A Small Town Christmas

by Sheila Roberts

  “It’s hard to find Mr. Perfect. And easy to just give up and settle for what you’re stuck with.”

  “But you can’t give up. That never gets you anywhere.” Amber smiled at a new customer.

  “Sometimes I think I should just be sneaky and put an ad in the paper. ‘Perfect man wanted,’ ” Sarah said, and turned to greet whoever it was Amber was smiling at.

  “What looks good today?” asked Leo Steele, giving her his lounge-lizard grin. “Besides the baker.” Leo’s greeting was getting as stale as his aging-lothario clothes. Today he was wearing slacks and a shirt that he’d left open halfway down his chest and his leather bomber jacket.

  “Everything’s good here. You know that, Leo,” Sarah replied.

  “That’s for sure. I guess I’ll have one of those cinnamon rolls,” he decided.

  “Good choice. Amber, you want to get Mr. Steele a cinnamon roll?”

  “I’ll take a cup of coffee with that, too. Sarah, you look tired. Take a break, lemme buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “I’d love to, Leo,” Sarah said, backing toward the kitchen. “I’ve got too much to do today. Thanks for the offer, though.”

  “Okay,” he called after her. “Take it easy.”

  Take it easy, ha! After work she had her junior bakers to contend with, and Lezlie Hurst from the Herald was coming over to do a story. “This is a perfect story to start December and get people in the mood to do good deeds,” Lezlie had assured her.

  Sarah just hoped the girls behaved. For their last baking class they were making snowball cookies—hard to screw up and no eggs involved. And she’d already made the dough for the frosted sugar cookies. The afternoon should go smoothly. Lezlie was coming toward the end of class so she could get a picture of the girls and their finished product.

  “What are we making today?” asked Damaris as they washed their hands.

  “More Christmas cookies. After this, you’ll all be experts.” And I’ll be free. Not that she wanted to be free of all the girls. Just one.

  The afternoon went without mishap if not without mess. Four little girls and a bowl of frosting and jar of sprinkles was a recipe for disaster, Sarah realized as she chased stray bits of colored candy with her broom. But the frosted cookies were a huge success. After they had rolled the last batch of snowball cookies in powdered sugar, making a fresh mess, she said, “Now, to celebrate the end of class, we have a special guest coming.”

  “My grandma?” guessed Beanie.

  “She’s not special,” said Damaris. “She was here last week.”

  “Of course Mrs. Bateman is special,” Sarah said. In her own weird way. At least Beanie thought so.

  Beanie gave Damaris a so-there smile, basking in her moment of one-upsmanship.

  “But Mrs. Bateman is not our guest. Miss Hurst from the Heart Lake Herald is going to do a story on our baking class and she’s coming to take a picture of us for the paper.”

  The girls looked at each other, then let out squeals of excitement.

  “Oh, my gosh. My hair!” cried Damaris, and ran for her backpack.

  “Mine, too,” said Lissa.

  “Mine, too,” Mandy parroted.

  “Beanie, you need to let me do your hair,” said Damaris as they all stampeded for the bathroom. “Mrs. Goodwin, do you have hairspray?”

  FCA—future celebrities of America, thought Sarah, following them down the hall.

  But she got into the spirit, too, digging out some of the ribbons, bows, and barrettes she always kept on hand for her granddaughters.

  “This is so cool,” said Damaris. “I’ve never been in the paper before. But someday, when I’m famous, I’m gonna be. A lot.”

  Hopefully she wouldn’t be in there as a criminal mastermind, Sarah thought. She couldn’t help smiling, though, as she watched the girls primping in front of the mirror. Every little girl should have a chance to feel special once in a while.

  Hmm. So should every grown-up. She grabbed a brush, saying, “Pass me that hairspray, Beanie.”

  Lezlie arrived to find them all properly primped and the cookies displayed on one of Sarah’s best Fitz and Floyd cookie plates.

  And the girls were perfect angels during Lezlie’s interview.

  “What were your favorite cookies?” she asked.

  “I liked the pumpkin ones,” said Damaris.

