Home For The Holidays

by Elena Aitken

  “Yes, sir.” Ryan forced his muscles to relax. He should’ve heard the mechanic’s approach. Damn, he must be more exhausted than he realized.

  “Navy,” the man said. “Thirty years ago, now. You have the look aboutcha. Ready to go pick up that truck?”

  The two of them loaded into the tow truck and Ryan directed the mechanic—who was, in fact, Lou himself—to where he’d left the Chevy on the little two-lane highway. Quick and efficient, Lou had the truck hooked up and towed back to the garage in less than an hour. Then he went the extra mile and dropped Ryan off at Percy’s on his way home. Apparently Elf Girl wasn’t the only person in town willing to go out of their way to help a stranger.

  Shouldering his bag, Ryan strode up the walk toward the house. The porch was dark, but a light shone from somewhere in the back. He pressed the bell, listening to the tones of it ring and fade before a faint voice hollered, “I’m coming. I’m coming!”

  He waited, wondering exactly what to say since he hadn’t called ahead. Before he could decide, a loud crash sounded from inside.

  “Percy?” Ryan shouted. He banged on the door, tested the knob. Locked. He checked the immediate vicinity for a key. Finding none, and given the reports his mom had passed along about the state of Percy’s health, he dropped his bag, took a step back, and kicked in the front door.

  The lock gave way with a snap, the door flying back to hit the interior wall. He charged through with all the speed and efficiency of his Delta Force training, clearing rooms until he found the old man on his knees, one hand braced on the arm of a sofa as he struggled to rise. A lamp lay on the floor, the cattywampus shade casting crazy shadows on the wall.

  A quick flash of fear crossed Percy’s face before he firmed his expression. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house?”

  Ryan picked up the lamp and righted it before offering a hand. “Good to see you too, Uncle Percy.”

  Chapter 2

  “I’m home!” Hannah sang out.

  “Back here.”

  She dumped her purse and went in search of her older sister.

  Carolanne stood in the kitchen, the counters covered by the ingredients and equipment of her trade. The apron she wore read Your OPINION was not in the RECIPE. She tapped at the screen of the tablet mounted to one of the cabinets, making a notation about whatever recipe she was developing.

  “What are you making?”

  “Experimenting with some new cookies. I’m wanting something new to pair with the hot cocoa I’m serving this month.”

  Hannah reached for one of the many aprons her sister had on hand. This one read I bake because punching people is frowned upon. “I volunteer as tribute. Does this mean we’re having cookies for dinner?”

  Carolanne arched a brow. “Was it that kind of day?”

  “No, it was actually a really good day. Mama Pearl loved the tree I decorated for the diner. And there was this guy.”

  The other brow went up. “A guy?”

  Hannah waved that off and grabbed a clean spoon from the drawer to scoop up a taste of the dough. “Not that kind of guy. He was homeless.” Though that tip hadn’t fit with his appearance. “Or maybe not homeless, but down on his luck, I think.” But if that was the case, why had he left such a big tip? Pride? Christmas spirit? Maybe she had the whole thing wrong.

  She stuck the spoon in her mouth, letting the sweet and spicy dough melt on her tongue. “Mmm, delicious. What is that?”

  “Cardamom and cinnamon. And they’ll be studded with roasted pecans, I think.”

  “I approve.” As she rolled dough to Carolanne’s specifications, Hannah told her about the soldier.

  “You always did have a soft spot for vets.”

  “Hard not to.”

  There’d been several homeless veterans in the vicinity of her old design firm’s offices in Atlanta. Where other people crossed the street to avoid them or averted their eyes, Hannah had made a habit of bringing something for them. Not a lot. She’d been a junior member of the firm living in an expensive city. But coffee or sandwiches when she could. So when she’d had her accident near there more than a year ago, it’d been those vets who’d rescued her, they who’d first been on the scene.

  “I still worry about my guys,” she admitted. Without her there, who was watching out for them?

  “I’m sure they’re finding their way. You did something good for this one, and that’s good karma out in the Universe.”

