The Christmas Cookie Collection

by Lori Wilde

  The doorbell jingle-­jangled.

  Her smile had slipped while she was behind closed doors. She quickly pasted it back on and went out to greet her customers.

  Four of her friends stood inside the store. Caitlyn Marsh, who owned the flower shop down the street, had her eight-­year-­old son, Danny, in tow. Emma Cheek, a Hollywood actress who’d moved to Twilight to marry her childhood sweetheart, veterinarian Sam Cheek. Emma had her five-­month-­old daughter, Lauren, balanced on one hip and her seven-­year-­old stepson, Charlie, by her side. Children’s book author, Sarah Walker, held hands with her nine-­year-­old stepdaughter, Jazzy.

  And there was Jenny Cantrell. She and her husband, Dean, ran The Merry Cherub Bed and Breakfast. Jenny was thirty-­seven, six months pregnant with her first baby, and glowing. She had been through a myriad of fertility treatments before conceiving, and she’d been the one to urge Christine to see her specialist. Jenny had been lucky. Christine was not. She dreaded talking to Jenny, because she knew she would ask about the outcome of her doctor’s visit.

  “Hi, guys!” Christine chirped. Dial it down a notch. Too perky and they’ll get suspicious.

  “We came to cheer you up.” Emma ran a hand over Lauren’s fuzzy little head. She had bright, auburn hair just like her mother. For a moment, Christine feared they’d somehow learned about the contents of the letter. It was difficult holding onto a secret in Twilight. Then Emma said, “We heard about Cocoa. We’re so sorry for your loss.”

  She struggled to hang onto her smile. “Cocoa was a great cat.”

  “When you’re ready,” Emma said gently, “Sam’s got a ­couple of stray cats at the clinic that need a good home.”

  “Thanks.” Christine knew that her friends meant well, but she just didn’t want to talk about either Cocoa or her doctor’s visit. “So.” She rubbed her palms together. “What can I get for you?”

  Jenny, Emma, Sarah, and Caitlyn glanced at each other. “You don’t have to put on a happy face for us,” Sarah ventured. “It’s okay.”

  “What about you guys?” Christine asked the three oldest children, bending to their eye level, palms resting on her upper thighs. “Sugar cookies or gingerbread ­people?”

  “Gingerbread!” Jazzy sang out, her blond curls bouncing. Last Christmas the little girl had been close to death. Thanks to Sarah’s parents, who were both heart surgeons, this year Jazzy was the picture of health—­rosy cheeks, bright eyes, a hearty appetite.

  “Sugar cookie,” Charlie said.

  “Mom,” Danny said, “can I get a cupcake instead of a cookie?”

  Caitlyn nodded.

  Avoiding her friends’ eyes, Christine busied herself with filling their order. Along with the baked goods, she served milk to the children and coffee to the moms, decaf for Jenny.

  “Come sit with us.” Emma patted the empty spot across from her at the long table.

  There weren’t any other customers in the bakery at the moment, so Christine didn’t have a handy excuse for not sitting down. Reluctantly, she poured a cup of chai tea for herself and joined her friends, Sarah on one side of her, Jenny on the other.

  Sarah reached over and gently touched Christine’s shoulder. She said nothing, just gave her a sympathetic smile. Out of all her friends, she and Sarah were the most alike, both of them shy and quiet by nature. But where Sarah was bookish, Christine was athletic. Or at least she used to be. The accident had changed the whole trajectory of her life.

  If a car hadn’t hit her the summer she turned sixteen, she would have gone to the Olympics. She’d have been a world-­class sprinter. She would probably have gotten married by now. Had three or four kids. But there had been an accident. A bad one, and she’d been left with a permanent limp and a damaged womb.

  She splayed a hand over her lower belly and clenched her teeth to hold back the tears.

  Jazzy was chattering about landing the role of Mary in the church pageant and pumping Emma for acting tips. Danny and Charlie were playing rock-­paper-­scissors and periodically punching each other on the arm. Lauren had cookie crumbs all over her mouth and a good bit stuck in her mother’s hair. The baby’s eyes met Christine, and she grinned like the sun coming out on a cloudy day.