  The cookies she’d thought were just okay? Sarah felt her mouth dropping.

  “I like these,” said Lissa, pointing to a frosted tree decorated with sprinkles.

  “And what was your favorite thing about doing this baking class?” Lezlie asked.

  “Eating the cookies,” crowed Beanie.

  “Baking,” said Damaris. “My mom works. She never bakes.”

  “It was like having a mommy,” said Mandy softly.

  Mandy’s testimonial caught Sarah by the heart. Emma would have called this a real movie moment.

  Lezlie smiled admiringly at her from across the table, as though she were the Mother Teresa of the kitchen. She jotted down Mandy’s words, then shut her tablet, saying, “Okay, how about a picture?”

  It was what the girls had been waiting for. Eagerly, they gathered at Sarah’s kitchen table in front of the plate of cookies, with Sarah standing behind them like a mother hen.

  As Lezlie snapped away with her trusty camera, Sarah couldn’t help wishing she’d changed her clothes. She was in her jeans and top from work and still wearing the apron she’d donned for the baking class, which made her look like a fat snowwoman. And her stubborn hair had already forgotten to stay where the hairspray put it. Oh, well. At her age, she didn’t need to look like a sex symbol. She would look exactly like what she was: a grandma.

  “Are we gonna do this some more?” asked Damaris as Lezlie was gathering up her things.

  The heartwarming Mandy moment was quickly cooled by memories of mess, irritation, and a certain missing knickknack. “We’ll see,” Sarah said noncommittally.

  Damaris fell back on her kitchen chair with a frown. “That means no.”

  “This is going to be a great story,” Lezlie predicted as Sarah walked her to the door. “And how has the experience been for you? Will you do this again?”

  Sarah felt like a last dab of cookie dough caught in the bowl with a giant hand coming after her. “I think I’ve learned as much as the girls,” she said, choosing her words carefully.

  “Like what?” Now Lezlie had her pen and pad out again.

  “Well, I think I’ve come to realize that it really does take a village to raise a child.” And in the case of some children, it probably took several villages. From the kitchen, Sarah could hear hoots and raucous laughter. Who knew what they were up to in there now. “It sounds like the natives are getting restless,” she said. “I’d better go check on them. Thanks for coming. I know the girls will love seeing their picture in the paper.”

  Lezlie nodded and said a quick good-bye, okay with getting shooed out the door.

  Sarah got to the kitchen just in time to stop a food fight from turning into a war. “All right, let’s clean off the table,” she said, producing a sponge. “Damaris, I’ll call your dad and tell him we’re done.”

  “There’s no hurry,” said Damaris.

  That’s what you think. Sarah smiled politely and grabbed the phone.

  Ten minutes later all her little bakers were gone and the house was quiet. She almost wished Sam would come by for a surprise visit. The place felt empty. She remembered Lezlie’s probing question. Would she do this again?

  It was like having a mommy.

  And, she had to admit that once in a while, when things were going well, her weekly afternoons with the girls had felt like having granddaughters.

  But not quite, Sarah reminded herself. No one could take her granddaughters’ place in her heart.

  Which meant that her heart was going to be empty for a long time to come. She suddenly felt like crying. She wished she hadn’t sent off all the cookies with the girls.
A good dose of sugar would have been just what she needed right now.

  Her doorbell rang again. Who could that be?

  She opened the door to find Leo leaning in the doorway. “Hiya.”

  “Leo. Um, did you need to borrow something?” Thank God Sam hadn’t decided to come home. How would she explain Leo Steele on her porch, a bottle of wine dangling from one hand?

  “Just a couple of wineglasses.” He stepped inside and began to saunter down the hall. “I saw all the brats left. Figured you might want to wind down.”

  Yeah, but not with him. She trailed him into the kitchen. “Leo, I’ve got a lot to do. Maybe we could have drinks some other time. When Sam is home.”

  He set the bottle on the counter and took a step closer to her. “Come on, Sarah, you don’t have to lie to me. I’ve seen it all since the first day you brought me that coffee cake.”

  “What? Seen what?”

  “We’re both adults here,” he said, and ran a hand up her arm, raising goose bumps.

