The Perfect Christmas by Debbie Macomber

his vehicle.
    They didn’t speak; he glanced at her for approval, then flipped on a CD. She recognized the calming strains of a Bach piano concerto. Again, she wasn’t surprised, although she couldn’t have identified the piece. She leaned back, eyes shut, letting the music flow over her. The restaurant wasn’t really all that close, she noted a little later. It was perhaps a fifteen-minute drive along the Tacoma waterfront before he pulled into an exclusive housing development. He turned down several streets, then entered a driveway.
    “This isn’t a restaurant,” Cassie said.
    “No, it’s my home.”
    “Your home?”
    “I felt we’d both appreciate privacy for this discussion.”
    He was probably right.
    Simon ushered her inside. The house was spotless. It looked like one of those model homes with everything carefully arranged and color-coordinated, not a thing out of place. No Christmas decorations. Nor did she see a single photograph, and that seemed almost unnatural. Surely there were people in his life, people he loved and cared about. Family. Friends. Then again, maybe he preferred to keep his distance from others. Maybe he felt his job required it.
    “Make yourself comfortable,” he said and gestured toward the sofa. Then he disappeared into the kitchen through a swinging door.
    Cassie looked out over Commencement Bay, although her thoughts still churned and she hardly noticed the beauty before her. She had a distinct feeling that their professional agreement was about to come to an end.
    Other than one brief interchange—when he asked how she liked her coffee—all was silent.
    After a few minutes, Simon reappeared with two cups of coffee. He handed her one, careful to avoid physical contact, before taking a seat as far away as the room allowed. He stared down at his coffee. “I would like to know what happened back at the mall,” he said after a tense moment.
    “Okay.” It wasn’t as if they could ignore the episode. “Which part do you want to discuss?”
    “What were those tears about?”
    Now Cassie stared into her coffee. “My father,” she began, then shook her head. “The last child in line.”
    “The little girl who was by herself?”
    “Yes. She came to Santa because…” The lump in her throat made it necessary to pause and swallow before she could continue. “She didn’t want toys or clothes or gifts, she…she wanted her daddy back.”
    “Ah.” Simon’s eyes softened with understanding and what looked like sympathy. “She reminded you of yourself at that age. You said as much, didn’t you?”
    Cassie nodded. “My father left during the holidays. So he not only broke our hearts, he made sure Christmas would never be the same.”
    “He sounds like a real jewel of a human being,” Simon said disdainfully.
    But Cassie didn’t wish her father ill. He’d paid for his mistakes; in his late sixties now, he was essentially alone. While she liked to think she’d put all the bitterness behind her, she didn’t really have a relationship with him, nor did she seek one. Every so often, Pete made the effort to contact her, but they had nothing in common, nothing to talk about, nothing to share. The conversation typically lasted a few minutes. Invariably Cassie felt sad afterward.
    “I don’t want you to assume I’m the kind of woman who breaks into tears at the drop of a hat. I… It was like seeing myself all those years ago. Like feeling pain so raw it tore my heart out.” Her voice quavered and she tried to conceal it by sipping coffee.
    “Pain and the memory of pain—which often amounts to the same thing—don’t really go away,”Simon said. “That’s why we have to learn to assimilate it.”
    She nodded.
    Simon didn’t say anything else for some time. “I believe it would be best if we…”
    He stopped speaking, which made Cassie look at him.
    “That kiss,” he murmured, shifting his weight.
    Seeing Simon ill at ease was so unusual she couldn’t help enjoying