A Knights Bridge Christmas

by Carla Neggers

  Logan noticed Clare bite back a smile but he was sure Owen didn’t know. “Santa will know. He knew Grandma and Grandpa were older, didn’t he?” She hung back with Logan as Owen shot ahead of them, navigating the shoveled walk from the shed with ease. “We have fun with the notion of Santa Claus.”

  “I do, too,” Logan said. “Santa doesn’t have creepy ghosts who drag your ass out of bed in the middle of the night.”

  Clare laughed. “I didn’t encounter any ghosts last night.”

  It was going to kill him, that laugh of hers, Logan thought. It was a window to her heart, no question—the place where she wasn’t fretting, planning or remembering, just enjoying the moment. He was glad being here with him was bringing that out in her, even if cutting a Christmas tree was going to involve getting snow in his face. He saw that now, as they approached a row of six-foot-tall spruce trees, their branches drooping with snow.

  “I don’t remember snow on the branches when I cut trees with my grandfather,” he said.

  Clare looked amused. “The wind probably blew it off.”

  “Or my grandfather did some prep work. I didn’t think of it. You up to this, Clare?”

  “The ultimate challenge,” she said. “Shaking snow off a Christmas tree.”

  “I want this tree,” Owen said, standing in front of a tall fir that had to have the most snow on it of any in the field.

  Logan tucked the saw into the snow next to another tree. He pointed at it. “Do not touch the saw, Owen. Understood?”

  He nodded solemnly. “But I want to help,” he said.

  “You can help, but you have to do what I say. The saw has a very sharp blade. We don’t want to get cut.”

  No argument from Owen. Clare looked noticeably paler, but she was naturally pale and they were surrounded by white snow. She’d rallied after her evening with the Knights Bridge women. A good night’s sleep, All-Bran and banana, coffee and a shower had returned her to normal. Sawing down a Christmas tree with her son might set her back, but Logan wasn’t worried.

  “Have you ever cut your own Christmas tree?” he asked her.

  She shook her head. “No, never. It’ll be fun.”

  “Except for the snow in our faces,” Logan said, grinning.

  “That I can handle.”

  “We can have hot chocolate afterward to warm up.”

  Owen turned around, knee-deep in snow, and waved to them. He was obviously eager to get started. “Can I use the saw?”

  Clare gulped in a breath. “No, Owen, you’re too young.”

  “I can let him hold it, take a few swipes,” Logan said. “I’ll do the real sawing.”

  “You’ve done this before?” she asked him.

  “I have, indeed.”

  “Alone?”

  “You mean without a local guy helping? No, I’ve never cut down a tree on my own. I always had my grandfather with me. I don’t blame you if you’d be more comfortable if I called Brandon Sloan to supervise, but I think we can handle the job.”

  “We don’t need to call Brandon,” she said.

  “Good, because if I screw this up, I don’t want a Sloan as a witness.”

  She gave a small laugh. “You don’t want to be the city-slicker doctor who’s all thumbs with a saw.”

  She had her game face on, but Logan could see she was concerned about her son getting into a mess. Logan wasn’t as experienced with saws as locals like the Sloans, but he wasn’t entirely all thumbs. He suspected she knew it—but he also had nothing to prove. Cutting down a six-foot Christmas balsam fir didn’t exceed his limits, whether he was using a handsaw or a chain saw.

  Owen dived into his chosen tree, shaking the snow off, giggling when it blew in his face and then in his mother’s and Logan’s faces. Logan got snow down his back, too. Into the fun, Owen made a snowball and threw it at his mother, hitting her in the stomach. She laughed and made a show of going after him with a snowball of her own.

  “Logan, help me,” Owen yelled, squealing with delight. “Help me, Logan! Save me from Mom!”

  Logan caught Clare around the middle, but she was fast and nailed him in the chest with the snowball. It went down his front. Her eyes widened. “Uh-oh. I meant to get your jacket.”

  “Ah, that’s cold.” He held on to her. “Really cold.”

  “Good one, Mom,” Owen said. “It’s only snow, Logan.”

