Yuletide Hearts

by Ruth Logan Herne

  His words rang sweet because she’d adjusted the original plans for all his listed reasons, but gazing up into his eyes, those deep, dark pools of chocolate, his grateful expression put a hold on her heart. And her tongue. For the life of her, she couldn’t wrap her brain around anything to say, not when he held her gaze and her shoulder, the strength of his grip something to lean into. Rely on.

  “Callie…” His attention slipped from her eyes to her mouth, his expression wondering. Maybe hoping.

  Callie took a firm step back, unwilling to wonder, not daring to hope, refusing to play in waters that nearly drowned her before.

  Matt stood strong and silent, watching. Waiting. Giving her a chance to move toward him or step away, and despite how badly she’d like to take that first step in his direction, she moved back and quieted a sigh. “We had an agreement, remember?”

  “I was hoping you’d forgotten.”

  “No, you weren’t.” Callie pulled her flannel closer and swept the subdivision a look. “We both need this done. You need to guard your investment, I need a paycheck. Dad, too. And muddying the waters would be ill-advised. Besides, the guys all kind of look out for me.”

  “Because your husband left you alone to raise Jake while he traipsed around with another woman?”

  She smacked his upper arm and refused to feel bad when he cringed in pretend pain. “Leave it alone. Please. And have you noticed that while I’ve guarded your privacy like an M.P. at the gate, you’ve managed to dig up half my life history? Level the playing field or change the subject.”

  “First, that’s some left jab you’ve got there.” He sent a look of overdone admiration to her left arm as they climbed the stairs to the side porch and rubbed his arm, pretending she’d really hurt him. As if. His corded upper arms were steel bands and looked mighty good in a T-shirt. Not that she noticed.

  “And second,” Matt continued, “I think it was the guys’ way of issuing warnings. Letting me know they stand to protect you from other stupid men who don’t appreciate how wonderful you are.”

  “I don’t need protection.” She made that pronouncement as they approached the door. Matt paused her with a hand to her arm again.

  “What do you need, Callie?”

  Need? Want? The list was too long to articulate, but she’d trained herself to keep things to a minimum. She leaned forward, just enough to let him think she was reconsidering the glance he’d sent to her mouth, then tapped him on the nose when he drew close. “A paycheck. And peace on Earth would be nice, too.”

  She stepped back, gave his knit cap a gentle tug and headed inside, leaving him to follow.

  As she shed her outer layer of work clothes, the memory of that near kiss played with her heart. Her head. But she knew better than most what fickle things men were, so she’d keep herself focused on the task at hand. Home-building. Roofing. And while a little flirting might not be a bad thing, she couldn’t risk upsetting this apple cart of opportunity.

  “I’ll start a load of heavy stuff.”

  She turned straight into one of those dull brown T-shirts he favored, muscled marine chest and shoulders straining the worn seams, the soft cotton fabric needing a good washing at the end of the day.

  And he was still appealing.

  She didn’t need an air raid siren or blackout curtains to remind her she was in grave danger, but she couldn’t quite remember the last time danger felt this refreshingly good.

  Obviously she was food-deprived.

  Hank saved the day by walking in with an extra-large pizza. Callie headed for the kitchen while Matt started the washer, the mingled scents of pepperoni, sausage and cheese replacing cotton knit.

  But even after skipping lunch, there was no way Callie could fool herself into thinking the pizza smelled better than the well-worn shirt, and that spelled trouble.

  Chapter Seven

  Matt studied the five church choices facing the park green, a sweet template despite the bone-chilling rain. And from the steady stream of cars rounding the circle and pulling into backyard parking lots, Jamison folk weren’t about to be deterred by the seasonal drizzle.

  What’s your goal?

  To pray.

  Soldiers didn’t need a church for prayer, but Matt wouldn’t confuse Jake by staying home on a Sunday morning. He also wasn’t about to go to Good Shepherd with the Mareks, not when so many people from his past were members.

  He wasn’t after confrontation, just peace and quiet. Solace.

