Logan didn’t answer, instead pouring the boiling water into the two mugs. He brought them to the table and sat across from her. “Back to your flannel nightshirt.”
“I see how it is. It’s easier for you to get other people to talk than to talk yourself. Do you have a favorite movie rendition of A Christmas Carol?”
“Not going to tell me more about your nightshirt, are you?”
“I’m getting my second wind. I’m not talking to you about sheets, nightshirts or anything to do with how I’m spending the night.” But she heard her words and made a face. “I’m not helping my case. Was it the spirit of Christmas Past, Present or Yet to Come who got to you?”
Logan picked up his tea and took a sip. “The lemon helps the chamomile, doesn’t it? Cuts the I’m-drinking-weeds taste.”
“You, Dr. Farrell, are changing the subject.”
“You noticed.”
“Doctors like to fix things, don’t they? Especially ER doctors.”
“We do our best.”
“But not everything that comes through your doors can be fixed,” she said quietly, staring at her chamomile tea. She couldn’t taste or smell the lemon. She couldn’t taste or smell much of anything right now. “I shouldn’t have had that third glass of wine. I didn’t drink all of it but it put me over the top. Usually one’s my limit.”
“That’s a good limit.”
“Scrooge was hopeless before Jacob Marley and the three Christmas spirits showed up. No one would have believed he could be happy, generous—a changed man. Yet by Christmas morning, he was. It’s a story of hope, isn’t it?”
Logan’s hazel eyes narrowed on her as he set his mug back on the table. “What do you want to change about who you are, Clare?”
His question took her by surprise. She covered for herself by drinking more of the tea. She could taste the lemon now, or at least convinced herself she could.
“I know every delaying tactic in the book,” Logan said.
“You mean like changing the subject instead of answering which of Scrooge’s ghosts got to you?”
He sighed. “The Ghost of Christmas Past. I had a nightmare about him when I was here over the weekend.”
“A bad nightmare?”
He picked up his mug again and drank more of his tea. “A hell of a nightmare.”
“Do you think it was because you’d just moved your grandmother into assisted living?” Clare asked. “This is the only home she’s ever known. Even if she was ready to move, your subconscious could have had a field day with you.”
His mouth curved in the slightest of smiles. “Are you assuming the Ghost of Christmas Past showed me what a bastard I am?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Clare said, steady.
“I know it wasn’t. Sorry. It was a disturbing nightmare. I guess most nightmares are or they wouldn’t be nightmares. I’d never slept in this house alone. I stayed in my father’s old room. It hasn’t changed much since he was a kid. It’s not a shrine to his childhood—my grandparents just didn’t see the need to spend money redecorating.”
“I admire that kind of frugality.”
“They weren’t cheap. If they could manage without buying something new, they generally did. It was a mind-set with them as a couple at work more than necessity. Gran has enough to live on and she knows my father, sister and I would help out if she was in need.”
Clare pictured the elderly woman in her chair in her new apartment. “She strikes me as highly independent.”
“She is, and that sense of independence helped her to understand that living here on her own wasn’t the best choice for her.” Logan abandoned his tea, but he seemed to enjoy talking about his grandmother. “She’s a saver by nature, but I think she wants to leave as much to us and her favorite charities as she can rather than spend it on herself.”
“That’s sweet,” Clare said. “Provided she’s not denying herself something she needs or really wants.”
“I don’t think she is. I hope not, anyway.”
“Did the Ghost of Christmas Past remind you of your happy times with your grandparents?”
“It did not. At first I didn’t remember the details, but on my drive to Boston...” He cleared his throat. “I dreamed about a fire my grandfather tackled in his days as a firefighter. It was early Christmas morning. We were here. I was eleven. I was the only one up—sneaking into my Christmas stocking—when he left. Gran came downstairs, and she made me hot chocolate while we waited.”
“Did everything turn out all right?” Clare asked softly.
“A Christmas tree caught on fire. The firefighters saved the family—the parents and three small children. The mother was badly burned. I overheard him tell Gran. I remember feeling the overwhelming desire to be able to help. To know something, to have the strength...” He trailed off, staring at his tea. “I wanted to make a difference the way my grandfather had that night.”
“And your nightmare reminded you of that.”
“In a hell of an unpleasant way, yes. Now.” Logan leaned over the table toward her. “I told you about my visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past, who clearly wants me not to be a self-absorbed jerk. What would your Ghost of Christmas Past want you to change about yourself?”
That I can fall in love again, she thought immediately. But she didn’t—couldn’t—say that aloud. Instead she smiled, hoping to change the tone of the conversation. “What would I change about myself? Hmm. I think I’d change liking red wine as much as I do, since it means I’m not as sharp and clear-eyed as you are right now, which puts me at a distinct disadvantage.”
“I’m not talking about that kind of change. If Scrooge’s ghosts visited you, where would they take you? What kind of change would they be trying to bring forth in you?”
“Are you saying I’m an Ebenezer Scrooge?”
“I’m making conversation.”
“It’s an intense conversation if we’re to be serious.” She thought a moment, the effects of her evening out easing. “All right. I think the Ghost of Christmas Past would remind me of a time when I was more adventurous and less fearful of bad things happening.”