  “What are you going to do with me?” she asked in a low voice.

  “I’ll save my revenge for when you least expect it.”

  Logan winked, then released her.

  Their little snowball fight, combined with getting as much snow as possible off the tree branches, kept them moving and therefore warm. He got the saw and explained its function to Owen. In short order, they had the tree cut. It was a good size and a classic shape that was perfect for his grandparents’ house. He, Owen and Clare pitched in together to drag it through the snow to the driveway. He’d thrown rope and bungee cords into his car before leaving the house. By the time they got the tree tied onto the roof rack, Owen was bored and starting to shiver.

  “What do you say we go back to my grandmother’s house for lunch?”

  The boy clapped his mitten-covered hands together. “Yay!”

  “Are you sure?” Clare asked. “We don’t want to overstay our welcome.”

  “Not possible. And who’s to say I’m not bribing you with food so you’ll help set up the tree? It’ll have to dry out before we can string lights and decorate.” Logan nodded back toward the Christmas-tree fields. “We’ll come back for your tabletop tree.”

  “Does this mean you’ve put aside your zest for revenge?”

  He grinned. “Not a chance.”

  * * *

  When they arrived in the village, Logan parked on the street because a car was already in the driveway. Logan didn’t recognize it. “Do you know whose car it is?” he asked Clare.

  “I think it’s Audrey Frost’s car.”

  “Gran’s yoga partner,” he said. “Randy’s mother.”

  “She still has her own car. Why would she be here? I hope nothing’s happened.”

  “Let’s find out.”

  Clare’s mind had obviously gone to negative possibilities, but Logan had learned in his work to take one thing at a time. Owen hopped out of the car, and he and Clare followed him onto the porch and in through the front door.

  They found his grandmother and Audrey Frost in the kitchen, baking. “Daisy had an urge for molasses cookies,” Audrey said. “Olivia and Jess stopped in for a visit and mentioned Maggie brought molasses cookies to their little soiree last night. You know how it is, especially this time of year. Once you start thinking about molasses cookies, you can’t stop until you have a couple of them warm out of the oven—with a tall glass of cold milk.”

  Daisy had a worn-looking recipe card on the counter next to her mixing bowl. “Molasses cookies were Tom’s favorite.”

  “It’s okay for us to be here,” Audrey said. “Rivendell isn’t a prison. We have to sign out so they know where we are. We lost Grace Webster last spring and had to launch a search party. Quote-unquote lost her. She borrowed my car and went off on her own. All’s well that ends well, right, Daisy?”

  Her older friend sniffed. “Grace scared the daylights out of half the town, but she had her reasons.”

  “A secret lover from the past,” Audrey whispered to Clare.

  Daisy waved a hand. “It’s not a secret anymore. Oh, my. Smell those molasses cookies.”

  “Gran,” Logan said, “how long has that jar of molasses been on that shelf?”

  “I don’t know. Molasses doesn’t go bad.”

  He examined the jar. No mold, no bad smell. The “use by” date was blocked by dried molasses. As far as he knew, his grandmother only used it for baked beans and cookies. At least it was a small jar. She couldn’t do much baking without replacing it. It was too late, anyway—a batch of cookies was already in the oven.

  By his mother
’s wise decree, Owen was allowed only one sweet. He chose warm cookies out of the oven and decided to save hot chocolate for another day. When Audrey pulled a tray of plump, ginger-colored cookies out of the oven, Logan knew he wouldn’t resist, either. She unloaded the cookies onto a cooling rack and set the tray on top of the stove for Daisy to spoon on the next batch.

  Clare picked up a steaming cookie. It was clearly hotter than she’d expected. It broke in half, but she caught it before it could fall to the floor. “This is so good,” she said, popping a chunk of cookie in her mouth. “Hot but good.”

  Her fight with the hot cookie nearly undid Logan. Tongue, lips, long, graceful fingers, the way her breasts moved when she jumped. He breathed slowly, but when he reached for a cookie, he noticed Audrey Frost giving him the evil eye. Damned if she didn’t look like her son. He grinned at her. “Can’t resist Christmas sweets,” he said, all innocence.

