“That will be perfect for dessert,” Lexie said.
Especially since they’d eaten all the cookies she’d baked. When she’d extended her dinner invite she hadn’t thought ahead to dessert. Even when she was cooking she hadn’t. Probably because she’d been thinking about horseshoes and four-leaf clovers.
“May I take your coat?” she offered. Except her hands were full. “Umm. Just a minute. Brockie, you can put the pop and the ice cream on the kitchen counter. Okay?”
“Okay,” he said eagerly and started to dash toward the kitchen with the goodies she’d handed him.
“Walk,” she called. “You don’t want to shake the pop.”
Brock slowed down, and Lexie took Mr. Mann’s coat and hung it in the hall closet. “Come on in and sit down,” she said, motioning to the living-room couch.
He nodded, came in and perched on the edge of her couch, set his hands on his thighs as if bracing to get right back up again. Looked around. He didn’t say anything more, and she wondered if he’d used up all his words for the day just telling her about the root beer and ice cream.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” she told him and went to the kitchen. “I hope you’re hungry,” she called.
“I am.”
She’d hoped he’d add something more, but that was the end of that conversation. There was really nothing cozy about being with Mr. Mann, and yet Lexie still felt drawn to him. She was sure that, deep down, like her, he was looking for connection.
Brock took over the conversational duties. He went in the living room and perched on the couch next to Mr. Mann. “Do you like cheese bread?”
“I do.”
“I do, too,” Brock said. “I helped set the table.”
“It’s good that you help your mom,” said Mr. Mann.
Their tight-lipped neighbor was voluntarily saying something. Brock obviously knew how to draw him out.
She set out the food and summoned her son and her guest to the table. She watched Mr. Mann out of the corner of her eye once he dug into the lasagna. Would they possibly connect over pasta and tomato sauce?
He chewed, nodded his approval like some judge on a cooking-competition show and swallowed. “Really good.”
It had been a long time since she’d had a compliment. She grinned and actually wiggled a little in her seat, like a child who’d just been patted on the head.
“My wife used to make lasagna,” he volunteered. “This is almost as good as hers.”
Thinking this was a possible invitation to offer condolences, Lexie said, “I am sorry about your wife.”
He’d almost been smiling. The smile factory shut down, and he took another bite.
“How long has she been gone?”
“Three years.”
“I don’t think my mom is ever going to get over losing my dad,” Lexie said. Not that she had herself, but she was doing better than her mother.
“You don’t,” Mr. Mann said simply.
“I worry about her,” Lexie confessed. “She doesn’t do any of the things she used to or see her old friends.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to.”
“But she needs a life.”
“Yeah, well, everybody’s got the right to live their life the way they want.”
He said this with so much authority it was almost enough to convince Lexie that he was right. Almost, but not quite.
“When you have other people in your life, you have to keep living,” she insisted.
“Maybe not everyone needs other people in their life,” he said.
“Everyone needs someone,” Lexie insisted. “It’s why we’re all put here together in the first place.”
Mr. Mann merely shrugged and bit off a chunk of cheese bread.
“My grandma’s coming to visit for Christmas,” Brock announced.
Mr. Mann grunted. “Figures. That’s when everyone’s supposed to get happy, whether they want to or not.”
After finishing his sentence, he did a very odd thing. He shot a quick look up toward the ceiling. What on earth was he looking for up there?
“Isn’t Christmas a perfect time to get happy? To think about the good things in your life?” Lexie countered. “Christmas carols, presents, peace on earth, goodwill toward men?” He wasn’t on board yet. “Christmas cookies?” she prompted.
He almost smiled at that. “Yeah, cookies are all right.”
“I like cookies,” Brock said.
“We need to make more, don’t we, Brockie?” Lexie said. “Do you have a favorite cookie, Mr. Mann?”
His expression turned wistful. “My wife always made these chocolate cookies with a chocolate-peppermint frosting. They were the best.”
“If you find that recipe, I’d love to try them,” Lexie said.
He shrugged. “I don’t know where she kept it.” And he obviously didn’t want to go looking.
She didn’t press him. Instead, she moved them on to new conversational territory. “I’m glad you brought makings for root-beer floats, since I didn’t have anything for dessert tonight.”
“We used to have those sometimes when I was a kid growing up. When I was a teenager we got ’em a lot. Hamburger joints, the best place to take a date when you didn’t have a lot of money.” A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I used to take my wife to a place in Ballard called Zesto’s.”
“You fell in love over root-beer floats,” Lexie finished for him, hoping to hear more.
“Long before that. I fell in love with her the first time I saw her.”
“That is so sweet.”
“She was sweet.” He lost his smile and stuffed the last of his cheese bread in his mouth.
“I bet she was.” And now it was time to move on before the poor man shut down. “Brockie, help me clear the table, and we’ll get those floats made.”
Mr. Mann dutifully ate his, but his smile stayed in hiding.
After dinner it was time to set up the tree, and she was glad of his help, both in bringing it in and getting it straight in the tree stand. Brock stood by, anxiously awaiting the moment when they could begin to decorate.