  He slid the truck into a parking space along Main Street, climbed out and approached the White Church at the Bend, second-guessing himself.

  Maybe he should have headed north. Route 19 went straight to Houghton, a sweet college town with several churches, but that extra twenty minutes meant productive time wasted.

  It also ensured privacy. Matt was less likely to meet his past on the streets of Houghton. Jamison and Wellsville?

  The past met the present at every corner.

  Man up, marine.

  Matt entered the small church, found an innocuous seat on the far left and sat, eyes forward, determined to pay attention to nothing but the service.

  The sound of dripping water thwarted his vow. A spreading damp spot encroached the plastered ceiling over the altar. The budding smell of mildew shouted wet basement.

  And was that a taped-up electrical connection on the left?

  The old place had seen better days. Flaking paint above the congregation meant damp wood. The floor was older than dirt and looked it.

  The little church needed help, and a construction guy like Matt knew how quickly things went from bad to worse if left too long.

  “Gettin’ worn around the edges, ain’t it?”

  Matt turned toward the outside aisle. A small woman with a cane stood alongside his pew. Matt moved in to make room, and when she had trouble wrestling her cane into submission, he helped hook it on the pew’s back.

  She breathed a sigh of gratitude as she sank into the seat. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She nodded forward, then leaned back against the cream-colored pew. “You’re in for a treat this mornin’.”

  “Am I?” Matt settled back and smiled. “Good.”

  “Katie’s playin’ for us.”

  “Ah.” He nodded politely, ever the gentleman.

  “Her father don’t like that she comes here, but Katie ain’t never been one to listen to his harping on this, that or the other thing.”

  Matt twitched inside. He’d come to pray, not catch up on local news, and he was just about to sidle right when a young woman entered the sanctuary area from the left.

  Katie Bascomb.

  Guilt power-washed his heart.

  A C-clamp seized his lungs, the turning screw tightening with each breath.

  His fingers went numb, the adrenaline rush pouring pins-and-needles energy into his extremities.

  She looked lovely, and that beat the way she’d looked the last time he saw her. Broken. Bloodied. Bruised.

  Memories blindsided him, images streaming like a bad video feed, showcasing what he’d done.

  But mostly what he’d failed to do.

  He started to leave, feeling certain he had no right to be here, invading Katie’s life. Her time. Her peace.

  The old lady leaned closer. “Do you mind helpin’ me out when service is over?” She skimmed the cane and the rain a cryptic look. “I’m not as steady as I used to be. I live a few doors down Main Street. If it’s not too much trouble,” she added, as if asking for help pained her.

  He wanted out, big time.

  But he couldn’t deny this grandmother’s petition. “I’d be glad to, ma’am.”

  Her smile soothed a little. Or maybe it was God. Or memories of Grandpa Gus hugging his shoulder and saying, “We all make mistakes. Then we learn from them and go on. Or not.” He’d nod and grip Matt just a little tighter. “The choice is ours.”

  Katie positioned herself in front of a stool.
Two clips held her long, blond hair back from her face, a face that seemed too serene for what she’d suffered because of him.

  A long, flowing skirt rippled its way to the floor in some crinkled material, a blend of bright fall colors vying for attention. An earthy necklace hung against a pale sweater, its chunky beads accenting the colors below.

  She looked beautiful. And mature. And peaceful, a violin grasped in one hand, a bow in her other. She quickly glanced at the small but growing congregation as if teasing them, as if guarding some fun-loving secret from her vantage point at the altar.

  Shame wrenched his gut because he knew that under the placid beauty lay a broken woman.

  His fault. All his fault.

  He had to leave.

  A young couple with two small children edged into his pew from the right.

  Blocked.

  Unless he wanted to be noticed and he could guarantee that was the last thing on his to-do list that morning. Why hadn’t Katie stayed at Good Shepherd where her parents had gone forever?

  Sweet notes sang from the front, single haunting notes inviting prayer.

