by Hillary Avis
But a quick check of the nest boxes proved me wrong. The only hens still on the nest were my two ditzy Polish girls, Phyllis and Cher, who were both wedged into a single box. When I opened the door, they clucked at me, their ridiculous sprays of head feathers bobbing with indignance. It wasn’t their fault they couldn’t see through their own hairdos.
“It’s just me, ladies,” I reassured them. They settled, so I closed up the door and leaned against the coop, thinking. Maybe Boots had gotten stuck in the barn when I moved my Porsche back in there.
But a thorough search of the barn proved fruitless, and I was out of ideas. Boots was officially missing. Instantly my mind went to the worst-case scenario. Maybe she’d drowned in a ditch. Maybe a stray dog had swiped her off the porch when I was in town. Maybe a hawk had swooped down and carried her off. Or maybe...
My gaze lifted to the porch, where Peterson was busy looking at his phone and ignoring J.W. and Izzy. They were still after the chickens and had made it halfway to the highway, I now saw—way too far for them to stray without adult supervision.
I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled down the driveway at them. “That’s far enough! Come back!”
J.W. and Izzy stopped in their tracks and reversed course, their breath sending up soft plumes of fog into the air as they ran back toward me. I made a mental note to compliment Andrea on her parenting again. It wasn’t every four-year-old that would listen the first time you told them something. But first, I had some scolding to do.
I mounted the porch steps to stand in front of Peterson, my hands planted on my hips. Despite my call to the twins, he hadn’t lifted his eyes from the screen. I cleared my throat and he glanced up.
“What? I was watching them.”
“Sure you were. What if they kept going toward the road? They were too far for you to catch up.”
“They didn’t,” he said mildly. He checked his phone again, and I growled with irritation.
“Only because I caught them before they disappeared. Speaking of disappearance...” I tapped my foot on the porch floor until he looked up again. “Where’s my chicken, Peterson?”
“Which one?” He gestured to the orchard, where my flock was spread out beneath the bare-branched apple trees, scratching in the grass to stir up any bugs that hid between the frosty blades.
“You know which one. Boots. I haven’t seen her since you scared her in the bathroom. What did you do to her?”
“It scared me. How do you know it’s not out there with the other ones, anyway? It’s not like you can tell them apart.” He slid his phone into his inner jacket pocket and stood up, rubbing his hands together. “I’m cold; I’m going inside.”
“Sure, just walk away,” I said bitterly. “Leave your grandchildren unsupervised. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
He rolled his eyes and made a dismissive gesture, moving toward the door. Over his shoulder, he said, “They’re not unsupervised; you’re watching them.”
I flung out my hands in frustration. “This is so typical. I tell you there’s a problem you need to solve, and you walk away and say I should fix it myself.”
He turned around, his mouth tight. “I can’t be one hundred percent responsible for your happiness, Leona,” he spat. “Not anymore.”
If my anger had been simmering before, now it heated into a rolling boil. “Since when did that ever happen?!” I screeched. “I gave up everything for you. I shaped my entire life around your career and your preferences. Where to live, what to eat, who to be—you chose it all. My happiness had nothing to do with it.”
“Exactly,” he said, his voice clipped and bitter. “You got to complain about every single thing, because you weren’t responsible for any of it. I had to guess what would make you happy, and I always guessed wrong.”
“That’s because you didn’t know me. You didn’t know my heart, because you never cared to know. You never asked me who I was because the answer might have gotten in the way of your plans. Admit it.” I stared at him, unblinking. “You cast me in a role that I had to play, and it was your way or the highway. Surprise, surprise, eventually I chose the highway. The open road will always beat a locked garage, no matter how expensive the décor is inside.”
He stared back at me for a brief, silent moment and then whirled and went back in the house, banging the door shut behind him. My house. Suddenly I wished I’d kicked him out this morning and hadn’t offered to rush together this whole fake Christmas. He didn’t deserve it. He hadn’t learned anything.
“Nana, let’s play a game!” Izzy said breathlessly from the bottom of the steps behind me.