  She jumped back. “Leo, I think you’ve gotten the wrong idea.”

  He shook his head at her. “Why play coy? I overheard you talking in the bakery. You’ve been settling for years, waiting for the right man to come along. Well, baby, he’s here.”

  “What! What did I say in the bakery?” This man was insane. She took another step back.

  He took a step, too, reaching for her as if they were doing the tango. “Come on. All that talk about wanting Mr. Perfect—I’m it, Sarah. I know how to appreciate a woman like you. And believe me, I wouldn’t keep you in the kitchen all the time.” He looked her up and down. “A woman like you belongs—”

  “That’s enough,” she said firmly, swatting his hand away. “I’m sorry if I’ve given you the wrong impression, but I’m a happily married woman.”

  “Who are you kidding? Your man’s never here. Everything about you says lonely.”

  Lonely for grandkids, not some crazy middle-aged wolf. “Really, Leo—”

  “Sarah, Sarah,” he cooed. “No need to put an ad in the paper, not when the man who gets you lives right across the street.”

  “Ad in the paper?” she echoed. And then she remembered. Oh, good grief. “I wasn’t talking about me.”

  He gave her a “yeah, sure” look. “You need someone who appreciates you, someone who pays attention to the signs.” Then, before she could tell him that he was delusional, he hooked an arm around her waist, tugged her against him, and latched on to her lips like a giant leech.

  “Leo,” she tried to protest. He took advantage of her moving mouth and stuck his tongue inside it.

  Okay, no more Mrs. Nice Guy. Where was that wine bottle? She put one hand behind her and groped around on the counter, determined to grab it and club Leo. She just hoped she didn’t kill him. Mrs. Goodwin did it in the kitchen with a wine bottle. It beat doing it with Leo, that was for sure.

  Suddenly, a male voice rumbled behind her. “What the hell is this?”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Leo’s tongue immediately vacated Sarah’s mouth and then his body spun away from her.

  “Sam,” she stuttered.

  Sam was too busy socking Leo in the face to hear her. Leo staggered back against the counter with such force he tipped over the wine bottle. It rolled off the counter and landed with a glassy crash on the floor, spraying wine all over the trio’s feet.

  Leo put a hand to his cheek and another up to ward off a fresh attack. “Hey, that’s assault. I could sue you.”

  “Yeah? You just try that and we’ll talk about how you assaulted my wife.”

  Assaulted? Sarah’s legs suddenly felt weak.

  “I wasn’t assaulting her. I was giving her what she wants. She obviously hasn’t been happy with you in a long time,” Leo added.

  Okay, Leo Steele was definitely a lunatic. Sam was a big man, and now, puffed up with anger, he looked like the Incredible Hulk. No man in his right mind would want to make him madder than he already was.

  “Get out of here, you little cockroach,” Sam snarled. “If I ever catch you on my property again I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

  “Fine,” Leo spat. “Your loss,” he told Sarah. Then he turned and stalked out. A moment later the front door slammed after him.

  “I should have thrown that little pissant out the door,” Sam growled.

  Sarah slumped against the counter. That was not an experience she wanted to repeat ever again. Thank God Sam had come home when he did.

  She opened her mouth to thank him for riding to the rescue, but before she could say anything, he glared at her and snapped, “What was he doing over here? Is he your latest good deed?”

  “What? Sam, he just walked in.”

  “You honestly expect me to believe that?”

  “Yes, actually, I do.” Sarah yanked a handful of paper towels off their rack and began blotting up the spilled wine. “I opened the front door and there he was with his little wine bottle and his big ego.”

  “And you said, what? ‘C’mon in. My dumbshit husband’s not home.’ ”

  “I didn’t say anything. He didn’t give me a chance.” This was not how they should be acting. Sam should be holding her in his arms, comforting her, asking her if she was all right. She marched to the pantry and grabbed the broom and dustpan.

  “You had to have done something to encourage him,” Sam insisted.

  Had her husband actually just said that? “Well, I didn’t. He overheard me talking about trying to find a man for Emma and somehow, in his oversexed little brain, he thought I was talking about him. Really, Sam, how could you even think I’d have the bad taste to encourage a lech like that?”