  Right until they jumped into quick succession, the small congregation grinning as if in on the secret. Katie’s hands flashed the bow across the instrument. As one, the congregation stood, keeping time, heads bobbing, wide smiles matching hers. Clapping.

  Obviously Matt had landed in a place that looked like Jamison but became some sort of “sixties”-style Celtic fair once you walked through the double oak doors of the White Church at the Bend.

  The old woman jutted his arm. “Ain’t she somethin’? And our new pastor, well, he’s got people comin’ in to do all kinds of things now. Nothin’ slow or easy ’bout his way of doin’ things and I say good for him!” She punctuated her approval with a firm nod that looked almost grim. “’Bout time we had someone rile up this old church. Best we’ve been doin’ lately is diggin’ holes, settin’ one after another to rest. Now we’ve got young families comin’ in. Bringin’ their babies.” She grinned across him to where two preschoolers eagerly awaited whatever was going to happen next. “New life.”

  And that’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? Why he’d come back to Jamison? To atone for the old and make way for the new.

  A young man wearing a black-and-gold football jersey and wide grin strolled onto the small altar as Katie picked out a foot-tapping arrangement of “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

  The small crowd erupted, singing and clapping, welcoming the man despite his presence in the heart of Buffalo football fans. Matt grinned in spite of himself.

  It took a gutsy guy to claim his team in enemy territory, but the young pastor’s face said he’d handle whatever came his way. Matt liked him immediately, an uncommon occurrence for a marine.

  By the time the atypical service concluded, Matt was sure of two things.

  Katie was doing okay.

  And Jamison had changed.

  “Loretta, you’ve found yourself a new beau,” the young pastor exclaimed as Matt assisted the aged woman out the back door once the life-affirming service had concluded. “And you’re new here.” The pastor clasped Matt’s hand, grinning an amused welcome.

  Matt swept the town a glance. “I grew up here.”

  “You did?” The old lady shot him a look of shrewd interest.

  “Then you know how wonderful it is firsthand.” The pastor pumped Matt’s hand with an easy vigor. “A great place to settle down. Raise a family. Or come home to. Right, Loretta?”

  “Yessir.”

  Because Matt wasn’t inclined to do any of the above, he hedged. “Nice to have you here, Reverend.”

  “Si,” the other man corrected. “Simon MacDaniel, but everyone calls me Si.”

  “But you are a reverend, right?”

  Si grinned. “Got me a nice diploma from one of those mail-order places to prove it.”

  “Oh, you!” Loretta’s grin lit up her face, easing the chronic line of worry.

  Matt grinned despite himself. “Then I should expect reggae next week?”

  “I’ll get Katie right on it,” the pastor affirmed as he turned to greet the next person. Matt hoped Si turned quick enough to miss his reaction. As he headed down the front walk, commotion across the leaf-strewn park said his timing had gone awry.

  The doors of Good Shepherd swung open opposite them. Either Reverend Hannity cut his sermon short or Si had waxed on. Matt glanced at his watch and made a face.

  Si’s fault, which made him a good preacher in Matt’s book, but that proved small comfort as streams of people headed toward vehicles parked creatively here, there and the other place. While the five churches created a postcard-like ambiance to onlookers, the Sunday morning reality became a logistical nightmare, guided by a sheriff’s deputy in rain gear, allowing traffic into and out of the circle.

  Only in Jamison, Matt thought, but as confusing as the moment appeared, he found himself longing to belong. A huge part of his life had been lived in this town, like those unfinished houses he now tended.

  He’d been rough-cut. Unpolished. Not plumbed to fit anywhere, so he’d made up his own rules and crashed and burned, taking Katie and two of his buddies with him.

  The guys had walked away with barely a scratch.

  Katie hadn’t walked away at all. Not for a long time, and then it took a prosthetic and loads of therapy. She’d been doing physical therapy while he did time, but in the end, he gained his release and walked free.

  Katie was still missing a leg.

  He longed to move quickly, berating himself mentally for not going to Houghton, but the aged woman’s pace urged caution.

