“There won’t be a pop quiz. We’re all just glad you’re here.” She took Birdie by the hand. “C’mon. Mother wants to show you something before we all sit down for dinner.”
Intrigued, Birdie followed her down the hallway, away from the living room’s revelry. Surprises no longer sent her looking for an escape route. Her past career as a petty thief didn’t matter. Ever since she’d found Theodora waiting outside the cave, everyone had showered her with affection. She now knew her real father. Her older sister, Meade, in a stunning about-face, had taken to fussing and fretting over her. Theodora and Ruby and the raucous Hendricks clan were now the extended family she was proud to call her own. She didn’t have Hugh, of course, but she’d learned to ignore the heartache. With so much family to treasure, it seemed ungrateful to wallow in self-pity because their relationship hadn’t worked out.
With a wave of her hand, Ruby led her into a large bedroom sweetly decorated in pastel hues. Theodora’s room? Nothing of the feisty matriarch’s gun-toting personality was in evidence. A rocking chair sat in one corner, and the four-poster bed was decorated with a trove of lacy pillows.
Theodora marched out of the walk-in closet. “Here it is.” She hefted a leather volume to the rocking chair and sat. She glared at Birdie. “Well, come on now. It’s time you saw this.”
Ruby nudged her forward. “Go. She’s wants a moment alone with you.” She left the room.
After she’d gone, Birdie settled on the rug at Theodora’s feet. The volume resting in the old woman’s lap was large, and it carried the faint scent of roses. The pages of parchment were golden with age, the edges painted with gilt.
“Is that Justice’s diary?” Delighted, Birdie ran her finger across the soft binding as Theodora searched for something inside.
Finding it, the old woman smiled. “Now, you know Justice opened the Second Chance Grill. Back then it was called The Second Street Eatery. First restaurant in Liberty. People didn’t think a colored woman should own a business, but our Justice didn’t care.”
“She had spunk—like you.”
“She did at that.”
It was more than spunk, really. Justice had lived in a world segregated by race, decades before women won the right to vote. It didn’t matter. Freed from a life of servitude, she traveled north heavy with child and learned to compete among men. She built a good life because she was determined and knew she deserved better. She understood her own value, nurtured her talents and never gave up. She’d possessed courage, through and through.
Breaking the silence, Birdie said, “I want to be like her… and like you.”
The comment sent dampness into Theodora’s eyes. “Lord knows you are, more than you realize.”
The possibility was heartwarming. “Do you really think so?”
“I do, child.” Theodora turned the book sideways, allowing them both to view the bold cursive running neatly across the pages. “See here? Justice even wrote down some of her best recipes.”
“Martha Washington’s Candied Cake,” Birdie read. She lifted her brows. “The Martha Washington?
“How Justice came by the recipe is an interesting story. I’ll tell you sometime.”
“What else is in there?”
“Observations, her deepest thoughts, more recipes. The diary spans her whole life.” With affection, Theodora pressed her palm to the open page. “Truth be told, this diary is a compass. Whenever my life was difficult, I used the wisdom inside to find my way.”
Emotion glazed the explanation. Touched, Birdie said, “I could use a compass.” After the mistakes she’d made she needed a damn road map, with every intersection in life clearly marked and posted. “I’d like to read the diary sometime, if that’s all right.”
“Of course it is. Justice had a heart of gold and more horse sense than anyone you’ll ever meet. She can guide you just as she guided me.” Theodora turned the page. Her expression soft, she added, “Life is never simple and it certainly isn’t easy. But you’ll learn, child. Justice will teach you, and I will too.”
Eagerly, Birdie gleaned the page. The word patience leapt out at her; so did love and kindness. Theodora turned to yet another entry and she grabbed hold of the words, my dreams won’t matter if I don’t persevere to give them substance. Gems of wisdom were intermingled with common advice about raising a colicky baby and how to select produce for the expanding restaurant. The diary brimmed with good sense and sweet humor about surviving in a world that wasn’t fair or simple to navigate, but was beautiful nonetheless.
