Jo wished she was close enough to her cousin to just pick up the phone and have a heart-to-heart, but she wasn’t sure if Olivia would appreciate baring her soul to someone who was nearly a stranger.
“I was able to visit your house,” Jo said. “Brody Ryan took me there. But we didn’t find the right box. We’ll try again when he’s not so busy. Right now he’s plowing driveways. We had quite a snowfall.”
“Oh, good, I was going to give you Brody’s number. Did you know him before this? From your summers as a girl?”
Jo gazed into the distance. “We’d met.”
“Well, before I forget, there’s also a key hidden in the wood bin just to the side of the house. It’s in a little metal box. My husband reminded me last night. Now you can take your time and search without bothering Brody. The box of baby things is clearly marked, at the front of the first pile.”
“Thank you, I’ll look for the key, but we did look through the front pile when we were inside and didn’t see it.”
“Odd.” Mrs. Grant paused. “Maybe the label fell off? Anyway, originally the box itself contained...let me think...oh, I remember, a set of pots and pans, and pictures of the pots are on the outside. I repacked it this summer, or, of course, I wouldn’t remember. So look for that. The set was red cast aluminum. It’s been gone for years, but the box was sturdy as a crate.”
Jo thanked her and prepared to end the conversation.
“I like saving Brody any work I can,” Mrs. Grant said. “He’s the nicest young man. Eric and Olivia think the world of him, but all of us do worry.”
Jo told herself not to pursue this. Just before she went ahead and asked, “Really? Why?”
“Well, he’s had such a hard go of it. His dad was sick for such a long time, and Brody was right there through the thick of it, helping his mother with nursing care, handling everything on their property, trying to make a go of things so they didn’t lose their home and livelihood as his dad declined. Of course, I don’t know for sure, but I would guess no matter how good their health insurance was, the medical bills were probably a crushing burden.”
Jo didn’t know what to say. This was all news to her, and she felt a stab of sympathy for the Ryan family.
“I’ve never heard him complain, though,” Mrs. Grant added. “He’s not somebody who would. But we still worry. That kind of thing marks you. He grew up way too fast. He works too hard and plays too little. Maybe you can cheer him up while you’re there? Get him to do something fun? Old friends are the best.”
They were—unless one of them had told the other to take a hike after years of planning a life together.
“I’ll do what I can,” Jo said.
“He needs to be young again. He’s been old for years now.”
“Years?”
“Oh, yes, years. His father died some time ago. Such a shame.”
They said goodbye and Jo hung up, but she continued to stare into the distance without starting the car.
How long ago had Mr. Ryan died? He and Brody had been close. The whole family had been close, and she had looked forward to becoming part of it one day. Had Mr. Ryan already been sick when she knew him?
And exactly when had Brody discovered that his father would need him, discovered that the whole family would need him?
A long time ago...sick for such a long time...as his dad declined...
When he broke their engagement had Brody known about his father’s illness? Had he believed that devoting himself to his family would take such a commitment that he simply couldn’t make one to her, as well? Had he known that years of nursing a dying father was no way to begin a marriage, and so he’d told Jo goodbye?
She was probably wrong. But suddenly she knew she had to discover the truth, and that meant spending time with Brody. Because he wasn’t someone she could simply ask, and she wasn’t a person who asked those kinds of questions anyway. This was too personal, too intimate. She couldn’t dig up the past, at least not in giant shovelfuls. She had to inch into it, a thimbleful at a time. If she cared enough.
The windshield was fogging inside and out, and she realized she was sitting inside an unheated car. She started the engine and pulled away from the curb, but once she got outside town, she didn’t turn off at Hollymeade. She continued on, heading for the Grants’ house. If she was lucky, Brody would already have plowed.
When she arrived, she saw the driveway was clear.
She parked in front and tramped through piles of snow, rounding the corner to the side where the wood bin was kept. The weather had warmed, and the snow was now heavy and wet, not powdery as it had been. She swept a foot of it off the top of the bin with the windshield scraper she’d gotten at the Trading Post and managed to pry it open. The metal box with the key was in plain sight.
Inside the house she took off her boots and climbed the steps to the second floor, then the attic. Ten minutes later she found the box covered with pictures of a long-departed set of pots and pans on the pile farthest from the door, the pile Mrs. Grant wasn’t supposed to have gone through yet. She managed to unearth the box by moving many others away first. When she turned it to see the opposite side, the label was proof she had found the right one.
She was sorry Mrs. Grant hadn’t remembered where she’d put it, but at least she had remembered the box itself. Jo carefully peeled back several strips of duct tape and opened the flaps to a treasure of baby shirts and bibs and, under them, a layer of half a dozen baby quilts.
It didn’t take her long to find what she wanted. Two quilts at the bottom had been well used and loved. She could understand why Mrs. Grant hadn’t been able to part with them, but they would never be used for their original purpose again. Both were literally hanging by a thread, although some of the fabric was still good.