  “I could use some good karma. I think I’m finally ready to dip a toe back into my actual profession again.”

  Carolanne’s hands paused on the cookie cutter. “Oh?” Her tone was deceptively casual, but that careful, watchful manner was proof she was slipping into therapist mode.

  You can take the therapist away from her couch... She didn’t suppose her sister would ever lose that training.

  “I’ve been itching to do...something for a while now.” In truth, she’d been itchy in general, which wasn’t like her. “I’m so grateful to Mama Pearl for hiring me on, but I miss doing my thing. The creativity and challenge of it. So, I figured I’d use the holidays to test the waters.”

  “How exactly?”

  “I’ll offer up decorating services to people to help them get their businesses or homes all ready for the holidays. I’ve already got a notebook with ideas for various businesses downtown. It’s on tomorrow’s to do list to swing by and talk to the owners and give them my pitch. It’d be pro-bono work, just to spread some holiday cheer and show my skills to the town. And, if I’m lucky, it’ll help get me some referrals for some legitimate decorating jobs down the line.” She had bigger aspirations than that, but she hadn’t quite worked up the courage to go after them. Admitting that to Carolanne would inevitably steer the conversation toward the other fears she was avoiding, so Hannah popped a pecan into her mouth instead.

  “Hands off the pecans until we’re done,” her sister ordered.

  With an impish grin, Hannah grabbed one more on principle and made a show of chomping it.

  “So you’ve decided to stay in Wishful instead of going back to Atlanta?”

  That was something Hannah had given a great deal of thought over the past months. She’d loved the creative challenges of her job in Atlanta and loved the city she’d grown up in. But if she went back, she’d be starting over at the bottom of the heap, having to claw her way up all over again, along with all the other junior designers, not all of whom had her sense of fair play. Wishful had taken her in as much as her sister had after the accident. The people here had given her a place and purpose.

  “Yeah, I think I have.” Maybe she wouldn’t have the kind of career opportunities here that she’d have in a big city, but she had other things that were just as valuable to her.

  Carolanne fixed steady green eyes on her. “Is it because you really want to stay or because you’re afraid to leave?”

  That was a question Hannah didn’t really want to answer. So she sidestepped it. “Trying to get rid of me, big sis?”

  “You know I love having you here, and you can stay as long as you like. I’m just curious, is all.”

  Just curious, my ass.

  “It’s past the year mark,” Carolanne continued. “You’ve got a clean bill of health and nothing stopping you from picking up your old life.”

  “You mean other than lack of a job.”

  “There are other jobs with other firms.”

  She’d considered that. “And few of them would be excited about a prospective employee who’s spent more than a year out of the field.”

  “You’ve got your blog and that whole Pinterest following.”

  “That’s not the same thing.” Even if those online outlets had kept her from going insane. “Anyway, that’s not the point. I love Wishful, and I’m really happy here.”

  That wasn’t a lie. She was happy here. More to the point, she was comfortable here. She loved the people, loved the town. And if it was small enough that it enabled h
er to continue not driving, well, what was wrong with that?

  Carolanne’s face set in familiar, neutral lines as she weighed what to say and how to get Hannah to face the things she was avoiding. Before her sister found those words, Hannah offered a bright smile. “Now, let’s talk about the fabulous displays you’re going to let me create at Sweet Magnolias.”

  A faint crease formed between Carolanne’s brows, but she didn’t press. Thank God. “What displays might those be?”

  “I was thinking on that wall by the register, I’d make a special display for all your mugs, arrange them so they look like a Christmas tree.”

  “A Christmas tree?”

  Hannah didn’t let the skepticism faze her. “Some little shelves of graduated lengths mounted to the wall. Some greenery. The mugs themselves will stand in for ornaments. Trust me. You’re gonna love it.”

  “I can’t think of a problem with any of that.”

  Get them to agree to something small, then go in for the kill. She clapped her hands together and grinned. “Excellent. Now, let’s talk gingerbread.”