“I like the part about dreams.” Damp-eyed, she glanced up at Theodora. “I’ve never had any, unless going legal counts.”
“Well, you’ve done that. Now it’s time to stretch your arms wide and take in more of what the world has to offer.” Theodora rose from the chair. “For instance, have you bought a Christmas tree yet? It’s a good place to start.”
Birdie struggled to her feet. “What does a Christmas tree have to do with fulfilling my dreams?”
Theodora carried the diary back to the closet. When she reappeared, her more taciturn expression was firmly in place. “You’re a fool, child. You know that, don’t you?”
“So you keep telling me.”
“Then high tail it over to Anthony’s Christmas tree lot tomorrow. Dreams have to start somewhere.” She nudged Birdie from the room. “Might as well have yours with some tinsel and a star on top.”
* * *
“You still haven’t bought a Christmas tree?” Meade asked with faint distress.
Birdie refilled her sister’s coffee cup. “Why does everyone care if I decorate for the holidays? It’s five days until Christmas, too late to buy a tree for the apartment. Besides, I’m spending Christmas Eve at Theodora’s house and Christmas day with you at your father’s house.”
“Our father’s house,” Meade said, winking at Landon. “Still, you should get one.”
Landon patted his mouth with his napkin. “She’ll purchase a tree when she’s ready.” In an oddly conspiratorial tone, he added, “All good things to those who wait.”
“She’s waited long enough!”
“Patience, darling.”
What was the big deal? It wasn’t like you had to get a tree to enjoy the holiday. Birdie’s amusement vanished when the portly man at table seven glared. He began drumming his fork and knife. “Uh, we have to wrap this up,” she said. “The natives are restless.”
Meade gave a regal wave of her hand. “What you should do is sit down and dine with us. It’s ridiculous for you to continue working here.”
Birdie gazed heavenward. How many times had she explained that she couldn’t leave Finney shorthanded during the holiday rush? They’d find a replacement in January when things slowed down.
“I’ll think about my options next month.” She nodded at the man waiting for her to take his order. “And stop bugging me about a Christmas tree. Even if I did want one—and I don’t—I don’t have ornaments to put on the thing. Enough already.”
During the next few days, she wondered why she hadn’t kept her mouth shut.
On Tuesday, three foil-wrapped boxes appeared outside her apartment door. The gift was from Meade, of course, a gorgeous sampling of gold stars and blazing red candy canes that looked good enough to eat. By Wednesday, her refusal to buy a tree reached the women of The Second Chance. Delia handed her a box of shimmering silver balls. Ethel Lynn presented two boxes of holiday lights.
And, on the morning of Christmas Eve, Finney cornered her in the kitchen as she was tying on her apron.
“Here.” The cook thrust a large, hastily wrapped package at her. The Santa paper was crinkled at the corners. The red bow on top was coming loose. “Just so you know, I was at Wal-Mart before sunup. Lordy, there’s nothing crazier than a store full of women the day before Christmas.”
“You shouldn’t have done this.” Moved by the cook’s generosity, Birdie gently set the box on the counter. “This is too much. Let me pay you back.”
“No, you won’t. What you will do is hightail it over to the Christmas tree lot. You’re the only person in town who hasn’t been there.”
“Not a good plan. I don’t need a tree.” Sighing, Birdie tore off the wrapping paper. She’d done her best to remain upbeat throughout the holiday season, even though she’d become increasingly lonely.
She still missed Hugh. Foolish, sure, but she harbored the crazy hope he’d call. But if the phone rang, it was Theodora or Ruby on the other end, or Meade calling to chat. It was never Hugh. Chances were, he hadn’t thought about her once since returning to Akron.
Pushing the thought aside, she peered into the box. Six packs of Christmas ornaments were crammed beside packets of tinsel. For a fleeting moment, she imagined decorating a tree with Hugh upstairs, cozy in the apartment they’d shared. The thought sent a dull ache into her chest.