She took them both; then she carefully repacked the box, hoping that one day a child of Olivia’s might have a chance to wear something from it. Finally she considered what to do. If Brody made a concerted effort to find this box on their next visit, he might very well locate it if it remained where it was in a pile they hadn’t yet searched.
Could she hide this box deep in the first pile, the pile they had already sorted through? Mistakes could be made, right? And until and if he happened on it again, she would buy more time with him in the attic, and more excuses to be together.
“My goodness, how did we miss it in this pile the first time?” she said out loud, practicing the words in case she actually needed to say them. “I can’t believe we didn’t find it. It was right where we looked at the beginning, Brody.”
She laughed, a sound that was almost unfamiliar.
Did she dare?
When the boxes were piled exactly to her satisfaction, she relocked the door, put the key back where she’d found it and tossed big handfuls of snow on the top of the wood box again, just in case Brody noticed it had been swept free of snow.
Once she was in the car she didn’t head for Hollymeade. To celebrate the emergence of this delightfully sneaky Jo Miller, she drove back into town for a piece of apple pie.
CHAPTER FIVE
JO WAS ON her way to a party.
When she’d left that morning she had missed a note from Brody tacked to her door. She hadn’t found it until she finally got back to Hollymeade.
My neighbors and I have a potluck every year at my house on the first day the snow is perfect for snowmen. Will you come as my guest? People will start to gather around 3. Just bring yourself. You know where I live.
Of course she was bringing more than herself. She’d taken stock of her upgraded grocery supplies and settled on old-fashioned scalloped potatoes with sharp cheddar and lots of garlic. And because she loved to bake cookies—but knew better than to bake them just for herself—she’d made three dozen oatmeal cookies with raisins and a healthy dose of cinnamon.
She did know where Brody lived. While they hadn’t revealed how close they really were, she had been to his house that first summer, sometimes with other teenagers and once for dinner when the midsummer grape harvest had begun and the house was so filled with people nobody had time to speculate on why she was there.
The lovely old farmhouse was set in gently rolling hills away from the lake, and even with the snow, she could see the neatly divided rows of vines fanning for acres away from the house.
As she pulled into the drive lined with cars she saw that not much had changed, although some changes might have been welcome. The white frame house was in need of paint. This climate was hard on houses, and she supposed Brody painted on a rotation and would probably paint it in the spring. But the porch sagged, as if the foundation needed shoring up, and she wondered why he had let it deteriorate. Was he stretched so thin he just didn’t have time for upkeep?
She quickly forgot to wonder. Brody was approaching, wool cap covering his hair again, but the smile was right out front.
“I hoped you would come,” he said, as she scooped up her contributions and got out. “But you didn’t have to bring anything.” He leaned over, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her and her breath caught. Then he reached for the casserole dish.
She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. “Any excuse to cook. And I’m returning your care basket, with thanks. I made it to the grocery store and replaced everything. It’s in the back.”
“You’re so...” He hesitated.
“Predictable?”
“Responsible. But thanks, it saves me from having to hit the grocery store right away.”
They started toward the house, and Jo saw groups of warmly clad people working on snowmen, maybe six groups or more, although individuals seemed to be going back and forth between them.
She heard laughter and smiled. “It looks like you have a crowd.”
“Almost everybody’s here. Some are friends from high school, with their families, some are neighbors. You can see we have lots of kids. We’ve been doing this for a few years. We find any excuse to get together during the winter. This is my way of hosting. I’m the only single guy in the crowd, and they’re always trying—” He stopped.
She knew what he’d been about to say. “To match you up with somebody?”
He didn’t answer directly. “You get the same thing, I bet.”
“My friends are few and far between. I work too many hours to keep them.”
“Then I’m surprised you’re still here in Kanowa Lake and not back in California slaving away.”
They were nearly at the house, and people were beginning to peel off from their snowmen to come meet her.
“So am I,” she said, before the introductions began. “But I’m not sorry.”
* * *
BY EIGHT O’CLOCK the last of Brody’s guests had left. Except for Jo. He found her by the fireplace, sitting on the rug stirring the coals. He paused for a moment to admire the picture. Then he moved in to put another log on top.
“It will catch in a moment,” he said. “The coals are still hot.”
She smiled up at him. “You didn’t have to do that. I really need to get home.”
“Somebody waiting for you?”
She shook her head. He watched her hair swirl as the fire brought out the subtle red highlights. He had to restrain himself and not reach down to smooth it into place.
“Stay, then,” he said. “For a little while. I have coffee brewing and some Irish whiskey to put in it.”
“I have to drive.”
“You could sleep here.”
She looked surprised. “I think not.”
“I have a guest room.”
“I’ll have the coffee, without the whiskey, then I’ll go home.”
He decided he wasn’t in any hurry to pour her a cup. He settled himself on the rug beside her, careful not to touch her and scare her back to Hollymeade. “Did you like my friends?”
“Your friends are great. You’re lucky to have them.”