  She pointed a bony finger at him. “I know what you’re up to, Logan Farrell.”

  “You’re sharp as a tack,” he said.

  He noticed his grandmother leaning into the counter, her breathing steady but raspy as she spooned the last of the cookie dough onto the tray. He edged over to her. “Let me put the tray in the oven and get the dishes,” he said.

  “I made a big mess. I’ve never been a neat cook.”

  “Have a seat, Gran. Do you want milk or tea with your cookies?”

  She beamed. “Tea would be wonderful.”

  “Allow me,” Clare said.

  She grabbed the kettle and made tea while Audrey sat at the table opposite her friend. Logan knew both women were more tired after their cookie-baking adventure than they wanted to admit. He felt a bruise on his knee from his tree-cutting, but it was worth it to have a fresh, healthy balsam fir to put up in the front room one last time. He’d also enjoyed spending time with Clare and little Owen.

  The boy regaled the two older women with his version of their morning, including the snowball fight. “Mom got snow down Logan’s front,” he said.

  Both women raised their eyebrows, almost simultaneously. “Did she?” Audrey said. “Well, good for her.”

  “If I’d been aiming, I never would have managed,” Clare said with a laugh.

  “Nice to come back from romping in the snow to cookies fresh out of the oven.” Logan grabbed one off the rack. “Gran, when’s the last time you made these?”

  “It’s been several years. I used to make them every Christmas when you and your sister were little. Then your grandfather and I cut back on sweets.” She shrugged expansively. “Things change.”

  “I hate to cook,” Audrey said. “I’ve always hated it, but we had to eat. My late husband helped with meals, but he didn’t like cooking, either. That’s one of the best things about moving into assisted living. I don’t have to cook.”

  “The food is excellent,” Daisy said.

  Audrey grinned. “I gained three pounds my first month there. My doctor had a fit.”

  Clare filled a teapot and got out cups and saucers. She filled a small white-china pitcher with milk. Daisy pointed out where Clare could find Christmas napkins she’d saved in a drawer in the dining room. Logan opted out of tea, content to watch Clare with her son and the two elderly women enjoy themselves. Clare was comfortable around people, more so than she might realize.

  After their cookies and tea, Audrey yawned, visibly tired, and got stiffly to her feet. “I sat up late watching a Bruins game. I never understood ice hockey that well, but Dylan gave me a few pointers.”

  “You go on,” Daisy said. “Logan can run me back to my place when I’m ready. Can’t you, Logan?”

  “Of course, Gran.”

  He wrapped up cookies for Audrey to take back with her. He’d give Clare and Owen some, too. No way was he eating four dozen molasses cookies on his own. After Audrey left, Clare turned the faucet on in the sink. “I’ll clean up the dishes and then head back—unless you want me to clear out now.”

  “I want you to stay,” Daisy said, an authority coming into her voice that reminded Logan this was her house. “Please,” she added.

  “I’d be happy to.”

  Daisy put a thin arm over Owen’s shoulders. “There’s a chest of drawers in the dining room. The bottom drawer has kids’ stuff in it. I can’t remember what all is in there. Help yourself.”

  Owen’s eyes lit up. He didn’t need to be told twice and ran into the dining room.

  Daisy reached for her walker. “I’d like to see the candle you found.” She took in a breath, getting her second wind. “There’s a story that goes with it.”

  A Recipe for Molasses Cookies

  ¾ cup butter (preferably unsalted)

  1 cup sugar

  ¼ cup molasses

  1 egg

  2 cups all-purpose flour

  2 teaspoons baking soda

  ½ teaspoon cloves

  ½ teaspoon ginger

  ½ teaspoon cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon salt (optional)

  Preheat oven to 375°F. Melt butter. Combine sugar, molasses and egg. Add melted butter and mix well. Combine remaining ingredients. Add to butter mixture and blend together. Chill the dough. Once chilled, form into small balls (about walnut size) and roll in sugar. Place on cookie sheet and bake for 8 to 10 minutes.

  Ten

  The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached...It was shrouded in a deep black garment...nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand.