  Jake ran their way, oblivious to the rain, a wide grin lighting his face. “Matt! Did you see this?” Waving Matt forward, Jake stopped in front of a large sign. “They’re doing Christmas lights in the park! And sleigh rides! In the dark!”

  Jake’s voice spiked the exclamation points to new highs, his enthusiasm contagious.

  “Looks fun, bud.”

  “A little pricey,” Loretta noted.

  Matt eyed the ticket cost and saw Jake’s expression dim, but the boy didn’t wallow or pout. He manned up with a stout smile and said, “It is kinda pricey and who wants to go see old lights anyway?” He turned a bright gaze up toward Matt, his earnest expression pulling Matt in. Brave. Stoic. Sturdy. What a kid. “And we’re putting our lights up today, right, Matt?”

  “Right. But let me get this nice lady out of the rain, Jake, and I’ll see you at home.”

  He raised his gaze and saw Callie watching from the edge of the park green. A hint of winsome softened her smile, as if wishing…wondering…

  Hoping?

  Back off, dude. Would that pretty lady be looking at you that way if she realized what you had done? Who you were?

  No way.

  You there, God? I thought this was a good idea. I thought I’d come down here, make amends, fix things and move on. But maybe I’m being selfish. Maybe my presence will hurt more than it heals.

  Matt passed a hand across Jake’s head, escorted the old woman to her door, then headed back to his truck, eyes down, pretending oblivion.

  “Cavanaugh.”

  Most civilians didn’t realize how dangerous it could be to sneak up on a marine. Matt stopped himself from putting a hold on the middle-aged man, but just barely. “Mr. Bascomb.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Since Katie’s father served on the town council, he knew why Matt was in town. Howard Bascomb had tried to nix Matt’s zoning approvals for Cobbled Creek but couldn’t, and that bit deep with the older man. Because Matt was responsible for what happened to Katie two decades back, he couldn’t say he blamed him. Still… “Going to church.”

  “Katie’s church.”

  Matt raised two hands, palms out, in surrender. “I didn’t know that until she stepped onto the altar.”

  “Stay away from her.” Howard took a step forward, his gaze menacing, but Maude McGinnity m
ust have sensed something was up. She bustled through the door of the Quiltin’ Bee, her sewing and quilt shop that pulled in tourists from all over. “Howard, good morning. And Matt.” Maude reached out and gave him a hug, an obvious move meant to quell Howard’s angst. “So good to see you. I hear you’re doing some fine work up there on Dunnymeade Hill. We’ll all be happy to see Cobbled Creek finished, Hank Marek most of all.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She grinned and tugged him inside, leaving Howard in the rain. “May I show you something?”

  “Yes.” Matt elongated the word, reading her ploy. “And thank you,” he added as Howard trudged in the opposite direction.

  “You’re welcome.” She kept drawing him forward and Matt paused, puzzled.

  “You really have something to show me?”

  She frowned. “Yes.”

  “That wasn’t just a maneuver to break up the drama on your front step?”

  Her knowing smile confirmed his guess. “That, too.” She led him into a room where racks of hand-sewn quilts were displayed away from the south-facing windows.

  “Wow.” Matt eyed the walled display, then the racks. He arched a brow and angled Maude a look of admiration. “Amazing work.”

  “My Amish women.” She nodded, brisk, and moved several poled quilts aside. “But this is the one I wanted you to see.”

  He stepped forward as she singled out a beautiful coverlet arrayed in a mix of quilted and embroidered flowers. “Mama’s Flower Garden,” she told him, a fond smile crinkling her face.

  The blanket was a virtual backyard of color, tone and warmth, the three-dimensional feel of some of the blossoms a salute to warm, sunny days. The vibrant mix of hues heralded spring, and in the dank, gray days of November, spring seemed a long time off.

  “It’s lovely.” He fingered the quilt again, then turned, puzzled. “But why are you showing me?”

  “Hank Marek commissioned this for Callie before everything tanked. It was a Christmas present for her, but then he couldn’t afford it, so I put it out here.”