  “Oh, so it’s ’cause he’s a lech that you didn’t want to take up with him. If he’d been somebody else, no problem.”

  A long day topped by a close encounter with Leo the Tongue had left Sarah like baking soda in the drain, just waiting for someone to come pour vinegar on her. She put a hand on one hip and gave Sam the universal welcome-to-the-doghouse look that any husband married longer than six months could recognize. “For such a smart man that was an incredibly dumb thing to say.”

  Sam had the grace to look chagrined. “I’m sorry, babe. I just saw him kissing you and went berserk. I thought maybe.” He stopped and shrugged.

  “You thought maybe what?”

  “I just thought maybe . . . well, between this guy and George Armstrong, you’ve had men hanging around here for weeks. I thought you’d had enough of being married to me,” he added with a shrug. “It happens, you know.”

  “Not to us.” She came to stand in front of him. “Sam, we’ve been lovers and best friends since we were nineteen. I would think, after all these years, you could trust me.”

  “What was I supposed to think when I saw you kissing that moron?” Sam threw up his hands in a helpless gesture. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want some clown to come and sweet-talk you away.”

  “Oh, really, Sam. As if that’s ever going to happen.”

  “You don’t think it could? You haven’t been happy since the girls left, and I’m gone a lot. You’re still a good-looking woman. And, I’ll admit it, I’m a selfish bastard,” he added. “I get jealous of how much of you everyone else gets. I have to share with the bakery, the neighborhood, and every little girl in town, but, damn it, Sar, I draw the line at a lech like Steele.” He drew her to him. “After all these years, I’m still crazy about you. I guess I’m crazy. Period.”

  “I guess you are,” she agreed, lessening the sting with a smile. “You know you’re not off the hook for not trusting me. It’s going to cost you for a long time to come. So you’d better plan on taking me out to dinner on Saturday.”

  “Dinner,” he repeated.

  “And I was looking through the park and rec catalogue. I want to take the dance class that starts in January. Salsa.”

  “Dancing?” He looked like she’d just asked him to lop off an arm.

  “You real
ly did hurt my feelings, Sam. The surprise visits, those accusations . . .”

  He held up a hand. “Say no more.” Then he kissed her and whispered that he loved her. “Thanks for putting up with me all these years. You really are the best thing in my life.”

  “And you’re the best in mine,” she assured him. Her husband had all the qualities a woman wanted in a man. He was kind, generous, and blind. Every day the mirror showed her a woman with expanding hips and falling breasts and a waistline the size of a tree trunk, and yet Sam still thought she was beautiful and guarded her like treasure.

  As she shut the door after her departing husband, though, she wasn’t thinking about how lucky she was. She was remembering something he’d said. Did Sam really feel neglected?

  Yes, she was busy with the bakery, and when Steph had lived nearby she’d done a lot with the girls. But now that they were gone . . . she was still busy, doing good deeds for everybody in town but her best friend. Maybe instead of putting the heart back in Heart Lake she needed to focus on putting a little more heart in her marriage.

  With that thought in mind, she went to the garage where the spare freezer hummed away, preserving her extra meat, bread, and freezer jam, along with the stash of berries she kept to make pies in the winter. She pulled out a carton of blackberries, took it to the kitchen, and got to work.

  An hour later she called the station and told the fireman who answered to tell the chief to get home. His wife needed him ASAP.

  Exactly seven minutes later Sam burst through the front door, calling her name.

  “Out here,” she called from the dining room.

  He charged down the hall and into the room, skidding to stop. His jaw dropped at the sight of her low-cut black dress. He watched as she set the freshly baked pie on a trivet. “Babe, what’s going on?”

  She walked around the table and laid a hand on his chest. “Nothing. Yet.”

  He smiled. “Okay. How about the pie, is that for us?”

  “Nope,” she said, and enjoyed watching his face fall. “It’s for you.”

  “Yeah?” He was grinning now.

  “Want a piece?”

  He slipped his arms around her. “Maybe later.”