by Meg Muldoon
He glanced out the window.
“You see, siblings in families have their designated roles, you know? In the Stewart family, Ellie was the pretty one who liked to have fun. And Moira was always the goody two shoes. The one who never did anything wrong. But I could always tell that Moira had some jealousy in her. Anytime Moira and Ellie were in the same room together, Moira would always be watching her sister. Just out of the corner of her eye. Like she was judging her every move, waiting for her to do something bad. Waiting to show everyone just how good she was, and how bad Ellie was.”
Jessup drew in a deep breath.
“She got her chance, too. Junior year, Ellie found herself in trouble. It was Leon’s. I guess the two of them had fallen in love and were keeping it quiet to spare Moira’s feelings. But when Ellie told him about the baby, my brother refused to do the right thing. He had all these plans like going to college and traveling the world. He knew they wouldn’t happen if he got tied down so early with a family. So he denied Ellie his responsibility. Denied the whole thing, in fact – blamed it on some other ex-boyfriend of hers, and left the poor girl to figure out what to do on her own.
“I heard later that her family decided they were going to send her away somewhere for a while. And when she returned with the baby, her parents were going to raise it and pretend it was her sister. That was common in those days. But then Moira somehow caught wind of whose baby it was. I don’t know how, but she did. Even back then, she was wily with secrets. Shortly after she found out, everyone at school suddenly knew that Ellie had gotten herself in trouble. Moira told everybody. She was so crazed, so angry, that she didn’t even care about her family’s reputation. She just wanted to shame Ellie for stealing Leon from her.”
Jessup shook his head.
“Ellie ran away from home right after all that. The whole incident just about killed the girls’ parents. They didn’t live long beyond any of it. Their father died of a heart attack, I think. The mother just sort of withered away for a lot of years. And Moira, well…”
He picked at the pie on the plate.
“Moira kept on being Moira,” he said. “I heard that Ellie came back to town a few years later. That she asked her sister for help. She’d become an alcoholic and wanted to go to a rehabilitation center to get sober. She asked Moira to look after the child while she was gone. But Moira refused to help in any way whatsoever. Even though many years had passed, she still held a bitter grudge against her sister.”
I bit my lip and looked out the window.
“It can’t all be blamed on Moira,” Jessup continued. “My brother’s the real snake in all of this. He lived a long, good life before passing on a few years ago. Had a family of his own and everything. All of those dreams of a big successful career and world travel came true. But you know, I never got along very well with him after what he did to Ellie. I could never see him in the same light again.”
“What happened to her?” I asked softly. “Do you know?”
Jessup slowly reached for something in his breast pocket.
He unfolded the gray paper, flattened out the creases with his aging hands, then pushed it across the table toward me.
The newspaper clipping was dated from a little over a month earlier.
“Spokane Woman Dies after Getting Hit by Train,” read the headline.
“An old high school buddy of mine living in Washington sent me this news clipping. Ellie changed her name, but we both recognized her in the photo. It seemed that Ellie lost out to her alcohol addiction. They say she was coming home from a bar and had passed out on some railroad tracks and…”
He trailed off, sadness filling up the deep wrinkles in his face.
“I heard that it all happened just two days before her son Kent got paroled,” Jessup added.
I looked down, feeling a deep pang of sorrow reverberate through my chest. Like a guitar chord ringing in an empty church.
There was a lot to take away from the sad story – Moira’s betrayal, Kent’s reason for hating his aunt so much, and the complete dissolution of the Stewart family over all of it.
But the thing that got me was the injustice of it all.
Leon had been able to live a long, happy life – his name and reputation completely untarnished.
Meanwhile, Ellie’s had forever been changed. And though I didn’t know all of the particulars about why her life had gone so tragically, or why her son’s had, for that matter, I couldn’t help think how different things might have turned out. If only Leon would have assumed his responsibility, if only Moira hadn’t spilled her secret to anyone who would listen.
If only the burden of such things fell the same way on men as it did on women.
If only society had been more accepting and less judgmental in the first place.
It was an old story – one that had played itself out countless times over the centuries.
But that didn’t make it any less sad.
I let out a long sigh.
Kent Utley must have known what Moira did to his mom all those years ago.
And he must have hated her for it.
That was why after getting paroled, he’d come to Christmas River to find her.
“I keep thinking – what if I had reached out to that boy?” Jessup said. “He’s my nephew. What if I’d found him and, I don’t know… been a good influence on him? Maybe he would never have ended up in prison if—”
I reached over, patting Jessup’s ancient hand.
“You can’t take on the guilt of other people, Jessup. Even if you are related to them.”
“Hard not to feel guilty in a sad situation like this,” he said.
He paused, looking out the pie shop window at the snow falling on Main Street in the dusk.
“That’s why I came down here today, Cinnamon. As Kent’s uncle, I feel some responsibility. I want to apologize to you for what he did. And I want to help him, if I can. I figure he’s got nobody now. And after breaking his parole the way he did, I’m sure he’s looking at some more jail time. I’m not saying it will make much of a difference, but…”
He drew in a staggered breath, looking at me.
