Let It Snow: Three Holiday Romances by Myracle, John (best color ereader .txt) 📗

had a confluence of agreeable aspects that were accepted by one and all to add up to one very attractive whole, perfectly packaged in the right clothes. He wasn’t a clothes snob, but Noah had a weird way of predicting what was coming next. Like he’d start wearing his shirts with one side tucked in and one side loose, and then you’d get a catalog, and every guy in it would have his shirt like that. He was always one step ahead.

There was nothing stylish about Stuart. He probably had only a slight interest in his clothes and, I was guessing, absolutely no clue that there were options on how shirts and jeans were worn. He pulled off his sweater, revealing a plain red T-shirt underneath. It would have been too generic for Noah, but there was no self-consciousness in Stuart, so it looked right. And even though it was loose, I could see that he was pretty muscular. Some guys surprise you like that.

If he had any knowledge whatsoever of what his mom was planning, he showed no sign of it. He was making amusing comments about Rachel’s gifts, and I was smiling a stiff smile, pretending I was listening.

“Stuart!” Debbie called. “Can you come up here? Rachel’s stuck.”

“Be right back,” he said.

He took the steps two at a time, and I got off the sofa and went over and examined the Flobie pieces. Maybe if I could talk to Debbie about their potential value, she would stop talking to me about Stuart. Of course, that plan could backfire and make her like me more.

There was a mumbled family conference going on upstairs. I wasn’t sure what had happened with Rachel and the snowsuit, but it sounded pretty complex. Stuart was saying, “Maybe if we turn her upside down . . . ”

Here was another question: Why hadn’t he mentioned this Chloe to me? Not that we were best friends or anything, but we did seem to get along, and he had felt comfortable enough to grill me about Noah. Why hadn’t he said something when I mentioned his girlfriend, especially, if Debbie was correct on this point, if he told everyone about it?

Not that I cared, of course. It was none of my business. Stuart had just wanted to keep his pain to himself—probably because he had no intention of trying to get anywhere with me. We were friends. New friends, but friends. I, more than anyone, could not judge someone because his parent behaved in a strange manner and got him into an awkward situation. Me, with my jailed parents and my midnight run through the blizzard. If his mom had the creepy matchmaker gene, he could not be blamed for it.

When the three of them came down the stairs (Rachel in Stuart’s arms, as it didn’t appear that she could move in the snowsuit), I felt a lot more relaxed about the whole situation. Stuart and I were both victims of our parents’ behaviors. He was like a brother to me in this respect.

By the time Debbie bum-rushed the mummy-wrapped Rachel out into the wild, I had calmed myself. I was going to have a cool and friendly hour or so with Stuart. I liked his company, and there was nothing to worry about. As I turned to commence said cool and friendly hour, I noticed that Stuart was sitting down with a clouded expression on his face. He regarded me cautiously.

“Can I ask you a question?” he said.

“Um . . . ”

He interlaced his fingers nervously. “I don’t know how to put this. I need to ask. I was just talking to my mom, and . . . ”

No. No, no, no, no.

“Your name is Jubilee?” he said. “Really?”

I crashed onto the sofa in relief, causing him to bounce a little. The conversation I usually dreaded . . . now it was the most welcome, wonderful thing in the world. Jubilee was jubilant.

“Oh . . . right. Yeah. She heard that right. I’m named after Jubilee Hall.”

“Who’s Jubilee Hall?”

“Not who. What. It’s one of the Flobie pieces. You don’t have it. It’s okay. You can laugh. I know it’s stupid.”

“I’m named after my dad,” he said. “Same first and middle name. That’s just as stupid.”

“It is?” I asked.

“At least you still have your village,” he said breezily. “My dad was never around much.”

Which was a good point, I had to admit. He didn’t sound particularly bitter about his dad. It sounded like something that was long past and no longer relevant to his life.

“I don’t know any Stuarts,” I said. “Except for Stuart Little. And you.”

“Exactly. Who calls their kid Stuart?”

“Who calls their kid Jubilee? It’s not even a name. It’s not even a thing. What is a jubilee?”

“It’s a party, right?” he said. “You’re one big traveling party.”

“Oh, don’t I know it.”

“Here,” he said, getting up and reaching over for one of Rachel’s presents. It was a board game called Mouse Trap. “Let’s play.”

“It’s your little sister’s,” I said.

“So? I’m going to have to play it with her anyway. Might as well learn. And it looks like it has a lot of pieces. Looks like a good way to kill time.”

“I never just get to kill time,” I said. “I feel like I should be doing something.”

“Like what?”

“Like . . . ”

I had no idea. I was just always on my way somewhere. Noah was not a fooler-arounder. For fun, we’d update the council Web site.

“I realize,” Stuart said, holding up the Mouse Trap box and shaking off the lid, “that you probably lead a fancy life in the big city. Wherever you’re from.”

“Richmond.”

“Fancy Richmond. But here in Gracetown, killing time is an art form. Now . . . what color do you want?”

I don’t know what Debbie and Rachel were doing, but they were out in that snow for a good two hours or more—and Stuart and I played Mouse Trap the entire time. The first time we tried to do it correctly, but Mouse Trap has all these gizmos and things that swing around and drop a marble. It’s weirdly complicated for