“It would be lonely here if I didn’t. It’s not so bad in the spring and summer when the place is buzzing. My mother’s here then, and she’s good company, plus I’m outside so much I don’t have time for a social life. But in case you hadn’t noticed, Kanowa Lake’s not a metropolis. In the winter we make our own fun.”
“Does Kaye really need your mom to babysit? Or does the cold bother her?”
He didn’t want to explain that they couldn’t afford enough heat to keep his mother comfortable, and when she was away he could set the thermostat at a minimum. Tonight he had warmed the house for the party, but when Jo left, he would turn the thermostat to 55 degrees and sleep under two down comforters.
“She loves her grandchildren,” he said instead. “And she likes Arizona a lot.” That, at least, was true. His mother loved being out west with her grandchildren, and in a perfect world, where she could afford a little condo of her own there, she would only spend summers in New York.
“In between giving my snowgirl a perm with pinecones and tinting her cheeks with red food coloring, I got a lot of questions from your friends. I passed the stranger test, since I’m one of the Millers from Hollymeade, but I got the feeling everybody wants to be sure I don’t hurt you.” She looked into his eyes. “I told them not to worry. We’re old friends.”
Her eyes were almost the color of her hair. Brody loved watching the firelight dancing in them.
“They’ll keep asking,” he said. “We’ve stirred their imaginations and given them a gift good enough to put under their Christmas tree and talk about for months to come.”
“Speaking of trees...” Jo laughed a little, although he thought it sounded forced. “Yours is, how can I put this, Brody? Like the last Christmas tree in the lot on Christmas Eve. A Charlie Brown tree.”
He glanced at the little tree he had set up in the corner for the party. “It’s artificial.”
“I do realize that. I just wondered what the manufacturer used as a model.”
“I’m offended you think it’s less than perfect. I got it at the Trading Post last year—after Christmas.”
“If you paid more than a dollar, you paid too much. Aren’t you going to decorate the poor thing?”
“It is decorated. Didn’t you notice?”
“Brody, you hung three ornaments and a star. That’s not decorated. Did you get those on sale, too?”
He smiled. “So what’s on your tree?”
“Hey, I’m just visiting. Of course, I don’t have a tree. I might not even be here for Christmas.”
He didn’t want to think about that. “So what would be on your Christmas tree back in California?”
“It varies. Last year I came home from work to a pale blue tree, kissing cousin to a toilet bowl brush, decorated with Japanese origami ornaments in gold and silver. Sophie had spent weeks folding them to surprise me. It was an homage to her ancestors.”
“Your mother is Japanese?”
“Not in this life. Three lives ago, I think.”
He heard a mixture of emotions in her voice. Humor. Love. Frustration. “Living with Sophie’s like living with a roller coaster, isn’t it?”
“These days it’s like being visited by one. And she’s better. I don’t see nearly as much of her. As odd as it might be, she’s making a life for herself.”
“Does she know where you are right now?”
“Not exactly. I needed a Sophie break. So tell me about all those books under your tree.”
He noted the neat change of subject. “Every year when we were growing up my sister and I got a new Christmas book. These days I get novels with Christmas in them somewhere, but I’ve kept every one of them. So has Kaye. We both put them out
in December to remember those good years. Someday I want to do the same thing for my own children.”
She briefly rested her fingertips on his knee. “Brody, your father died some time ago, didn’t he?”
“His life was too short.” He hoped that would do.
“You must miss him.”
“Holidays are the worst.” He decided to take a chance. “I’m glad you’re here, Jo. You’ve brightened this one already.”
Neither of them said anything for a long moment, then she broke eye contact and looked back at the fire. “Think the coffee’s ready? I just take a little milk, if you have it.”
He returned a few minutes later to find her on the sofa looking through some of the books he’d stacked under the tree.
He set down the coffee and joined her.
“Do you have a favorite?” she asked, placing the books beside her.
“Probably The Gift of the Magi, by O. Henry. My mother used to read it to us every Christmas day, just in case we weren’t wild about a present or two. To remind us that whatever’s given in love is the best gift of all.” He grinned. “Even if it sucks.”
“I don’t remember the story.”
“It’s about a young couple, not so much as an extra penny to spend, but very much in love. Her one prized possession is her beautiful hair. His is a gold pocket watch that’s been passed down to him. Because she loves him so much she sells her hair to buy a watch chain for Christmas, and in turn, without knowing what she’s done, he sells his watch to buy her a comb for her beautiful hair. In the end, of course both gifts are useless.”
“But their love is absolutely clear.”
“Like the Magi, they gave their best.”
“It’s hopelessly romantic, don’t you think? Do you know anybody willing to give up so much for so little?”
“Love’s a powerful motivator.”
“I guess I haven’t seen the proof up close.”
She started to pick up her coffee, but he put his hand over hers, then he leaned forward and kissed her. Lightly. Sweetly. He took his time, and in a moment her lips softened under his and she sighed.
The Christmas Wedding Quilt: Let It SnowYou Better Watch OutNine Ladies Dancing Page 5