  Christine smiled back, feeling a wistful tugging at her core. Bashfully, Lauren hid her face against Emma’s neck, her chubby little fingers still clutching the sugar cookie.

  “What did Patsy finally decide on for the groom’s cake?” Caitlyn asked.

  Patsy Cross was a city councilwoman and owner of The Teal Peacock, an eclectic boutique just off the town square. At one time or another, Patsy had played mother hen to all of them. She didn’t have any children of her own, and Christine felt a sudden kinship with the woman who was thirty years her senior. After years of misconnections, bad timing, heartaches, and missteps, Patsy was finally about to marry her high school sweetheart and the love of her life, Hondo Crouch, on Christmas Eve at the First Presbyterian Church of Twilight.

  “She’s still stuck between Italian cream and German chocolate.” Christine folded a paper napkin into a restless square.

  “Ooh, hard choice,” Emma said. “Both of those recipes are freakin’ awesome.”

  “These cookies are freaking awesome!” Jenny echoed, polishing off her third cookie. “What do you call them?”

  “Fandangos.”

  “I want to order six dozen for the Merry Cherub. My guests will gobble them up.”

  “I don’t have that many on hand. I can have them delivered tomorrow,” Christine said, relieved that Jenny was talking about cookies and not doctor appointments.

  But no sooner had that thought settled in her mind, than Jenny leaned over to whisper, “How’d it go with Dr. Krishnamari?”

  Christine wished she had not gone to see Jenny’s specialist. She’d had no real reason to see him. She wasn’t dating anyone. But the last guy she’d dated had stopped calling when she’d finally worked up the courage to tell him that she could probably never have children. He wasn’t the first to walk away when she’d dropped that bombshell. She’d just held out the smallest hope that maybe the right specialist could offer her encouragement, some miracle of modern medicine. Instead, her last little flicker of hope had been completely snuffed out.

  Empathy filled Jenny’s eyes. She understood what Christine was going through, but that didn’t lessen her pain. Jenny’s fertility issues had been resolved, but there would be no resolution for Christine. She would never rock her own baby in her arms. Never watch her son or daughter take those first steps or lose a first tooth or graduate from college. Disappointment tasted bitter as burnt coffee beans. She swallowed it back, forced a smile. She couldn’t talk, couldn’t make herself say the words.

  But Jenny knew. She wrapped a hand around Christine’s wrist. “Don’t give up hope. Never, ever stop believing. Dreams really can come true. One day you will have children of your own.”

  Really? How many platitudes could one woman use? Christine wanted to scream, to shout, to knock over a plate of cookies. Jenny meant well. She was a good person. Christine was the horrible one. Jealousy burned through her.

  It was easy for Jenny to keep hope alive. She wasn’t hopeless. She would be holding her baby before spring.

  You’re feeling sorry for yourself.

  Yes, yes she was. Hadn’t she suffered enough? Left with a permanent limp at sixteen. Forced to give up the one thing she’d loved more than anything else in the world. Running. God had hamstrung her mobility; now he’d taken her fertility as well. Sometimes life just wasn’t fair.

  Jenny’s hand went to Christine’s back, and she silently moved her palm over her shoulder blade in a circuitous, comforting motion. Except Christine wasn’t comforted. Agitation set in. Clawing the air from her lungs.

  “Christine?” Sarah asked. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” She press
ed her lips together. Shut up. Go. Leave me alone all of you. “Would anyone like seconds?”

  “I do! I do!” Jazzy exclaimed.

  Christine smiled at the children, guilt smothering her jealousy. She got up and headed for the counter. Here she was wallowing in self-­pity, when last year Jazzy had been on the verge of death. Plenty of ­people had it worse than she did, and normally Christine accepted her fate. But today, well, that damn letter had left her reeling.

  Sarah laid a restraining hand on Jazzy’s shoulder. “No more cookies. It will spoil your dinner, and I’m making your favorite.”

  “Chicken and dumplings, oh boy.” Jazzy was up and twirling around like a ballerina, while Charlie and Danny broke out in a duel with imaginary light sabers.

  “Luke, I’m your father.” Charlie laid one palm over his mouth and made a noise like he was desperately sucking air through a respirator. “Come to the dark side.”