Resigned to obeying the cook, she untied her apron and hung it back up. “Okay, I’ll get a tree right now. And thanks… for everything.” She nodded toward the box. “Do you think they have anything small? Something I can drag back here without a forklift?”
Finney brightened. “Sure they do! If you want a four-footer, they’ll fix you right up.”
“Great. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
Outside, Christmas carolers were converging in the Square’s center green in the morning light. A soft snow was falling, dusting the shops and the evergreens with a froth of cheer. Wearily, Birdie trudged across the center green toward the Gas & Go.
Try to be happy. She had so much to be grateful for—Landon, Meade and Theodora’s large brood, not to mention the women of The Second Chance. She had family right here in Liberty, people who welcomed her to their tables and showered her with love. If that wasn’t enough, seventeen flawless rubies were tucked away at Liberty Trust waiting to be used as collateral to start a business once she figured out what to do. She’d start fresh, in her new hometown. Just like Justice had done.
She even had a nicely bound photocopy of Justice’s diary, which Theodora and her daughters had presented as an early Christmas present. Settled in her apartment each night, she enjoyed reading about the freedwoman’s life and her love for Birdie’s ancestor, Lucas. The diary was full of sweet wisdom and gentle observations on how to live a good life. In so many ways it was a guidebook for the human heart.
So her relationship with Hugh hadn’t worked out. Remaining glum seemed ungrateful, given all the new gifts in her life.
Before the courthouse, the carolers formed a jolly line. Their voices lifted, merry and bright. Trying for happiness, Birdie swiped at her eyes.
The Christmas tree lot was empty. The place was cleaned out; twigs and pine needles were packed into the surface of the well-trodden snow. Twenty paces off, a pathetically dressed Santa was heaving the last of the trees into a stack. Birdie pitied him. Something in the stoop of his shoulders gave the impression of someone who’d fallen on hard times. The suit he wore was about five sizes too large. From the back, the loose fit of the red velvet coat gave the impression he could use a decent meal.
Unaware of her approach, he worked slowly gathering up the forgotten trees. It struck her as a great loss, how the imperfect branches and the bent tops destined the greenery for something less than bright lights and tinsel. She began looking in earnest for a tree she could save.
Slim pickings—after a moment, she spotted a small tree he’d missed. “This one’s a beauty,” she called, from over her shoulder. Standing the fledging upright she ignored the bare spots midway down where branches had broken off. “How much do you want for it?”
“Take it. We’re closed,” The man yelled back.
He crouched in front of the pile and she noticed the smudges on the back of his costume. The way he pushed the tree trunks close seemed a great effort, and her pity increased. When he drew a pack of matches from his pocket, she rushed over.
“Don’t burn them. Wait until after Christmas.” She stopped a few paces away, caught short by the way her entreaty froze his hands a second before the match ignited. “It’s Christmas Eve,” she added, as if the holiday explained everything. Embarrassed, she laughed. She really was sentimental. “The season of miracles, right? Leave the trees for now. Someone might come at the last minute to save them.”
“Only a fool holds out hope,” he said. No sarcasm in his voice—only pain.
Hugh.
The beard and the hat had rendered him unrecognizable. The costume hid everything but the despair in his gaze as it slowly lifted to hers.
“You have to hope,” Birdie said from behind a glimmer of tears.
He appeared too overwrought to reply. Finally, he said, “Sometimes it’s too late.”
“Not if someone cares about you.” Taking his hands, she helped him to his feet. “Because I was thinking,” she added, “This town needs a crack reporter. Now that I’m rich, should I start a newspaper?”
It was enough to make him quirk a brow. “To cover pigs and such?”
“And the quilting club, the Rotary—Theodora says the county fair is a real thrill.”
“You will need a crack reporter.”
“Sure will.”
He rested his hand on her waist, the only man she’d ever loved. “Birdie.” He whispered her name like a prayer.
The emotions tangled inside her unwound and released, until there was nothing left but her love for him. He waited, stock-still, as she stepped into his embrace. Carefully, she pulled off the hat and the beard to reveal his bristled cheeks and midnight gaze.