I pushed down my anger and turned to smile at her. “What kind of game?”
“You be the sheep and we’ll be the wolves,” J.W. said eagerly, his cheeks and nose ruddy from the chill air. It seemed their adventures chasing chickens had just been a warm-up for the main event.
“OK, let me work on my accent.” I bleated a few times to get into character. But before I could join them at the bottom of the steps, my phone buzzed in the back pocket of my jeans. With a guilty look toward the house, since I’d just chastised Peterson for doing the same, I checked it. It was a text message from Ruth with one word: “HELP!”
“You know what, guys? Before we play wolves and sheep, let’s go inside for a cookie.” I shooed the twins back into the house and helped them with their shoes and coats, releasing them to Andrea for a snack before I called Ruth to see what was going on.
“Are you OK?” I asked when she picked up. I headed for the guest bedroom, pretending I didn’t notice Peterson sitting on the sofa as I walked through the living room. It was quieter in the guest room, plus I could check around for Boots while I talked to Ruth.
She gulped a huge breath. “I know you have a house full of guests, but is there any chance you can abandon your family and help me for a few hours? Ugh, even just saying it, I know the answer. Of course you can’t, you have a house full of company. I’m sure you already have plans.”
“What’s going on?” I got down on my hands and knees on the rag rug next to the bed to check behind the dust ruffle. A lone red feather lay on the bare floor beneath the bedsprings.
A chill skittered up my spine. It felt like an omen. I shook it off and turned my attention back to the phone conversation. “I assume this is about the Honeytree Holidays somehow?”
“You assume right.” Ruth gave another big sigh. “It’s a long story, but basically the Gifting Tree Committee was supposed to provide refreshments for the Walk-Thru Nativity tomorrow, but Joan called me up today to tell me that they’re not doing it.”
“What? Why not?”
“She said their donation level was too low this year. They needed the refreshment budget to fulfill all the kids’ requests.”
“Bummer,” I said thoughtfully. I stood up from the floor and rubbed my stiff knee joint before moving to check in the closet. It was closed, but maybe Andrea had accidentally left it ajar when she stowed her suitcases in there. I peeked inside—no Boots, but I spied a pile of wrapped gifts. Of course, Andrea had been thoughtful and organized enough to wrap them all before she came. “Did you ask Pastor Cal if the church can come up with something?”
“They’re tapped out, too—they spent their whole budget on renting camels for the Wise Men.”
I laughed out loud as I shut the closet door. “I had no idea camels were available for rent!”
Ruth didn’t share my amusement. “Yeah, and they’re not cheap. Anyway, now I’ve got to rustle up some last-minute donations, and I was hoping maybe you could help me this afternoon and call the rest of the businesses in the Chamber of Commerce to see if they’ll pitch in. Any chance you can take half the list?”
I checked the time. With all the prep Andrea and I had done already, there wasn’t much to do in the kitchen except put everything in the oven. The cranberry sauce was chilling in the fridge, the ham was ready to go in the oven, the potatoes and sweet potatoes had been peeled and c
ut up, the green beans were trimmed. I could spare some time—especially if it was time I didn’t have to talk to Peterson.
“I’ll do it. What kind of donations are you looking for?”
“I’ll take anything edible—we’re selling snacks and drinks to fund next year’s Honeytree Holidays. Or money. Money is always good. With money, we can buy snacks and drinks.”
“Got it. Email me my half of the list.”
Ruth gave a sigh of relief. “You’re an angel, Leona. I mean it.”
And for a second, I really did feel that halo over my head.
Chapter 12
The halo came crashing down around my shoulders the instant I stepped out of the guest room. There was Peterson on the couch, glued to his phone, typing away with his thumbs, oblivious to Izzy and J.W. who were trying to get his attention by untying the laces on his oxfords.
Andrea swooped by, steering the twins away from him. “Don’t bug Gamp. He’s doing important stuff.”