“But even if I can help him in a small way. Even if I can just let him know that he wasn’t completely unwanted in this world and that there’s someone out here who cares whether he lives or dies. Then… then I think it will be worth it.
“Sometimes, that’s all we need to hear.”
I smiled back, feeling my eyes grow damp.
I wasn’t Kent Utley’s number one fan after what he’d done to me.
But I did believe that everybody deserved to be loved.
And that everybody deserved to be made to feel like they had a place in the world.
“Do you think your husband might let me see my nephew for Christmas tomorrow?” Jessup asked.
“I’m sure he will,” I said, patting his hand again. “He’ll even give you a ride over there, if you want.”
The old man looked relieved.
“I was hoping so.”
After he finished his pie, I drove Jessup Turner back to the nursing home, telling him we’d pick him up tomorrow.
Chapter 78
It was late and I was tired, but I kept churning out pies like my very life depended on it.
After dropping Jessup back off at the nursing home, I had picked up the pooches and returned to the shop. After that, I busied myself for hours and hours stock-pie-ling for the 26th.
People were going to be crazed and irritable that day, the way they were every year. And if I knew what was good for me, I’d do as much work as I could to prepare for the onslaught.
That was what I told myself.
But underneath it all, I knew that my motivations to keep busy didn’t have all that much to do with the post-Christmas shopping crowds.
Sure – I could have gone over to the brewery and spent the evening with Warren and Aileen, sitting at the bar and chewing the fat with the old man as he served up
the last of the day’s customers.
I also knew that I could have gone over to Kara and John’s for Christmas Eve. Kara had invited me, but warned that Edna Billings was putting in an appearance. Kara said her mother-in-law was particularly crabby this week because a set of fine Lenox porcelain plates she’d ordered months ago for the occasion had gone on back-order and wouldn’t arrive in time.
Tiana and Tobias had even taken pity on me when they heard that I’d be alone Christmas Eve, inviting me to their beef wellington supper with Tobias’s sister.
I appreciated all the offers, but politely declined them nonetheless. I’d be seeing everyone tomorrow anyway for Christmas brunch at our house, and I didn’t want to hamper their evenings.
And besides, I knew that I wouldn’t be great company tonight.
No matter what I did, I would still feel a little sad. And no amount of kind hospitality would change that.
I went around the kitchen, shelving bags of flour and sugar, putting away sticks of butter, washing down the counters, and scrubbing piles of dishes in the sink until they shone. I rushed around until the kitchen sparkled more than the Christmas bulbs out on Main Street.
At least I had the pooches here with me – they lifted my spirits some.
I glanced over at them as I tossed a few more stray bowls into the dishwasher. Huckleberry was snoozing soundly in his dog bed, probably dreaming of all those Christmas River Barkery treats that Santa would bring him. Meanwhile, Chadwick sat upright, watching my every move, no doubt hoping that one of the pies cooling by the window might belly-flop onto the floor in a genuine Christmas miracle.
I loved these two little pooches like nobody’s business.
“It’s Christmas tomorrow, you guys. Do you know what that means?”
I got doggy snores from Huckleberry and a tilt of the head from Chadwick.
“It means chicken jerky and meat drippings and a special toy in each of your stockings. Aren’t you excited? It’s going to be such a wonderful day.”
Nothing but more snores.
I let out a laugh.
The song on my soul Christmas playlist changed, and a second later, the timeless, scratchy voice of Otis Redding filled the kitchen.
I felt my smile fade a little as “That’s How Strong My Love Is” came on the speaker.
It wasn’t a Christmas song, but it always would be one to me.
I let out a short sigh, placing the dish I’d been scrubbing back in the sink.
I remembered that night like it was just yesterday – Christmas Eve, years ago, when a man playing a guitar showed up on my porch, singing me this song because he knew how much I loved it.
And a few years later, at our wedding, when we danced to this song and he whispered in my ear, telling me that he’d never leave my side so long as he lived.
I sat down on the barstool, my dish gloves still on, feeling sad and feeling stupid for feeling sad.
I knew that if Daniel could, he would have been here with me tonight on our anniversary. I knew that. Logically.
But a small part of me also felt a little resentful that he wasn’t here. That I was spending our anniversary in rubber kitchen gloves. That he hadn’t so much as called me today to see how I was doing.
That he hadn’t even stopped by for lunch.
I knew it was an unusual year after everything that had happened with the Moira Stewart case and its fallout. But still – once a man stopped making a big deal out of an anniversary, it was surely a sign of things to come. A sign of complacency. That maybe the marriage was no longer fresh. That perhaps the magic was fading a little. That…
Huckleberry rolled over suddenly, his ears pricking up.
The two dogs started howling in the direction of the back door.
There was a hard rap against the window.
Chapter 79
“Daniel Brightman! You…”
Words failed me. My heart was still racing out of control like a runaway reindeer, and though the dogs had stopped barking, they looked confused. As if they’d been certain it was a crazed killer knocking on the pie shop kitchen door.
