That’s no life for Michael’s child. They both watched the little boy as he wiggled from his mother’s lap and toddled off toward the window.

Neither is this.

Please, Katie. Don’t be rash.

I’ve given this a lot of thought. I’m not going to change my mind. There was no use arguing with Patrice. Despite the advantages of education and family background she possessed, Patrice was as trapped in Andrew Moran’s web as Katie was. Patrice was trapped because she loved her husband. Only her husband was blind to the depths of that love because he was preoccupied with his business interests and winning his father’s approval. Michael had been the same way: in many respects a lonely little boy, still striving to win his autocratic father’s love. In Katie’s opinion, Andrew Moran had a lot to answer for.

Katie… Patrice persisted.

I need money, Katie said, taking her sister-in-law’s cold hands between her own warm, strong ones. Neither of them had jobs. The Moran men wouldn’t hear of it, but Patrice had access to more cash than Katie because of a trust fund left to her when her grandmother died.

Andrew had set up charge accounts for Katie at all the best stores. She’d never lacked for anything for Kyle or herself. And someday Kyle would be wealthy in his own right. But Michael had died in debt. Debts that Andrew had paid. And Katie herself had few assets. She didn’t even own a car or jewelry she could sell for cash.

How much? Patrice asked, still frowning, and Katie knew she’d won her over to her side.

As much as you can give me. She gave Patrice’s hands a squeeze. We’ll need coats and heavier clothes and diapers for Kyle. I won’t be taking anything with me when I leave.

What the hell do you mean, she’s gone? Andrew Moran threw his starched linen napkin down on the table as he stood to confront his chauffeur. Theo, a tall, grim-faced Haitian, also served as Andrew’s personal bodyguard. He’d been with Andrew for as long as Patrice could remember but he never stood in awe of his employer.

Just what I said, he replied in the melodious tenor voice so at odds with his broad-shouldered physique and scarred blue-black face. She’s gone. Give me the slip, she did. Took off. Her and the man child.

Where the hell could she go? Did you drive her to the airport? What? Speak up, man.

I took her shoppin’. She wanted the little tyke to see Santa Claus, the chauffeur replied, his composure unruffled. The place was crawlin’ with kids and people. They just disappeared.

Andrew snapped his fingers. Just like that?

Jus’ like that.

Dad, don’t get yourself all worked up.

Patrice shifted her gaze from her father-in-law’s angry face to her husband’s. Father and son resembled each other a great deal physically. Neither man was above average height. Gregory’s brown hair was receding from his forehead. Andrew was nearly bald, with only a monk’s fringe of white hair circling his head from ear to ear. Andrew’s eyes were faded gray, sunk in wrinkles. Gregory’s eyes were blue-green, changeable, steady and clear. She loved his eyes, and his smile, the one feature he’d inherited from his long-dead mother.

I’m not worked up. Andrew leaned both clenched fists on the table. I want to know what the bloody hell’s going on here. When her father-in-law was very angry the faint echoes of his Liverpool, England, upbringing could be heard in his speech.

She’s gone, Theo repeated stubbornly. I drove ’round and ’round the mall lookin’ for her. There ain’t no sign. They be gone. Both of them.

Damn it! I knew the crazy bitch would do something like this. She’s stolen my grandson.

Andrew pinned Patrice with a hard stare. She jumped. Not because she was afraid of her father-in-law but because she knew he was going to start asking questions, and she was a terrible liar.

What do you know about this? he demanded.

I do wish you’d watch your language at the table, Andrew, she said, calling on memories of her unflappable Southern belle grandmamma to keep her voice level and clear.

You didn’t answer my question, he said ominously, but he did sit again in his heavy teak high-backed chair.

What precisely do you want to know? she asked in her turn, wishing that Gregory would come to her rescue, knowing that he would not. She was seeing Andrew through new eyes, Katie’s eyes, and she didn’t like what she saw—a bullying old man riding roughshod over everyone around him.

You two are thick as thieves, Andrew said. How long’s she been planning this stunt? Where did she go?

To answer both your questions: I have no idea. Patrice folded her napkin neatly beside her plate, her roast beef left untouched. No leftover turkey the day after Thanksgiving at Andrew Moran’s table. No leftovers, ever.

You’re lying.

Dad, Gregory protested, but he in turn immediately began questioning her himself. Why would she run away, Pat?

Because she’s unhappy. Patrice felt a sharp, cutting stab of pain at Greg’s accusatory tone. She wondered if he really understood what she was saying. She felt trapped. And she…she was afraid.

Afraid? Gregory wrinkled his high forehead. Afraid of what? He looked genuinely perplexed, and then angry in his turn. What has she got to be afraid of?

Nothing, Andrew broke in before Patrice could reply. Where’d she go?

I don’t know, Patrice answered. She gave her father-in-law back stare for stare. She still wasn’t afraid of Andrew. She didn’t believe he was evil. But she knew he was ruthless and cunning and determined to get what he wanted.

Her family’s from Pittsburgh, Gregory said thoughtfully. Maybe she went back there. He frowned, looking more than ever like his father, hard faced, intent, a hunter closing in on his prey. Patrice’s heart gave another painful little jump.

There’s nobody left for her there. Maybe she went back to Key West, Patrice said hurriedly. Katie had been brave enough to run away, to make a new life for herself and Kyle. She looked from her husband to his father once again. Katie was right. It was time Andrew’s dictatorship came to an end. Patrice had done a lot of thinking during the long sunny afternoon. She’d asked herself some hard questions. One of them, particularly, demanded total honesty: Was this the way she wanted her child to grow up? The baby she’d finally conceived after so many barren years. The baby Greg didn’t know about yet.