It broke my heart. I felt like I was watching Andrea’s childhood play out all over again—except this time it was her kids being ignored and Andrea making the excuses instead of me. I wanted to scream at him to wake up! He was missing out on moments he wasn’t going to get back! But my phone alerted me that Ruth had sent the Chamber of Commerce list, so I left him to rot on his keister and followed Andrea back to the kitchen.
“Do you mind getting dinner in the oven?” I asked apologetically. “I need to step out for a bit.”
Andrea lowered her voice and drew me over to the side of the kitchen so the kids wouldn’t overhear. “Are you mad at Dad again? I saw how you were looking at him out there.”
She seemed so miserable that I couldn’t tell her the truth. “Something just came up with one of the community events, and I need to make some calls. I promise, I will be nice to him tonight. We’re going to have a happy Christmas, all of us together.”
I’d fake it if it killed me. It was the least I could do for her and the kids. We’d end his visit on a good note and then in the morning, he’d vanish back to Southern California where he belonged and the rest of us would have some real fun.
She shot me a relieved smile, and I bundled up and headed out to the porch to cold-call half the businesses in Honeytree. An hour later, I had a short but bountiful list of donations. The Pastry Palace volunteered ten pumpkin pies, the Rx Café offered five cranberry cheesecakes, and Ed promised fifteen dozen cinnamon-sugar donuts from the Greasy Spoon’s deep-fryer if I’d pick them up in the morning and deliver them myself.
When I texted Ruth with my successes, she sent me a whole screen of hearts, then added, “Great! The grocery store is going to donate two boxes of oranges and a big urn of coffee, and Shelly says she has a ton of extra poinsettias that we can have if they’re not sold by tomorrow afternoon.” Shelly was the woman who ran the florist shop. Ruth had really called everyone in the Chamber. Another message zipped in beneath the last. “The insurance office gave me a check so we can buy drinks. What else should we get besides creamer for the coffee?”
I didn’t even have to think before I texted back. “Save the $$ for next year. Lucky Cluck Farm will donate twenty gallons of apple cider.”
“Are you sure? Never mind, don’t answer that—we’ll take it.” Ruth added a few hearts and a Mrs. Claus emoji after her message. After we arranged to meet at the church in the morning, I tucked my phone away, bracing myself for what awaited me inside.
“Keep it together for Andrea,” I said under my breath as I opened the door. “It’s not forever. One more night, and he’ll be gone.”
Peterson rose to his feet when he spotted me heading for the kitchen. “Are you still—”
“No,” I cut him off, holding up my hand. “Everything’s fine.”
He stepped into the doorway between me and the kitchen, blocking my path. I stopped short, eyeing the mistletoe above his head warily. “Fine, or fine? Because sometimes when you...” He trailed off, seeming to think better of what he was about to say. “I wasn’t sure whether or not you were still giving me the silent treatment, that’s all.”
I made a face at him, careful to stay out of the mistletoe zone. “It’s Christmas. Let’s do our best to be nice to each other for the next twelve hours or so. Then we never have to see each other again.”
Peterson nodded slowly, the dark ring around his left eye making him look like a guilty hound dog. I started to edge my way around him into the kitchen, but a gentle rapping at the front door caught both our attention.
Before I could go answer the knock, the door cracked open and Eli stuck his head inside. His eyes immediately flicked up to the doorframe above our heads and widened. I remembered a beat too late that Peterson and I were standing very close together under the mistletoe. I’d entered the zone without realizing it. I grimaced and hastily backed up.
“Ho, ho, ho!” Eli said, pushing the door all the way open and brandishing an armload of gifts. They were wrapped in plaid paper that closely matched the flannel shirt he wore under his open jacket.
I grinned at him. “Very color-coordinated.”
He looked down at his outfit and chuckled. “What do you know—I didn’t even plan it.”
“Let me put those under the tree.” Peterson took the packages from Eli, who seemed hesitant to relinquish them, and nestled them under one side of the Doug fir that temporarily inhabited the far corner of the living room.
