Love on Main Street: A Snow Creek Christmas

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Ms. Monroe!” With one swoop of his long arm, he waved the bakery bag under her nose. “June mentioned you have celiac disease.”

  Didn’t that sound appealing? But that smell…it was sweet and nutty and toasty and she couldn’t help inhaling greedily.

  “So I tweaked my macaroon recipe and I wondered if you’d tell me what you think of my gluten-free version?” He lifted one of the golden-edged balls from the bag.

  “Coconut?” That wasn’t what she meant to say.

  “You’re not allergic, are you?”

  She shook her head, eyes glued to the giant macaroon.

  “Thank goodness. That would have been awkward.” He put the bag on Didi’s desk and raised one of Christy’s hands so he could set the macaroon in her open palm. “Do you like coconut?”

  His hands were cool and there was a smudge of white on the back of his knuckle. “I do,” she answered automatically.

  He noticed her gaze on the back of his hand. “Don’t worry. That isn’t flour. It’s powdered sugar. It’s all over the bakery this time of year.”

  Christy did not give herself permission to take a bite, but it happened anyway. Soft, chewy coconut met her teeth and bathed her tongue in sweet bliss. She closed her eyes to concentrate on the rich flavors. It was toasty outside, and tender inside. Sweet, but not too sweet. It was heaven. Before she realized it, the macaroon was gone, in its baseball-sized entirety. Only a few crumbs clung to her fingers.

  She looked up at Dan. Actually up. He must be six-five. And he was practically preening, he was so satisfied.

  “Good, huh?” He nodded up and down.

  She wanted to say something snarky to take that grin off his face, but she recognized that for the mean-spirited impulse it was. He was being nice. She could be, too. Even though she was in the middle of her usual December grumps.

  “Fantastic,” she said.

  “I’ll leave the bag with you.” He winked at her.

  That broke whatever spell he’d cast. “No. Please don’t.”

  Now he shook his head quickly. “They freeze. Zip lock ‘em and stash ‘em away for when you need a treat.”

  It slipped out as fast as the macaroon had slipped in, as cold and sharp as the cookie had been soft and melting. “I don’t need treats.”

  He carefully placed the bag on Didi’s desk and his mouth took a sad turn. “Really?”

  “Really. But thank you. It was terribly thoughtful of you.” And it was, but it was also a little suspicious. Now leave. Go back to your bakery.

  Wait. Was that guilt on his expressive face?

  “I may have had an ulterior motive,” he admitted.

  That was definitely guilt, and something else that made her heart pound for three beats. Something…appreciative. In a heavy-lidded, very male sort of way. Had he brought her cookies because he was interested? That would be…that hadn’t happened in a long time. She had a carefully tended reputation as an ice queen, and all the local guys knew it.

  “What’s the real reason for your visit then?” Uh-oh. That came out breathy and flirtatious when it was supposed to show her ballbuster confrontational skills.

  “Conditioner,” he said.

  The word flattened the flutter of excitement that had been squiggling around in her tummy. She managed to hold a neutral face. “Let me write it down for you. Also, a detangler will help.”

  “Detangler? There’s such a thing?”

  She walked to her desk and snagged a notepad and pen. “You have a six-year-old with fine hair and you don’t know about hair products?”

  “In my defense, I’m a very good baker. Hair isn’t a strong point.”

  She held out the slip of paper. “You can get this from Caroline Bonny at the drugstore. Follow the directions on the bottle. Or look up videos online. Or both.”

  He accepted the information, but he didn’t make any move to leave.

  Christy waited until the silence became awkward. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t really come here about conditioner.” He tucked the note in the pocket of his jeans.

  There was that dratted pounding in her pulse again.

  “I, um….”

  She didn’t want him to ask her out. She didn’t date. It one of her rules for successful single parenting, and she didn’t want to try to explain that.

  He’d stalled out. “Uh….”

  Part of her wanted him to ask, even if she was going to say no. Yes, she still possessed about two drops of liking it when a good-looking guy—especially such a tall one—was interested. So she let him hang.

  “What I’m trying to say is that I need professional advice. My old accountant is still in New York, and I need someone familiar with California taxes and small business concerns.” He looked hopefully at her.