  “—breaking down doors like some kinda hooligan,” Percy groused.

  Ryan examined the door frame. Not as bad as it could’ve been, all things considered. “I thought you were in trouble.”

  “Trouble? What the hell kind of trouble would I be in in my own house?”

  Ryan didn’t point out that he’d fallen and could’ve broken a hip. That wasn’t a productive way to start that whole conversation. “My mistake. I’ll fix it. Do you have wood glue and some clamps?”

  “In the garage.”

  The garage was one step away from being an episode of Hoarders. It took Ryan nearly twenty minutes of searching around the stacks of boxes and jumble of tools before he found what he wanted. That in and of itself was a small miracle. Clearly, Percy needed help with some kind of clean out. If he fell out here, he might get buried under the detritus of…what the hell was all this stuff? Ryan peeked inside one of the boxes and found stacks of National Geographic.

  Fire hazard.

  Adding it to his mental list, Ryan went back inside to start repairs on the door.

  “What the hell are you doing here boy?”

  Checking up on you, old man. Not that he could say that. Mom had warned him that Percy had gotten paranoid, cranky, and distrustful of everybody. With none of his own blood kin left—at least none who lived within five hundred miles or gave a damn—it had fallen to his adopted family to keep up with him and his failing health. The way she’d made it sound on the phone, Percy was at death’s door, so Ryan had moved heaven and earth to get here to check on him. He and the old man had always been tight, though their communication had been limited during this last tour in Afghanistan. Best he could tell, things weren’t near as dire as Mom had made it out to be, but Percy had aged ten years since his wife’s funeral two years ago. He was too thin, with deep shadows beneath his eyes, and he probably wasn’t eating properly, given his shaky state.

  “I’m on leave.” And God help him if his CO found out Percy wasn’t technically family.

  “Well, no shit, you’re here instead of there. Why?” He crossed his bony arms. “You got sent, didn’t you?”

  There wasn’t a damned thing wrong with Percy’s brain. As confirming that fact would set his mission back even more than it already was, Ryan kept his focus on carefully running glue in the cracks of the door frame to buy himself some time. What excuse would Percy accept that wouldn’t have him trying to boot Ryan out as soon as this door was repaired?

  “Well?”

  “I couldn’t go home.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Ryan tightened the clamps. “You know my mother. She’ll do the whole welcome the hero home, with a party and every blessed member of the extended family, and probably most of the neighborhood. I couldn’t face it.” And it was the truth. The very idea of coming up against all that with what he’d been dealing with overseas made his head ache. Hell, last week he’d been clearing out a terrorist cell. He wasn’t up to playing that kind of mental whiplash, and he figured Percy—an Army veteran himself—would understand.

  The old man grunted. “Your mama know you’re stateside?”

  “Yes, sir.” He carefully scraped away the excess glue.

  “Isn’t she expecting you?”

  “Not yet. I told her I was gonna visit some friends.”

  “And you’re here.”

  Ryan arched a brow. “You’re a friend, last I checked.”

  “Hmph. Reckon so. How ’bout you go shower and scrape a few layers of that bush off your face? Looks like you haven’t had a chance to do it for a while.”

  “True enough.” He pushed the door as far closed as he could get it with the clamps and nudged a chair in front to hold it in place. “This ought to be dry enough to shut in an hour or so. Let me drape a blanket or something to keep the cold air out as well as we can. I think I saw one in the garage.”

  Ryan rigged up the covering without commentary from the peanut gallery, then scooped up his bag and headed upstairs.

  “Guest room is first door on the right.”

  “Thanks.”

  The room was dusty, as if nobody had been in there for a while. They probably hadn’t. Percy wasn’t exactly a social butterfly, having company on any kind of regular basis. If ever. Had anybody been in here since Janie passed two years ago? Maybe a housekeeper to dust once in a blue moon, but certainly the remaining family—all his late wife’s side—had all gone back to their lives, as if the moment she’d died, Percy had been excommunicated and no longer deserved their consideration.

  Assholes.