Logan settled back in his chair, studying her. “What would a more adventurous Clare Morgan look like?”
“Well, I suppose sleeping in the nude on rough sheets for a start.”
He pushed back his chair. “Clare.”
“I did say that, didn’t I? Saying such things is adventurous, isn’t it?”
“Provocative depending on who you’re saying them to.”
Her eyelids suddenly felt heavy, but she didn’t feel sleepy. To the contrary. “And who would that be?” she asked finally.
“A man engaging in a late-night talk with a woman recovering from a bit too much wine.” He tapped the rim of his mug with one finger. “I’m also a man struggling not to picture said woman sleeping in the nude on rough sheets.”
“I see.”
“I’m not sure you do see.”
“I’ll think of something else adventurous.” She ignored the heat surging through her. “I’m not white-water kayaking or ocean kayaking. That’s too adventurous. Kayaking in a quiet lake would be adventurous enough for me. I could hike up Mount Washington. Brandon Sloan is getting into adventure travel with Dylan McCaffrey. Maggie said they want to do a trip to Newfoundland. That would be an adventure.”
“What about emotional adventures?”
“You mean like—what?”
“Opening yourself up to people. Allowing yourself to be vulnerable.” He spoke matter-of-factly, but his tone didn’t match his steady gaze. “Trusting someone with your deepest hopes and dreams. Falling in love. I’m speaking generally. I’m not saying any of those things would be adventures for you.”
“Easier to go white-water kayaking, maybe,” she said with a lightness she didn’t feel.
He smiled. “Maybe.”
“I’ll give it some thought, how’s that? And you, Logan? Would Scrooge’s ghosts want to sto
p you from becoming a self-absorbed jerk or reform you because you already are one?” She didn’t hear an edge in her voice—didn’t mean for there to be one—but saw him wince, as if she’d smacked him on the cheek. “Oh, no. I went too far. I was trying to be funny and it totally didn’t work. It’s hard when I’m...my head...” She yawned, covering her mouth with one hand, then slumped in her chair. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“I probably have a thinner skin than I should about people thinking I’m an arrogant, self-absorbed jerk,” he said, getting to his feet. “Maybe that’s because sometimes I am a self-absorbed, arrogant jerk. But that’s not what Scrooge’s ghosts would want me to get out of their visits. I don’t think so, anyway.”
“What would they want?”
“I think they’d want me to embrace the possibility of love—to believe and live as if it’s as important as work, duty, responsibility and all sorts of other positives.” He gazed down at her for a moment. “I think they’d want that for you, too. More so than white-water kayaking.”
Clare jumped up from the table. “Have you had wine, too?”
“A beer with Brandon Sloan.”
She tried to laugh. “There you go.”
“You’re not comfortable with the direction of this conversation, are you, Clare?”
“I facilitate deep conversations in book clubs. Being part of one—” She swept up her tea mug. “Most of the time I talk to Owen.”
“Owen’s deep for a six-year-old.” Logan smiled and picked up his own mug. “You’re done in. I’ll show you to your room.”
“You can just tell me—”
“It’s okay, Clare. I’m not going to seduce a woman who’s had wine and chamomile tea.”
“Oh.”
He laughed. “You sound disappointed. That’s the merlot talking.”
“I said ‘oh’ because I don’t know what else to say. I feel like I’m six steps behind what’s going on here.”
“I have you at a disadvantage.”
“Yes, you do. I’m lucky you’re—what did you say? Obedient and dutiful?”
He made a face. “Me and the family dog.”
“Responsible. Not obedient. Sorry. You’re also an achiever. Anything in particular you’re trying to achieve right now?”
“Other than getting you to bed, you mean?”
Her breath caught in her throat. He laughed again, nodding toward the hall. “You can sleep in my father’s old room. The other two bedrooms are in a state of disarray with the move, the book sorting and the decorating.”
“Where will you sleep?”
“On the couch. It’s not a problem. I’m used to sleeping when and where I can.” He stood back, letting her go ahead of him up the stairs. “I’ll catch you if you fall.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’d have been more prepared but I didn’t know I’d be going out with Maggie tonight.”
She mounted the stairs, steadier if also more tired. He slipped an arm around her waist and steered her down the hall to the bedroom. He kissed her on the cheek. “I hope no ghosts of any kind visit you tonight,” he whispered, a touch of humor in his voice.
Once the door shut, Clare let out a cathartic breath. She couldn’t expect herself to keep up with the dynamics between her and Logan tonight. She needed to get some sleep, wake up and pretend they hadn’t talked about ghosts and adventures and love and whatever else they’d talked about. Because she couldn’t let herself be attracted to him. She was the shiny object he couldn’t have. Once he had her, he would be on to the next shiny object. She had to think about protecting herself.
She stripped off her clothes and left them in a heap on the floor beside one of the twin beds.
“I put out a fresh toothbrush on the sink,” Logan said through the door. “Gran had a half-dozen brand-new toothbrushes in a drawer.”
“Thank you.” Clare grabbed a quilt off the end of the bed and wrapped it around her, as if he could see her through the door. “I could learn a few things from your grandmother.”