Too close, Greg mumbled. But we’ll check it out. I’ll get some detectives on it first thing in the morning.

Why don’t you just let her go? Patrice stood so quickly her chair went skidding backward across the parquet floor.

Because she’s stolen my grandson, you fool woman, Andrew growled. She can stay gone till hell freezes over for all I care but I want my grandson back.

Patrice felt cold fear curl around her heart. What do you mean by that?

Dad’s right, Pat, Greg said, standing also. I’m not sure Katie’s the best person to have custody of Kyle. She’s so young. No education to speak of and now pulling a harebrained stunt like this.

You’d take Kyle away from her if you found her? Surely this wasn’t happening. Greg, the man she loved, couldn’t be so callous, so cruel.

Katie’s not being rational. It might be the best thing to do, he said, watching her closely. Pat, don’t look at me like that. He sounded amazed and hurt. I’m only thinking of my nephew’s interests. We have a responsibility to see that Michael’s son receives the best life he can have.

The best life he can have is being with his mother. It was funny how quickly your heart could break. She’d felt it snap, just like that. There wasn’t any pain yet. That would come later.

Are you sure? We’d love him and take care of him just as if he were ours. And we can bring him up to be comfortable with his inheritance. Can Katie do that?

Kyle isn’t ours. She wanted to give Greg one last chance. He’s Katie’s. How could you even consider something like that?

It’s not such a bad idea, Andrew interjected. He rubbed his hand over his chin. The girl’s wild. Always was, always will be. She’s got a criminal record, too. Not a fit mother. We could use that if we have to.

She was caught shoplifting food from a grocery store when she was still a teenager. Barely eighteen. She was starving. Surely you wouldn’t use that against her. Patrice couldn’t believe her ears. Things like this didn’t happen in this day and age.

Pat’s right. I don’t think it’s necessary to bring that up. Greg was still watching her but she could no longer meet his eyes. What he said was too little, too late.

All right, we’ll forget that scenario for now, Andrew said placatingly, but his eyes were fierce. I’ll use it later if I have to. I’ll do whatever’s necessary to get my grandson back. He turned to Greg. You’re dead right about one thing, though. You and Patrice would be better off caring for the boy. A judge might balk about turning the little fellow over to an old man like me— he chuckled —an old man with a reputation like mine. But you two are the perfect parents—

No, Patrice said, the word exploding from her lips. I won’t be a party to taking Katie’s baby away from her. I refuse. She turned and hurried down the length of the long, polished table. Theo stepped aside with a nod.

Patrice, wait. Gregory sounded miserable, torn, but Patrice never slowed down.

Let her go, she heard Andrew command as she left the room. She’ll come to her senses soon enough.

Patrice put her hand over her mouth to keep from sobbing out loud. She’d come to her senses, all right. She was leaving this house, too. Tonight. Just as Katie had.

Chapter 1

Jacob, you haven’t touched your dessert. What’s wrong? Aren’t you feeling well? Hazel Owens Gentry addressed her nephew in the same sweet-as-dandelion-wine tone of voice she’d used to reprimand him since he was a little boy. It’s the last piece of mincemeat pie. I saved it just for you.

I’m feeling great, Aunt H, really, he hastened to assure her. Faded blue eyes regarded him from a face as brown and wrinkled as a berry. His aunt Hazel was an earth mother. She wasn’t completely happy unless she had someone to care for. But I’m stuffed. He smiled for her benefit. I can’t eat another bite.

It’s the soup, Hazel fretted. Too much pepper? Too much celery?

The soup’s great, Aunt Hazel. You make the best leftover turkey soup in Tennessee. He stretched the smile into a grin. It’s great.

There’s nothing wrong with the meal, sister. Almeda, the eldest of his five Owens aunts, interrupted her sibling’s lament. A fitting end for a noble bird. She picked up her spoon. Now stop fishing for compliments and sit down and eat yours before it gets cold. If the boy doesn’t want his pie he doesn’t have to eat it.

Jacob was thirty-four years old but Almeda had called him the boy when he was twenty-two and when he was twelve—the year he and his father had come to Holly Ridge, the family home near tiny Owenburg, Tennessee, at the edge of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, to live. He suspected she had called his late father, the only Owens brother, the same thing when he was young, as well.

I’ll eat the pie. His middle aunt, Janet, added her two cents’ worth. Mincemeat’s my favorite. And I’d hate to see it go to waste.

It won’t go to waste. Faye giggled and nudged her twin, Lois.

"It’ll just go to your waist," his youngest—by six minutes—aunt responded with a giggle of her own.

Girls. Almeda waved her gnarled, beringed hand in their general direction. Enough. Eat. The food’s getting cold.

Faye and Lois were sixty-nine years old and Almeda still referred to them as girls. That’s why Jacob knew he’d always be the boy. He handed the pie to his aunt Janet and bent his head to finish his soup, hiding his amusement at the good-natured bickering going on around him.

He owed his sanity, if not his life, to this marvelous eccentric quintet of old ladies. Returning to Owenburg, to his aunts and to his roots three years before, after his wife and baby son were killed, had pulled him through the worst period of his life. For months after the freak accident that had destroyed his family and his happiness, he’d wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and die. But the aunts wouldn’t allow that. They’d descended on his little house in Knoxville