He was thrilled when Mr. Mann handed him a section of the lights and said, “Okay now, your mom will tell us where she wants these. Hold it up high.”
So the two of them did Lexie’s bidding, moving the string up and down and around the branches as she directed.
“And now the ornaments,” she said, and Brock dived for the box she’d brought in from the garage.
“I guess it’s kind of silly to put up a real tree and bother with lights when you can get artificial ones with the lights already on them,” she said as she handed a glass snowflake ornament to Mr. Mann. “And it’s a lot cheaper in the long run.” She was still in sticker shock over how much she’d spent at the tree lot.
“Easier, too,” he said.
“But I thought it would be fun to pick out a real tree.”
“It is,” he agreed. He half smiled. “I remember a couple times going with the wife to a tree farm and cutting our own tree. Your boy would love that.”
“Next year we’ll probably buy an artificial one that we can bring out every year,” she said. “That will be more budget-friendly. And being on a beginning-teacher’s salary, budgeting is important.”
“You’ll make more as time goes on.”
And Brock would keep growing and needing more. Not that she’d ever begrudge him a penny. She watched as her son looked for the perfect spot to hang the little Baby’s First Christmas ornament her parents had given her five years earlier, and her heart tightened. Her boy was the best thing that had ever happened to her.
She grabbed her phone and took a picture, capturing his look of concentration as he hooked it on a bough. Then caught him again as he beamed at her.
At last the tree wa
s done, a happy one sporting colored bulbs and balls, homemade works of art, and the Patience Brewster ornaments Lexie had collected over the years.
“Our tree looks pretty,” Brock said, taking it all in. He turned to Mr. Mann for confirmation. “Doesn’t it?”
Their guest nodded approvingly. “Yeah, it does. Don’t forget to keep water in the tree stand,” he cautioned Lexie. “You’re putting it up pretty early, and you don’t want it to dry out and become a fire hazard.”
“I won’t forget,” she promised.
Then he was out of things to say. He cleared his throat. “Guess I’ll get on home. Bonnie needs to go out.”
“Bonnie? Oh, your dog. You named her.”
He shrugged. “Nobody’s called to claim her. Looks like she’s mine. Well,” he finished briskly, “thanks for the dinner.”
“Would you like to take some home with you?” she offered.
“No, that’s okay.”
“It’ll only take a minute to wrap a piece.”
He was already moving toward the door. “No, thanks.”
She followed him and pulled his coat out of the closet, and he shrugged into it, gave a brisk nod, said good-night and then was gone.
But he’d come over and helped them decorate their tree. They’d actually had a conversation. Maybe, just maybe, she had made a friend in the neighborhood.
She got Brock in the tub and went back downstairs to put away the ornament boxes, humming as she went.
Her cell phone rang. Mom, she thought with a smile.
“Mom, we’ve just had the nicest time with our neighbor,” she said. “He came over for dinner and helped us put up our tree.”
“That was nice of him,” Mom said.
“He’s a little gruff and hard to get to know, but I think he’s got a good heart. You’ll get to meet him when you come up for Christmas.”
“About Christmas,” Mom began, and Lexie’s smile fell away.
Oh, no. Don’t say it.
16
“Darling, I’m not feeling up to making the trip,” Mom said.
An avalanche of disappointment dumped itself onto Lexie. It wasn’t as if she was asking Mom to fly to Europe or drive twelve hours. It was barely over a three-hour flight from LAX to Sea-Tac airport, and then only another forty minutes to Fairwood, and Lexie had planned to pick her mother up at the airport. All Mom had to do was sit on a plane and then sit in the car.
“Oh, Mom. You promised.”
“I know. I’ll come up in the summer.”
“It won’t be the same. I wanted you to share Christmas with us in the new house. Brockie will be so disappointed.”
Her mother’s only response to this bit of guilting was to sigh.
It took a lot to make Lexie mad, but she could feel her temper rising. There was mourning, and there was selfishness.
But you could hardly call your mother selfish, especially when she wasn’t normally. Not that anything had been normal since Daddy died.
Lexie tried begging. “Mom, please. We’ve both been looking forward to you coming up.” The Christmas before had been hard. She’d been hoping they could make some new, happy memories this time around.
“I know you have, but I’m not feeling well.”
Not feeling well. What did that mean? “As in you’re sick?”
“I’m not myself. I’ll make it up to you next year. I really will. I’m just not in a holiday mood.”
Lexie took a deep breath. It was what it was, and there would be no changing her mother’s mind about coming up. Okay, adapt or die.
“All right. I understand. We’ll come spend Christmas with you.”
They could have their own little Christmas early, enjoy their tree, then go to Mom’s. The tickets would cost a small fortune, but that was what plastic was for.
“No, I don’t want you to do that.”
“Mom, you can’t be alone on Christmas,” Lexie protested.
“Your Aunt Rose will look in on me.”
Look in on her. Like she was an invalid. Maybe in a way she was. She and Daddy had been a unit. They’d done everything together. One would take a breath, and the other would exhale. It was a wonder her mother was breathing now.