  —Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

  WHATEVER THE STORY that went with the candle, Daisy Farrell was keeping it to herself. Whether she wasn’t ready to tell it or never would, Clare couldn’t say. She only knew that seeing Daisy hold the old, half-melted candle in her hands, her eyes filling with tears, had been enough to set her back on her heels.

  Clare stood on the front walk to her apartment and watched the water flow over the dam. She needed the sounds, the cold—the fresh air.

  “Mom, are you crying?” Owen asked, holding her hand.

  “A little.”

  “It’s okay to cry. Did you hurt yourself?”

  She shook her head. “Logan’s grandmother found something from a long time ago and it brought tears to my eyes.” She forced a smile. “It wasn’t sad. It was touching. Sort of sad and happy at the same time.”

  “I know,” Owen said, solemn.

  She laughed, then crouched next to him. She pointed across the stream to the opposite bank. “Do you see the tracks in the snow?”

  He dropped her hand and jumped up. “I do!”

  “What kind of animal do you think the tracks belong to?”

  “White-tail deer, probably.”

  “Let’s go upstairs and see if we can spot them from our window. We can use the binoculars and get a closer look.”

  “I think there should be a bridge over the brook, don’t you, Mom?”

  “That would be great,” she said. “Our very own footbridge.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “No cars allowed.”

  Clare laughed. “Right, no cars allowed.”

  They continued their conversation about a potential bridge and the animal tracks as they headed upstairs. By the time they reached their warm apartment, any tears had vanished. Daisy’s expression when she’d held the candle had affected Clare more than she’d have ever expected.

  Logan had sent them off with molasses cookies. Once Owen settled himself at the window with the binoculars, Clare put the cookies into a basket in the kitchen. The past day crushed in on her, this new life of hers in small-town Knights Bridge not as slow-paced and easygoing as she’d expected. It was challenging her on every level—except professionally, she thought. She had no trouble handling her duties as library director, and was filled with excitement and ideas.

  “But there it is, isn’t it?”

  She spoke aloud in her tiny, empty kitchen. Her personal life was suddenly filling her with excitement and ideas, too, but she wasn’t as comfortable with them as t
he ones in her professional life, where she was more confident. Decorating for Christmas with Logan, cutting down a balsam fir, seeing him interact with his grandmother—spending the night in the same house with him—were new and unfamiliar experiences, stirring up emotions and urges she’d long left behind.

  “Mom!”

  She ran into the living room. “What is it, Owen?”

  He was pointing outside. She thought he must have spotted an animal—a deer or a wild turkey, even a rabbit. “Look,” he said. “It’s Logan.”

  “Logan Farrell?”

  Owen nodded, excited. “And he has a Christmas tree.”

  Clare didn’t know what to think. The man was tireless, relentless. Having all that energy focused on her, even for a day, was unbelievable—and more dangerous and intoxicating than a few glasses of wine, for sure.

  She went downstairs and opened the door for him. “Owen spotted you,” she said. “We saw tracks in the snow—he was looking for wild animals.”

  He grinned, his face all angles in the evening shadows. “Do I fit the bill or was he expecting a wolf or a fox?”

  “Wild turkeys and deer, maybe.”

  “Well, I hope he didn’t mistake me for a turkey.”

  Clare laughed, then stood back. “Won’t you come in?”

  “I’ll take this upstairs.” He held up a small but healthy-looking balsam fir. “It’s the runt of the litter—the top part of a crooked tree. I found it on the edge of the field where we cut the one for Gran’s house.”

  “It’s perfect.”

  “It can be your Charlie Brown Christmas tree. Do you have any decorations?”

  “A few,” she said.

  “You can grab extras from Gran’s boxes. We won’t need half of them for the tree at her house. Decorations are secondary. I want to string lights so they can be seen from outside.”

  “She’s going to help you decorate?”

  “By ‘we’ I mean you and I.”

  He didn’t give Clare a chance to answer, instead heading past her up the stairs with the tree. It was too big for a tabletop but it was small enough that she wasn’t worried about finding a place for it in the living room.