  Oh. Well, okay. She was a professional. She didn’t turn down work unless she had a darn good reason. And she wouldn’t have gone out with him anyway, so it was just as well he hadn’t asked.

  This was better. Really. “Would you like to make an appointment for later this week?”

  He nodded with more enthusiasm than seemed warranted. “I would.”

  “Great.” The phone rang on Didi’s desk in the outer office, and Christy heard her usual professional answer. “Set up an appointment with Didi. She’s got the calendar.”

  Another phone rang. “That’s mine.” He dug into the same pocket he’d put the note in, then frowned when he looked at who it was. “It’s the school. I have to take this. Excuse me?”

  Both of them went into the outer office. Dan went into the corner by the window. He didn’t say very much.

  Didi caught her attention. “It’s the school. For you.”

  This didn’t bode well. “I’ll take it my office.” On her way in, she heard Dan say, “A slap fight?”

  She was going to kill Madison. At the very least, she was going to put her on video game restriction for the rest of the school year, even if most of the ones she played were to support reading. She picked up the phone.

  “This is Christina Monroe,” she said, steeling herself.

  “We have a situation here with Madison and another student,” Mrs. Fewster, the assistant principal began. “No one is hurt, but….”

  Christy listened, and when Mrs. Fewster finished, all she could say was, “I’ll be right there.”

  On her way out, she discovered that Dan was already gone. “He said he’ll see you in the principal’s office.” Didi grinned.

  “This isn’t funny. I don’t know what’s gotten into Madison.”

  “That’s what Dan, the baker man, said about his kid, too. By the way, he’s a hunk. All that kneading builds nice muscles.”

  Christy frowned. “He’s a potential client. Or he was. That’s why he was here.”

  “You think so?” Didi’s eyes slid to the bag of macaroons. “He baked those especially for you. Then he practically hand fed you one.”

  “He did not. You can have them, by the way. I have to go.”

  “He has a nice smile, too,” Didi called after her.

  Chapter Three

  Snow Creek Elementary School looked like a Scandinavian lodge set in a forest meadow at the base of the mountains. The wind had picked up and a light snow drifted down from the gunmetal sky onto the Ponderosa pines that marched down the slopes to meet the ball fields and playground behind the school. Out front, the drop-off circle and bus loading areas were empty. Christy parked in a visitor space, then hurried to the office in the first big wooden A-frame building, trying not to notice that the cold in the air smelled like Christmas and that she wanted to wring her daughter’s neck for causing trouble again. She would be reasonable. She always was. But Madison was in for it, in the calmest way imaginable.

  The instant she set foot in the school office, there was no way to ignore the approaching holiday. A twelve-foot Christmas tree, covered in ornaments made from this year’s school photos of every student, teacher, staff and assorted commun
ity members, occupied pride of place in the big window under the peak of the high roof. Tacky gold metal garland swooped back and forth across the main desk area, upon which stood a three-foot Christmas tree decorated with gingerbread cookies, popcorn and cranberry garlands—Courtesy of Rosie’s Bakery, according to a gingerbread cookie replica of Dan and Piper who were holding a sign that said so. It was hard to miss that Piper’s hair on the cookie lay silkily upon her little gingerbread shoulders.

  Christy cleared her throat, and Ardith Melkus popped her curly red head around the tabletop tree. “Everyone’s in the principal’s office.” The school secretary pointed to the door with the shiny gold plaque that read Miguel Tapia, Principal in bold black letters.

  Christy removed her gloves, folded them neatly, and put them in her purse. “Everyone?”

  “Dr. Tapia, Mrs. Fewster, Ms. McKone, the other parent, and the offenders.” Ardith’s eyes danced. “And Beverly Norkey, Dillon Zamolo and Anastasia de la Pole.”

  “Who are those last three?”

  “Students from the West Sierra University Drama Department. They were producing the holiday show.”

  “Were?”

  Ardith beckoned, but there was pity in her kohl-lined eyes. “Go on in. Best to get it over with.”

  Great. Just great.