“You enjoy your holiday in your new house,” Mom said. “We can Zoom on Christmas Day.”
“That’s hardly the same as having you here,” Lexie grumbled.
Then she frowned. Maybe she was the one who was being selfish.
She gave up. “All right, we’ll Zoom.”
“I’ve disappointed you, haven’t I?” Mom’s voice was filled with regret.
“Yeah, you have,” Lexie said. She wanted to add I lost him, too. Snap out of it, Mom. You’ve still got people who need you. She bit down on her lip. Hard.
“I’m so sorry. You know I love you more than anything.”
Except Daddy and his memory.
Lexie sighed. “I love you, too.”
And because she did, she was going to have to be patient and let Mom work out her issues. Heaven knew she’d had issues of her own when her relationship with the husband fail ended. It took time to get over losing someone, and when you’d been with that someone as long as her mother had been with her father, the time increased exponentially.
Once Lexie had her baby who needed her, she’d had to close the door on the past and move forward. It was the same when her father died. She still missed him, but she had to keep living, and she was determined to make life good for her son. She wished her mom could share that determination.
Maybe Mom thought Lexie didn’t need her. If she did, she was wrong. A girl always needed her mother, no matter what age she was or where she was in life.
And Brock needed his grandma. Not that sleepwalking woman he’d come to know, but the energetic, involved woman she’d always been.
When Lexie was growing up Mom had dished out the fun like cookies: water-balloon fights in the summer and experiments in making Popsicles and ice cream; crazy Halloween parties where she’d don a sheet with holes to see out of, pretend to be a ghost and chase Lexie and her friends all over the house.
Then there was Christmas. Every year Lexie not only got treats in her Christmas stocking but there was always a letter from Santa, thanking her for minding her parents and telling her how proud they were of her. The Christmas stockings continued even when she was a teenager, and in addition to candy, teen-girl treasures such as nail polish, lip gloss and gift cards for token amounts started appearing. And always there was Santa’s letter, encouraging Lexie to remember how loved she was and to always let her light shine. Daddy had always been the one to sneak outside Christmas Eve night and jingle some bells and call “Ho, ho, ho!” but Mom had been the architect of those letters. Lexie had saved every one of them.
After Brock was born Mom had started the tradition with him, too, but then Daddy died and so did the tradition of the letters from Santa. So did the laughter. Lexie had hoped this would be the year her mother took even a tiny step toward living her life again. It wasn’t going to happen.
She said goodbye with as little rancor as possible and then went to fish Brock out of the tub. She put on a smile for her son and pretended everything was fine. She listened to his prayers and felt like she had an anvil on her chest when he asked God to bless Grandma. He was looking forward to his grandmother coming up for Christmas. It was not going to be fun breaking the news to him that she wasn’t coming.
Lexie decided that news could be postponed. Who knew? Her mother could change her mind at the last minute. Or not.
Either way, she had to keep moving forward, and she’d make the holiday special for her son, no matter what.
She tucked Brock in, kissed him good-night, then went downstairs and made herself a mug of hot chocolate. Then she grabbed the TV remote and brought the Hallmark channel to life.
At least there things turned out the way you wanted.
* * *
Stanley loved lasagna, but lasagna didn’t love him anymore. By the time he got home, he had a three-alarm fire going in his gut. He popped a couple of antacids and washed them down with a glass of milk.
“I shoulda stayed home,” he said to Bonnie, who had trailed him out to the kitchen in the hopes of getting a dog treat.
But she’d already had her treat for the day. “I’m not going to spoil you,” he told her.
And yet there she was, looking up at him with those bright little eyes.
“Okay, one more, but that’s it,” he said.
He dug one out of the box. Made her sit for it, then handed it over. She snapped it up and downed it in only a couple of chomps. Kind of like he’d devoured that lasagna earlier. A home-cooked meal had been a real treat.
Speaking of home-cooked meals. He frowned when his phone rang and the caller ID told him it was his sister-in-law, Amy, again.
“She’s a pest,” he informed Bonnie. A much more irritating pest than his neighbors would ever be. He knew she wouldn’t give up calling him, though, so he decided to take the call and be done with it. “Hello, Amy.”
“Oh, my gosh, you actually answered your phone. I’m in shock,” she said.
Her greeting didn’t produce any warm fuzzies. Quite the opposite. The cold pricklies took over.
“What do you want?” As if he couldn’t guess.
“To see you.”
Not really. They’d always rubbed each other the wrong way. Amy was only calling him out of a misplaced sense of duty.
“I look the same,” he said. A little heavier, but she didn’t need to know that.
“Funny, funny,” she said, not in the least amused. “I let you off the hook for Thanksgiving, but I’m not going to for Christmas. You need to come down for Christmas dinner.”
No, he didn’t. It would be a repeat of Thanksgiving, only substitute red velvet cake for pumpkin pie. He still didn’t like turkey, and he wasn’t so crazy about cake that he was willing to drive all the way to Gresham for it.
A Little Christmas Spirit Page 16