  “Never.” Danny raised his arm to block Charlie’s pantomimed assault.

  Jazzy pirouetted between the boys.

  “Da-­da-­duh-­da.” Charlie stomped in time to his own imitation of Darth Vader’s theme song.

  Danny made light saber noises.

  Jazzy, who was spinning faster and faster, slammed into the table.

  Coffee mugs jumped, and Christine’s teacup leaped from the table. It hit the tile floor and shattered into a hundred little pieces.

  Baby Lauren instantly burst into tears. Emma soothed her daughter. Sarah and Caitlyn got up to corral their children. Jenny went for the broom that Christine kept tucked in a corner closet, but Christine intercepted her.

  “Don’t worry, it’s all right, I’ll take care of it,” Christine said.

  “Are you sure?” Jenny’s brow crinkled.

  “I’ve got it. Really, everyone, it’s okay.”

  Lauren sobbed her heart out. Emma collared Charlie and propelled him toward the door. “No more high jinks, Darth Vader.”

  “Aww, Mom.”

  “I’m so sorry for the mess,” Caitlyn said. “Please let me help.”

  Christine held up a stop-­sign palm. “No worries. Really.”

  “I didn’t mean to break your pretty cup,” Jazzy wailed, wringing her hands in distress.

  “I know you didn’t, sweetheart.” Christine smiled at her, then squatted to sweep up the glass shards. “Just be careful not to get cut.”

  Sarah rested her hands on Jazzy’s shoulders. “C’mon, Hurricane Jazzy, let’s get you home.”

  “You are so lucky,” Emma said to Christine from the doorway, trying to hold on to a squirming Charlie and maneuver the stroller out the door, while Lauren screamed at the top of her lungs. “I’d give my right hand for just five minutes of your peaceful life.”

  Christine knew that Emma was speaking out of frustration and hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings by saying something so cruel. Emma’s response had been knee-­jerk, and she hadn’t meant a word of it, but Christine was feeling sensitive.

  She stood up, dustpan in hand, and stared Emma squarely in the eyes. “I’d give the last breath in my body for just one second of your busy, hectic life filled with little boy laughter and sweet baby kisses.”

  Emma looked embarrassed. She dropped her gaze, mumbled an apology, and herded her brood out onto the sidewalk. Caitlyn, Danny, Sarah, Jazzy, and Jenny quickly followed, waving their good-byes. Finally, the door snapped shut behind them all.

  And when the last echoes of the tinkling doorbell faded, Christine was left all alone in the quiet of her empty bakery. She held the shards of the rosebud cup in a blue dustpan, realizing that no matter how hard she tried there would always be a gulf between her and her friends.

  A gulf called motherhood.

  A gulf she would never be able to cross.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Cutting horse cowboy Eli Borden glanced at the slip of paper in his tanned, work-­roughened hand. Yep. This was it. Twilight Bakery. The place his next-­door neighbor, Parker County Deputy Sheriff Ila Brackeen, had gushed about. “Best cake you’ll ever put in your mouth.”

  That’s what Eli was looking for—­the best birthday cake for the best daughter in the whole world, even if he did have to drive all the way over from Jubilee. Sierra was worth every second of the half-­hour drive.

  He got out of his work truck, a dual-­axel, western-­hauler Dodge Ram pickup, and stepped onto the sidewalk. The December air was crisp, but not too cold. Just right for the blue jean jacket he wore. The town square was decked to the halls with holiday themes. A nativity scene on the courthouse lawn sat side-­by-­side with Santa’s workshop. The street lamps were wrapped in wreaths and ribbons. The scent of cinnamon, pine, apple cider, and gingerbread hugged the western-­style buildings constructed in the late 1800s.

  Through bakery windowpanes decorated with artificial snow, Eli could see a woman inside, hanging cookie ornaments from a small Christmas tree. Behind her, a festive fire burned in an old-­fashioned potbelly stove. In that moment, all the oxygen left his body in one heavy whoosh. He stood transfixed, peering in at the cozy scene, the smell of Christmas all around him.

  She bent over to loop a plastic chocolate chip cookie over a low branch, giving him an excellent view of the soft curve of her rounded rump. The sight was enough to cause a quick hard tightening below his belt. His body’s instant reaction startled Eli.

  He crumpled the slip of paper in his fist, bit down on the inside of his cheek, struggled to fight back his arousal. She straightened, thank God, but when she did so, she was standing directly underneath a stand of white twinkle lights. Between the fuzziness of the snow sprayed on the windowpane and sparkling lights, it appeared as if a halo shone above her head.

  Angel.

  She looked like an angel.

  Then she turned, and her eyes met his. For a murmur of a moment it was pure magic. The gentle-­faced woman with big blue eyes and an amazing backside framed in an angelic glow. Eli heard soft fingers plucking a melodious harp and cherubs’ voices lifted in song. For one strange second he thought he’d died and gone to heaven. It took him a minute to realize a concert was starting on the courthouse steps. A harpist accompanied by the high, sweet chorus of schoolchildren singing Love Came Down at Christmas.

  Damn spooky timing.

  A shudder passed through him. Whoa. What was that about?

  A smile lit the woman’s full lips. All at once, Eli recognized her.

  Christine Noble.

  The girl he’d once kissed behind the high school gym two days before his family moved to Jubilee. He’d been a senior and she a sophomore. He’d been thinking about asking her out for weeks. They’d been flirting it up every time they saw each other. But he’d been busy finishing up school and bareback bronc riding. Christine spent every spare moment running track. He’d realized that if he didn’t kiss her before he left town, he never would. She had tasted just as good as she looked.

  Christine Noble.

  Now she was a sweet blast from the past. He hadn’t thought about her in years. His stomach lurched crazily and the hairs on his arms lifted.

  She raised a hand.

  Did she remember him? Or was she simply being friendly?

  Only one way to find out, Borden. Get your ass inside. Jingle bells jangled against the door. Inside, Bing Crosby was singing, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” The bracing scent of yeast and chocolate, cinnamon and vanilla filled the quaint little bakery. Everywhere Eli glanced, he saw something delicious—­breads, cakes, cookies, pies, and pastries. A smorgasbord of tasty treats. But nothing behind the counter looked as delicious as the woman standing in front of the Christmas tree, lights still glowing a halo over her head.

  “Christine,” he murmured.

  Her eyes widened along with her smile.

  Eli was aware of a high, humming sexual current flowin
g between them. She was not a great beauty by magazine-­cover standards. Her mouth was just a bit too large for her friendly face, and she had a slight gap between her two front teeth. Her soft caramel brown hair was pulled back in a French braid. On some women the high style might look old-­fashioned, a bit countrified, but Christine was elegant, ethereal. Her complexion was pale, and her cheeks were quite rosy, as if she’d been standing too near a hot fire.

  She took a step toward him, and his heart skipped a beat. He felt oddly exhilarated, the way he did on the back of a cutting horse in action. No holds barred. Going for the gusto.

  “Eli,” she said in a light, uncomplicated voice. “Eli Borden.”

  “You remembered,” he said, feeling stupidly pleased.

  “Best kisser ever.” Her lively eyes snapped. “How could I forget you?”

  He felt suddenly tongue-­tied. If it hadn’t been for Sierra’s birthday, he might have mumbled “good to see you” and rushed out.

  His gaze tracked to her left hand. Bare. That didn’t mean anything. She baked. Most likely she took her rings off to knead bread. Because look at her. Why wouldn’t she be married? Slim. Sexy. Sweet. Yeah, she’d always been a little shy, but what guy didn’t enjoy persuading a pretty woman?

  “You still live in Jubilee?” she asked.

  “Yep, yep.” He nodded.

  “I’m guessing you’re into cutting horses like most everyone in Jubilee.”

  “I am. I have my own ranch. Well . . .” He doffed his Stetson, ran a hand through his hair. “Calling my place a ranch is a bit of a stretch. More like a small horse farm.”

  “Honest as ever, I see.” She lowered lashes as long and dark as paintbrushes and sent him a coy glance. It wasn’t his imagination. She seemed just as interested in him as he was in her. “So what can I do for you, Eli?”