Not, as it turned out, one of their owners.
A big, fat grin brightened his face in the dim glow of the porchlight.
He was dressed in that old Buffalo Plaid jacket. The same one he’d worn all those years ago.
I opened the door. A gust of chilly, snowflake-dusted wind washed over me.
“Sorry, but it’s practically a tradition now,” he said. “I have to show up on this exact porch on this exact night for the rest of our lives, Cinnamon Ann Peters. And if that means I have to scare you as collateral, well, then I guess that’s a sacrifice we’re gonna have to make.”
I lowered my hand from my chest, noticing the flowers in his hands.
“I thought you were working all night,” I said. “You told me you were pulling a double and wouldn’t get home until—”
“I said a lot of things, darlin,’” he said. “But I didn’t say that I’d forgotten our anniversary.”
He handed me the massive bouquet of delicate pink roses. I breathed in their fragrant, dreamy scent.
They must have cost a fortune this time of year.
“Daniel, these are—”
“Put them in some water, Cin. Then turn those ovens off and grab your jacket. We’ve got somewhere to be.”
I didn’t argue or ask questions or even say anything.
I just smiled and slid out of those frumpy rubber kitchen gloves.
Chapter 80
We walked through the dark, snowy woods, letting Huckleberry and Chadwick break trail and lead the way.
It was cold out, but I was wearing a big down jacket to keep me warm. The snow had stopped falling and the woods were bathed in a beautiful, peaceful kind of silence. The stars above twinkled through the long, spidery branches of the trees. A gentle north wind blew, and I held onto Daniel’s hand as we walked through the fresh powder, neither of us wanting to interrupt the beautiful silence with words.
It wasn’t long before I figured out where we were headed.
Holiday Meadow.
The place where Daniel had asked me to marry him.
Twice, as it turned out.
I gripped his gloved hand tighter. After half an hour of walking, I saw something bright up ahead in the clearing.
A few minutes later, we arrived at a small campfire – a big log was burning bright within a circle of rocks. Nearby, there was a wooden bench with a thermos and two blue mugs. A couple of plush, plaid blankets were draped over the backrest.
“You… you did all of this?” I said, stopping in my tracks.
He shrugged.
“I got some help from Liv. She made this all happen – said you deserved a special anniversary.”
I smiled.
We sat on the bench and Daniel grabbed the thermos, pouring the steaming liquid into the two mugs. He handed one to me and I took a sip.
The spiced cider went down smooth and I could feel the warmth spread out across my chest in pleasant waves.
We watched as Chadwick and Huckleberry began chasing each other across the meadow, bounding through the snow like a couple of big squirrels.
Daniel put his arm around me.
“So… I heard a perplexing piece of gossip today.”
“Ugh,” I groaned. “Not more gossip, Daniel. I swear – I’ve had enough to last me ten lifetimes.”
Though I hadn’t spent too much time analyzing each secret in Moira’s book of gossip, I’d seen enough to look differently at a few of my fellow Christmas Riverites. But I tried not to judge too harshly. We all had things in our past that we weren’t proud of. And luckily, outside of Pam Dallas’s, the secrets in Moira’s book of gossip didn’t appear to be crimes or capital offenses.
“Well, this rumor wasn’t about you or me this time,” Daniel said. “It was about the old man.”
“Warren?”
He nodded.
“What are they saying
about my grandfather?”
“Vicky told me that he was up on the rooftop of the brewery this morning, shouting on about Santa Claus being real or something. Doing some crazy dancing for the whole town to see. Is that really true?”
I let out a short sigh.
“Yep, I’m afraid so. Makes him sound like a crazy person, doesn’t it? But it really was something of a Christmas miracle. Lars Claus had given up the ghost. And then, out of the blue, he started working again today.”
I noticed that Daniel was grinning.
“And more than that,” I continued, ignoring him. “Warren swore that he heard somebody up on the roof early this morning. He said he went up to see what was going on, but nobody was there. Then, in a last ditch attempt to revive Lars in time for Christmas, Warren plugged him in and voila – Lars started dancing and singing. His electrical plate had been completely rewired and fixed. Can you believe that? Warren said that it had to have been the man in the big red suit that did it. And then he started shouting about it to a crowd of onlookers. People were honking at him as they drove by.”
I shook my head.
If Santa really was real, then I was glad that Warren was shouting about him from the rooftops.
But I couldn’t help think that most people in town now thought that his mind was starting to go soft.
Daniel’s eyes shone in the starlight and he started busting up like a 12-year-old punk who had just left a whoopee cushion on the teacher’s chair.
I narrowed my eyes at him and crossed my arms.
He kept laughing and I got the distinct impression he was having a jolly old time at my grandfather’s expense.
“Don’t you dare go laughing at that old man, Daniel Brightman. The rest of the town can laugh at him if they want, but not you. Not if you ever want to unwrap any of those presents sitting under the tree back home, and most certainly not if you want—”