She cradled his face between her palms. “Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” A twinge of anger scuttled her pulse. “I’ve been miserable without you.”
“It wasn’t a good plan,” he said, mimicking her oft-declared credo. Grinning, he trailed his fingers beneath her lips. “Can you forgive me? I love you. I can’t live without you. I don’t even want to try.”
“I love you, too,” she said in a quavering rush. Grasping the heavy velvet of his costume, she dragged his mouth to hers. But as he leaned in eagerly, she thought of something else. “When did you get back?”
He tightened his hold. “Last week. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”
“Hugh!”
“I was still working on my apology. I couldn’t go to the restaurant until I’d perfected it.” He smiled then, sad and sweet, and relief spilled through her as the pleasure lighting his features banished the agony in his gaze. “So… about the job. I can be persuaded to sign on at your newspaper if you offer the right benefits.”
Hungrily, she unbuttoned his tunic. Pleased, he took over the task. Wrapping the heavy fabric around them both, he snuggled her against his chest.
Birdie laid her head on his shoulder. “What sort of benefits?” she asked, closing her eyes. She was happy to stand here forever, enjoying the heat of his body melting into hers. “Name your price, Mr. Reporter.”
Considering, Hugh brushed his mouth across her temple. “For starters, a second chance,” he said, and her emotions soared. “Birdie, you’ve stolen my heart and made my life worth living. I don’t deserve you, but I’ll do everything in my power to make you happy.” He lifted his head and looked off, glimpsing the future. “Do you think there’s any commercial property for rent around here?”
“I have no idea.”
“We should start looking. Newspapers need room. We need something big for the press.”
Tilting her face, she assessed the excitement rioting across his features. “So you’ll do it? You’ll help me start a newspaper?”
“Theodora is right. Liberty needs one. I’d say we’re up to the task.” He sobered, his dark gaze filled with passion. “I love you, Birdie. We can make this work. Are you in?”
She glanced back at the center green, where families were gathering to hear the carolers. She didn’t know the song that had burst on the air but it had a peppy beat, and she began tapping her foot. She’d learn the lyrics this year or next—it didn’t matter
when, as long as Hugh was here in Liberty beside her.
Trembling, she lifted her lips to his. “It sounds like a great plan.”
THE END
About the Author
Christine owned a small public relations firm in Cleveland, Ohio. Her articles and press releases have appeared regionally in northeast Ohio. Her short story, Night Hour, appeared in Working Mother magazine.
Christine closed the firm fifteen years ago after she traveled to the Philippines and adopted a sibling group of four children. She has been writing novels fulltime since 2004.
Please visit her at
www.christinenolfi.com
Follow her on Twitter at
@christinenolfi
Please turn the page for a sneak peek of Second Chance Grill, the next novel in the Liberty, Ohio series.
Second Chance Grill: Sneak Peek
Mary Chance feared she’d poison half of Liberty on her restaurant’s opening day.
Not that she was responsible. Ethel Lynn Percible’s cooking skills—or, more precisely, her lack of them—had Mary wishing she’d dumped antacids instead of mints in the crystal bowl beside the cash register. Perhaps the elderly cook hadn’t poisoned anyone, not yet. But the historic recipes Mary hoped to serve were soggy, lumpy, undercooked or scorched to a fine black sheen.
She flinched as Mayor Ryan, a trim woman with a helmet of orange curls, rose from a table and snapped, “I hope you were a better doctor than you are a business woman.” Storming past, she added, “You should’ve opened an emergency room instead of a restaurant—or better yet, both. Then you’d have a thriving business.”
For a shattering moment, Mary connected with the mayor’s frigid gaze. Like most of the town council, the mayor had ordered the opening day special—Martha Washington’s beef stew. She’d received a concoction that looked like glue and smelled worse.
Turning the Second Chance Grill into a prosperous enterprise would be difficult.
Treasure Me Page 30