“We all could. Was I right about the sheets?”
“I haven’t gotten that far yet.”
She could almost see his smile. “Good night, Clare.”
She waited a full minute before she lowered the quilt and climbed into the bed. She was so tired, so giddy, that she laughed out loud when her skin touched the sheets. Logan hadn’t exaggerated. The sheets were pure sandpaper, and yet somehow perfect.
* * *
When she awoke, Clare had a dry mouth and a vague, troubling sense she’d made a fool out of herself last night. She sat up, yawning, realizing she remembered everything about tea with Logan. She hadn’t been drunk, and she didn’t have a hangover. She just was out of her comfort zone.
Sunlight streamed in through the bedroom window. She hadn’t thought to pull the shades.
She glanced at the bedside clock and moaned. Nine o’clock?
Nine?
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept this late. She wasn’t sure she ever had slept this late. Why hadn’t the sunshine awakened her?
Because it was winter, she supposed, and the sun rose later—and because she’d wormed her way deep under the covers in her sleep.
She’d forgotten she wasn’t wearing any clothes.
Time to make her excuses and get herself home. If Owen wasn’t ready to leave his friends, she’d come back for him.
She put on last night’s clothes, made the bed and went down the hall to the bathroom. Logan’s shaving gear was in a black case on a shelf next to the sink. It struck her as incredibly intimate, a tangible reminder that he was a real, live man and not some fantasy she’d created.
Her reflection showed a real, live woman with smeared mascara and bad hair.
After she washed up, she found a brush in a drawer and did her best with her hair, but it was a lost cause. She wasn’t being hard on herself. She was looking in the mirror and assessing the situation with clarity and objectivity. She dug around in more drawers and found a covered rubber band.
Perfect.
She pulled her hair into a loose ponytail. It would have to do.
When she got downstairs, Logan had strings of lights untangled and neatly laid out on the living room floor. “These are the indoor lights,” he said. “We probably won’t need all of them.”
“All of them for what?”
He looked up from his work. “I thought we could collect Owen and go out to the farm and cut a Christmas tree.” He smiled. “After you’ve had coffee and breakfast.”
“Thank you. Good morning. I overslept.”
“Excellent. And good morning to you.”
She wasn’t used to waking up to a man in the house. “I can get breakfast at home.”
“As you wish, but I can manage coffee, cereal and banana here if that suits you.”
“It does, thanks. Sorry I missed the untangling of the lights.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t hear me cursing. Gran was organized about everything except putting away the Christmas lights, which makes me think someone else did it. Probably not my grandfather, since he was just as organized. I suspect my father had a hand in it.”
“When was the last Christmas you spent here?”
“Long time.”
It wasn’t a question he wanted to answer, obviously. One of those can-of-worms questions that Clare knew better than to stumble into and yet often did. She felt guilty for asking, but he changed the subject as they went into the kitchen, chatting amiably about the sunshine and perfect conditions to cut a Christmas tree.
“Are you up for cutting a tree?” he asked as he made coffee.
She got out the cereal and banana. “Absolutely.”
Nine
... There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humour.
—Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
THE FARRELL FAMILY farm bordered the Quabbin watershed on the outskirts of Knights Bridge. Logan hadn’t
been out here in several years. The old stone walls and sugar maples made him think of bygone times. His life in Boston seemed not only far away but in a different century. He could see generations of Farrells here, working the land, eking a subsistence existence out of the rocky soil and tough conditions. They hadn’t run a commercial farm. They’d farmed to live. They’d had pigs, chickens, a cow, a garden.
Logan didn’t romanticize that life. His grandfather had inherited the farm upon his father’s death but by then he had a home in town and was content as the fire chief. He hadn’t wanted to sell the place. Eventually he and Daisy had decided to adopt a sustainable forestry plan to cut down on property taxes. Upon Tom Farrell’s death, the farm had gone to Logan’s father. No one had been more surprised than Logan when his parents had announced their plans to renovate the house and retire here.
White pine, red oak and black walnut dominated the trees that were technically part of the forestry plan for the property, but his grandparents had also planted a field of balsam firs intended for Christmas trees. They were in a field above the old farmhouse, which was now empty as Logan’s parents prepared for their retirement.
Logan unlocked the shed and got a bow saw off the nail where it had hung for decades. No chain saw for him. He didn’t have a lot of experience with chain saws, but he also wanted to create an old-fashioned experience for Clare and her son.
“I’ve never cut down a Christmas tree before,” Owen said excitedly as Logan fell in next to him and his mother.
“You can help pick it out, too,” Logan said. “Have you and your mother put up your tree yet?”
The boy shook his head. “We don’t have room for a tree where we live.”
Logan was familiar with the apartment Clare was renting at the old sawmill, and it was small. Fitting a tree in there would take ingenuity, creativity and determination—not to mention hard work given the steep, narrow stairs up from the ground floor.
“We could always do a tabletop tree,” Clare said.
Owen contemplated that option with the seriousness of a six-year-old. “Will Santa know a kid lives there? Grandma and Grandpa had a little tree on their table last year. Santa didn’t come to their house.”
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