Kissing Under the Mistletoe - By Marina Adair Page 0,72

her with all the faith in the world. Regan swallowed. “We were supposed to go over the costumes and material choices for the Christmas musical before the meeting, and I spotted a building out in the field—”

“The utility closet by the old oak tree?” Jordan said, stepping forward and making Regan relax a little. Jordan stood beside Regan, placing one hand on Randolph and the other on Regan’s shoulder. It was a silent declaration of alliance. One that wasn’t missed by anyone in the crowd, especially Isabel, whose upper lip twitched.

“Is that where you found Randolph?” Selma, one of the councilwomen, asked.

“Uh, he was wrapped in this tablecloth,” Regan went on, neither admitting nor denying that she had indeed found Randolph.

“Clearly whoever took him wanted to make sure he didn’t get damaged,” Regan reasoned. “I mean, why else would they wrap him up so carefully? In fact, I bet it was all some ridiculous mistake, and even though they wanted to return him, it went public so fast they probably were too scared.”

“You know what, you’re right,” Mrs. Moberly, the council secretary and town librarian, said, pushing her glasses farther back on her nose and coming forward to pet Randolph’s tail. “I bet they read about the Randolph sanctuary clause on the website you built. They probably thought they could return him anonymously and avoid criminal charges.”

“Ingenious idea,” Benson said, smiling down at the deer.

“Actually,” Regan said, gesturing to her Mrs. Clauses, “it was these ladies here who rallied together, brought in the sheriff’s department, and got the news of Randolph out to the public. It was done with the same hard work and passion as they devote to the Community Action Committee.”

“Are you all actually buying this?” Isabel spat.

Regan had almost forgotten she was there. By the way a few council members jumped at her shrill voice, she wasn’t the only one. Maybe it was because as nearly every council member had made their way forward to pet Randolph, Isabel had been shoved to the back.

“You all really believe that someone stole Randolph, then returned him, wrapped in a blanket—”

“Tablecloth,” ChiChi corrected.

“Whatever,” Isabel snapped, her forehead growing with every heated breath she took. “The point is, there is no way that someone could have hidden him in broad daylight and not a single one of us saw him.”

“But Regan saw him,” Mrs. Moberly corrected, annoyance fogging up her glasses.

“Are you all really this blind?” Isabel flung her hands against her thighs.

All of town hall stood silent—the uncomfortable kind of silence with everyone staring back and forth between Regan and Isabel. Regan held her breath. Isabel crossed her arms. No one spoke. Not even the janitor, who was polishing Randolph’s hooves.

Should she just come clean, tell the council the entire story and hope that they didn’t punish Holly for Regan’s mistake?

God, maybe Gabe was right. Maybe she had some deep-seated anger issues left over from Richard and they made her act like a crazy woman. Because who would throw eight innocent reindeer through the window of an SUV and then abscond with their leader?

“Can’t you all see what this is?” Isabel’s tone implied that anyone who didn’t was a fool.

“Of course, we see,” ChiChi said, wagging her head as if greatly disappointed...in Isabel. “It’s a Christmas miracle, dear.”

And on cue, Randolph blinked his nose and said, “Merry Christmas, one and all.”

Because it was a day ending in Y, Gabe had rolled out of bed at dawn. He’d taken a cold shower, eaten leftover chow mein out of the box—also cold—and headed to the office. Before he could even address the Everest-size pile of paperwork, his phone had started ringing, then his in-box lit up, and by the time he remembered Jordan was coming in late, he’d accomplished jackshit.

Unless he counted dispatching all of the Safe Return of Randolph calls. Apparently, ChiChi had put his number and e-mail address on all the posters.

Was this what Jordan dealt with every morning? He needed to either get his family to handle their own shit or give Jordan a raise.

The phone rang.

Maybe both.

Needing some fresh air and space that didn’t give him a migraine, Gabe took a walk through DeLuca Manor. The former carriage house, originally built by his great-grandfather in the late eighteen hundreds, had been renovated into a modern masterpiece of architecture and finishing. Situated on the back of a vast expanse of lawn and surrounded by heritage oaks, the stone-and-mortar-faced building, with its domed cathedral ceilings and pair of antique six-hundred-lamp