I’d cut the tree myself from the edge of my property, so it didn’t have the perfect, groomed look of a tree for sale on a professional Christmas tree lot. The trunk was slightly crooked and it was missing a few branches. But I’d put the flat side against the wall and draped it in colorful lights and all of the ornaments Andrea had created in her youth—the cut-and-paste, yarn-wrapped, glitter-glued glory that Peterson had never let us display on our “real” tree—and the tree gave my living room the cheerful homemade look that I loved.
The base of the tree was now overflowing with gifts. While I was upstairs making calls, Andrea must have added the ones she brought from Chicago to the presents we’d wrapped this morning, and Peterson had contributed a load of professionally wrapped boxes that he must have had stowed in his car for the drive up to Oregon. It was shaping up to be a real Christmas.
I felt a slight pang that I hadn’t gotten anything for Peterson, but I reminded myself that he couldn’t expect it. I hadn’t known he was coming, so how could I have shopped for him? I scanned the gifts he’d brought from L.A. and was relieved that I didn’t spot my name on any of them, either.
“I smell dinner.” Eli rubbed his hands together.
Andrea popped her head out of the kitchen, grinning. “Come set the table and we’ll be ready to eat.”
One white tablecloth and my grandparents’ wedding china later, we enjoyed a cozy meal clustered around the kitchen table, making small talk that steered clear of incendiary topics like anything that happened in the last thirty-five years. The kids finished their dinners first and ran in circles around the table while we grown-ups enjoyed our last bites of Andrea’s excellent cooking.
Peterson and Eli volunteered for dish duty while I made the whipped cream and Andrea got the kids changed into matching red-and-white striped pajamas. After a round of blueberry pie, made this morning from some of Eli’s berries I had stashed in the freezer, we settled in the living room to open gifts.
Andrea chose the recliner so she could guard the presents from J.W. and Izzy’s eager little fingers. Even their good manners could only be stretched so far.
Peterson and I exchanged a look before we sat down. For once we agreed on something, wordlessly taking opposite ends of the sofa to put as much distance between us as possible. Eli, oblivious, plopped down between us and slung an arm around my shoulders. I leaned into him, breathing in his familiar scent—laundry soap, fir boughs, spicy aftershave, with a hint of blueberry pie.
I felt the wall I’d put up to guard myself from Peterson start to dissolve. Eli wa
s exactly the buffer I needed to let go of my fears. I could hardly remember what I’d been worried about anyway, now that his arm was around me.
“Are we going to take turns or just dive in?” Andrea asked.
“Let’s let the kids go for it, and then we can take turns,” I suggested. “They have a lot to unwrap.”
Andrea chuckled and swiftly sorted the presents into two piles for the twins, who sat eagerly on the floor, bouncing in place with excitement as she lined up the gifts so they’d unwrap the same ones at the same time.
On Andrea’s word, they ripped into their first two packages—the gifts I’d chosen. I hoped they liked what I’d gotten them—miniature barns filled with farm animals. I hoped they’d remember their visits to Nana’s house when they played with them at home. Squeals erupted as they uncovered the toys.
A success. They admired them briefly and then tore into the next boxes. The plaid paper said they were from Eli. Inside, two real sheriff’s badges and two toy police cars were received gleefully. The kids zoomed the cars around on the floor and crashed them into each other, and Izzy quickly discovered that the cars would erupt in noisy sirens if you pushed on the roof.
“Sorry,” Eli said sheepishly to Andrea, who just laughed.
“Hopefully they’ll wear the batteries out before we get home,” she joked.
Peterson’s gifts were predictably over the top. A pair of cashmere teddy bears, a porcelain tea set for Izzy, a beautifully handmade bow-and-arrow set for J.W. They hugged the teddy bears briefly and then stared at the other two gifts, their expressions dismayed. Then, after some kind of magical silent twin communication, they swapped boxes.
I leaned forward slightly to gage Peterson’s reaction, bracing myself for his flood of displeasure at seeing the twins reject what he’d chosen for them. But he just laughed and accepted the tiny cup of imaginary tea that J.W. shyly offered to him. The last shred of fear I’d been hanging onto melted away, and I snuggled back into the sofa to watch the kids open their remaining presents, the ones from their parents.