  ***

  Madison, splotched all over with green paint, sat at one end of the conference table, and Piper, her hair even wilder than it had been Saturday, sat at the other. Mrs. Fewster sat beside Piper, and Ms. McKone, the girls’ teacher, beside Madison, dabbing at her with damp paper towels. Three young people, a girl and a boy with jet black hair and skin as white as Santa’s beard, and another girl with an asymmetrical purple hair cut/shave job that showed half her scalp, gilded with a likewise purple Twilight Sparkle tattoo, were lined up across the table from Dr. Tapia and Dan. All three of them looked like they’d been crying. The boy clutched one arm, wrapped in gauze from wrist to elbow, to his scrawny chest. Tiny dots of blood had seeped through in a three-inch line on the top of his forearm.

  Not good.

  There was an empty chair on Madison’s side of Dr. Tapia. Surprised that her daughter appeared to be the victim today, Christy hustled to the empty seat.

  “Ms. Monroe, thank you for coming,” Dr. Tapia intoned. “I believe you know Mrs. Fewster and Ms. McKone. This is Mr. Rose, Piper’s father.”

  Dan gave her a sheepish salute.

  “These young people are students from the Drama Department at West Sierra University. Beverly, Dillon, and Anastasia. They have been producing and directing our holiday show. Now that we are all here, Beverly, will you please explain what happened?”

  “The first graders attacked us.” Beverly’s eyes rounded and she trembled a little. Christy hoped that was mostly for effect. “We were painting the set for their part of the show. The Nutcracker. Piper started throwing green paint around instead of painting nicely, and Madison told her to stop. Then Piper threw paint on Madison. Then the rest of the class formed armies behind them. The Nutcracker against the Mouse King. They all started slapping each other. When we tried to break it up, Dillon ended up in the middle and they all piled on top of him. Someone—no one knows who—grabbed an ornament hanger off the Christmas tree and stabbed him. It was brutal. Like Lord of the Flies.”

  Dan had dropped his head into his hands and was making subdued snorting noises.

  Mistaking his laughter for distress, Beverly looked at him with pity in her red-rimmed eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Rose, but I have to be honest. Piper started the whole thing. Then she yelled, ‘Get the Mouse King!’ That’s what made the other kids attack Dillon.”

  Dan attempted to compose himself and lifted his head, but his mouth was still jerking up at the corners in an erratic fashion. “I don’t know what to say,” he finally managed, “except to tell you I am so sorry, and that all of you can have free coffee and cookies at the bakery until the end of the year.”

  Dillon perked up a little at that. “Thanks.”

  Beverly and Anastasia scowled at Dillon, then Dan.

  Dan spoke again before they could, “Piper, what do you have to say to Dillon, Beverly and Anastasia? Especially Dillon.”

  Piper puffed out her cheeks and squinted, like the first of what promised to be many apologies was a sore trial to her. “I’m really sorry. I lost my head.”

  The trio glared at her mistrustfully.

  “That’s it?” Mrs. Fewster said sharply. “You lost your head?”

  “It happens. Hasn’t it ever happened to you?”

  “No,” Mrs. Fewster said firmly, and Christy believed her.

  “There will be consequences for losing your head, Piper. Now go on,” Dan prompted.

  Piper flopped her arms forward on her knees and let her shoulders curl forward. “I’m sorry I ruined the set. I’m sorry I incited a riot.”

  Christy narrowed her eyes at the phrase. She’d heard that recently, and it wasn’t something first graders typically said. What had been the context? Something at Thanksgiving at her mother’s house, but she made a habit of trying to forget Thanksgiving dinners at her mother’s house so she couldn’t quite remember.

  Piper continued, “I’m sorry you got hurt, Dillon. I didn’t do that, but it was my fault, and I’m so, so, so, so sorry. I hope it isn’t too bad.”

  Dillon shrugged pathetically and sagged in his seat. “Thank you, Piper.”

  Dan nudged Piper. “Keep going.”

  Piper stared at the table, and her voice dropped lower. “I’m sorry Madison. I shouldn’t have gotten paint on you.”

  Madison looked like she might cry at any second, which surprised Christy. She wasn’t a crier. “Why did you do it? I thought we were okay.”