  Ryan dug out his Dopp kit and laid out his toiletries on the bathroom counter in a neat grid before turning on the water. As he stepped beneath the spray, he took a long moment to bask in intense gratitude for the solid water pressure and hot spray. Instead of rushing through with the mission-ready efficiency he practiced overseas, he pressed his hands against the tile wall and stood, letting water beat down on him, imagining the layers of grit and grime sluicing off and circling the drain. He wished the invisible film of inhumanity was so easily banished. He believed in the job, believed in the mission, but sometimes—like today when faced with the sweet, basic decency and cheer of Elf Girl—the acute divide between his reality and civilian life reared up to punch him in the gut.

  By the time he’d finished the shower and gone after the mountain man beard with scissors and a trimmer until he at least appeared civilized, he wanted nothing more than to fall flat on his face on the full-sized bed. But that wasn’t the mission. He couldn’t just barge in on Percy and turn into an antisocial hermit. Not to mention, there was still the door to finish with. He’d dress and head downstairs to prepare them both a meal. It was the least he could do to make sure they both got fed properly. Maybe he could start a load of laundry to get rid of the last suggestions of homelessness. And he’d see what was what with his uncle.

  Percy was back in his chair, watching some cop show when Ryan got downstairs.

  “I’m making supper.”

  If Percy heard, he didn’t acknowledge. Shrugging, Ryan headed into the kitchen. The mess of dishes on the counter pricked at his military neatness. After he’d loaded what seemed like every glass and mug Percy owned into the dishwasher and started it, Ryan dug through the fridge and pantry. Pickings were slim. Coffee. Powdered creamer. A half dozen eggs. Stale bread. Salsa. A moldy hunk of cheese. A few cans of stuff that had expired in the previous president’s administration. He tossed those and shook his head.

  Damn, if this was all Percy had in the house, no wonder he was so thin. What had the guy been eating? Was it a money thing? Did he not know how to fend for himself without his wife to do all the domestic stuff?

  Ryan added Trip to market to his running mental list. There ought to be enough cheese to salvage for an omelet.

  Percy wandered in as he was dumping the beaten eggs into a skillet. “What’s tha
t?”

  “Gonna be dinner. You should start a grocery list. I’ll make a run tomorrow.” He nodded toward a notepad on the counter.

  “Could’ve ordered pizza.”

  “Is that what you’ve been eating on?” He added a few more items to the list himself.

  Percy shuffled over to pour himself a glass of water, then sank into one of the ladder-back chairs at the kitchen table. “Sometimes. Don’t much like cooking.”

  “Well, this won’t be like Aunt Janie’s cooking, but I don’t think we’ll starve. Kinda late, but you want coffee?”

  “No. How long are you stayin’, son?”

  Ryan paused. “You trying to kick me out?”

  “Just asking a question.”

  “I don’t know. I borrowed a truck from a buddy. It broke down a few miles outside town. The mechanic is supposed to get to it tomorrow, and he’ll let me know how long it’ll be. But I figured so long as I was crashing your hospitality, I could help out around the house.”

  Bushy, gray brows drew together. “Help out?”

  “I’m no good at sitting still. The Army’s made sure of that. I figure you’ve got some stuff that needs doing—a second set of hands or a younger back or whatever. Thought I’d earn my keep.” Ryan cut the omelet in half and slid each onto a plate.

  Percy eyed the food before lifting his gaze back to Ryan’s. “Reckon we can come up with something.”

  Well, that was a start. Ryan would take it.

  Chapter 3

  “You know, I’m not normally a fan of any sort of project that destroys books, but I have to admit, this looks kind of amazing.”

  From her position in the front window of Inglenook Books, Hannah smiled over at Reed Campbell, the owner, as she finished adding the last layer of “branches” to the Christmas tree she’d fashioned out of book pages. “Well, it’s certainly not something you’d do with new stock, but giving new life to a book that’s already damaged…yeah, there’s a lot you can do with pages. The print against the white makes for a cool effect. I’ll be making a wreath, too.”