  Anastasia nodded sympathetically, as might be expected from someone with a My Little Pony tattoo on her scalp. For Anastasia’s mother’s sake, Christy was glad that at least the young woman could grow her hair out to hide it when she realized how severely it would limit her fashion choices.

  “So did I.” Piper sighed. “But then I saw my hair in the restroom mirror, and I got mad again.”

  Now Dan subjected Piper to a careful inspection. “Really?”

  Piper nodded forlornly. “Sorry. I really am sorry.” She went on to apologize to Ms. McKone, Mrs. Fewster, and Dr. Tapia.

  While Piper groveled, Anastasia got a text, which she showed to the other college students. They nodded somberly between themselves. Beverly raised her hand when Piper finished.

  “Yes, Beverly,” Dr. Tapia said.

  The girl handed the phone across the table to him. “Our professor says we’re done here. We can’t come back. She sent you an email.”

  Dr. Tapia glanced at the text. Mrs. Fewster and Ms. McKone sat up straighter and leaned forward.

  “But­—” Mrs. Fewster began.

  Dr. Tapia held up a hand. “I understand.”

  “She told us to leave now,” Beverly said. “You can read it.”

  He did, then handed back the phone. “Thank you all for your help and expertise. We will miss you.”

  The producer/directors rose and made a lackluster exit.

  “Remember,” Dan called after them, “coffee and cookies on the house until the holidays are over.”

  Dillon lifted his good hand in a half wave, and they were gone.

  “Are we going to get sued?” Piper asked. “Will the school have to close?”

  “We’ll see,” Dan said with mock severity.

  Dr. Tapia rubbed his right temple. “We won’t get sued. We have all kinds of release agreements with the university. If those fail, the school district has very good lawyers.”

  “And the head of the drama department at WSU is your wife,” Mrs. Fewster added.

  “There’s that. And we took photos of Dillon’s scrape. But we have a big problem, nonetheless.”

  “The holiday show,” Ms. McKone said gloomily.

  “What about Mr. Scrutch?” Christy asked. Mr. Scrutch
, one of the fifth-grade teachers, had produced the holiday show since Christy had been a student here.

  “Mr. Scrutch is out on new parent leave,” Dr. Tapia told her.

  Mr. Scrutch was fifty and a confirmed bachelor. Everyone had assumed he was gay, though of course that didn’t preclude parenthood. Christy waited expectantly for more information, but no one said a word. She would have to get the details from Ardith later. Or maybe June Hoard. She knew everything.

  “Ms. McKone, you can take the girls back to class now. Mrs. Fewster will be along shortly to talk to the class,” Dr. Tapia said. “Ms. Monroe and Mr. Rose, would you please stay?” He escorted the girls and their teacher to the door, then came back to sit down across the table from Christy and Dan.

  “What is going on with your daughters?” There was a weary note in his voice. “Ms. McKone tells me they’ve gotten along very well most of the year, then suddenly last week, war erupted. This cannot continue.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” Dan said. “As far as I know, Piper loves living in Snow Creek, and she loves school. There’s no stress or strain at home. Beyond the usual stuff. You know. Not picking up her room when she’s asked. Not wanting to go to bed on time. How to split up the presents between Hanukah and Christmas. And coleslaw. She’s not a fan of brassicas. But she’s learning to read and do math, and she loves Ms. McKone. She’s in Daisies, and she loves it. She hasn’t been sick since that bug all the kids had in September, and she’s sleeping enough.”

  “You’re very thorough, Mr. Rose,” Mrs. Fewster said.

  “I’m all she’s got,” he replied. “I pay attention.”

  He certainly did, and Christy had to give him credit for that. She knew exactly how he felt.

  Dr. Tapia looked at her. “Ms. Monroe?”

  “Nothing that I’m aware of. The only difference from Mr. Rose’s list is that Madison likes cabbage and broccoli but won’t even look at peas. And we only have Christmas presents to negotiate.”

  Dan grinned. “I’ll bet you’re a Christmas morning sort of mom. Am I right?”

  “That is irrelevant.” Fiddlesticks. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud.