Cozy Christmas Shorts

by Halliday, Gemma

I told her about Mavis Humphries's house and Peter. "I want to help, but I'm not sure how to go about it."

  Like Jones, Donna didn't look happy with my intentions. "If Mavis doesn't want help, you can't just force her to get it. Her own son hasn't been able to get through to her. What makes you think you can?"

  I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin. "I can't explain it, but I have to at least try."

  Donna shook her head. "Because you don't have enough to deal with?"

  "Because," I said, matter-of-factly, "sometimes people need help but don't know how to ask for it."

  "Just promise me if she tells you to bugger off, you won't fight her on it."

  "Deal." I rose and checked my reflection in the mirror. My hair was fighting to come out of the bun I'd put it in, and my face was flushed from Donna's shocking announcement.

  "Donna," I asked hesitantly. "What do I do if he does propose? How can I say no? He'll hate me."

  Donna licked her lips. "Andy, if you say no, I'm more worried you'll end up hating yourself."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The pasta shop was closed the next two days for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. It had been an executive decision on my part. Yes, we could have used the holiday rush for extra income, but as it was the last year to really do Christmas up right on Grove Street, I felt the need to take the time and be with my family.

  I woke at my usual time of the plumber's butt crack of dawn and stumbled out of Jones's bed toward the holy land, a.k.a. the coffee pot. I had a million things to do in the next two days, and needed massive doses of caffeine to kick my brain into high gear.

  "Morning." Jones, looking sleep-rumpled and oh, so appealing in only a pair of black boxer shorts, scratched at his morning stubble.

  I shivered and pulled my bathrobe cinch even tighter. "Aren't you cold?"

  He shook his head. "This is balmy."

  I smiled into my coffee cup. This was a familiar conversation. I felt like an ice cube if the temperature dipped below sixty, whereas Jones seemed to be part polar bear and reveled in the chilly weather. Next up, he'd volunteer to keep me warm. I could see the sparkle of intent in his bright blue eyes, and my breath caught as my heart rate picked up speed. I was ready to say the heck with the holidays and spend the next two days in bed, but the doorbell rang.

  Roofus, Pops' geriatric beagle I'd inherited when Pops and Aunt Cecily had moved to the assisted living facility, lifted his head and gave a half-hearted woof as I trotted past. He spent most of his day looking for places to sleep where Jones or I would be sure to trip over him, except for meal times when he was as lively as a pup.

  "Don't let us interrupt your beauty sleep," I said to the dog on the way to the door. Roofus put his head back down and stared at me with rheumy eyes.

  "One masterful guard dog," Jones said. Roofus growled.

  "Play nice boys. Jones, go get dressed."

  He flashed me a grin. "I love it when you're bossy."

  "This is why our relationship works." I smiled at him like an idiot. Donna must have been mistaken. Jones wasn't going to mess everything up by proposing to me now. We'd hit our relationship stride. We had fun and passion—who'd take the wrecking ball of commitment to such a great start?

  I waited until I heard the bedroom door shut before I opened the front door. A gust of cold winter wind blew up under my bathrobe, and I shivered even before I recognized our visitor.

  "Mavis!" I blinked and shifted back. "What are you—?"

  She pushed past me, her face beet red, fists clenched in fury. "How dare you go to my home and lie to my son behind my back!"

  "I didn't—" I stopped myself because of course I had. Retrenching, I shut the door and held out my hands in classic hold-up-a minute body language. "I can explain."

  But Mavis was madder than a rabid badger with a toothache. "Andy Buckland, you better not go telling the whole town what you saw."

  Didn't it figure that the biggest gossip monger in town was worried about being the subject of the next scandal. "I promise—I'm not going to tell anyone else."

  "Else?" Mavis paled. "Who've you told?"

  "Just Donna Muller and only because—"

  "The Realtor!" Mavis's tone was shrill. "She'll tell every one of my neighbors."

  She was far too worked up, and I didn't like her color at all. "Mavis, calm down. I swear, Donna won' tell a soul. Please, come and sit down. I wanted to talk to you about your problem."

  "I don't have a problem," Mavis gritted through clenched teeth. She pointed an accusing finger in my face. "You're the one who—"

  She stopped mid-sentence, eyes bulging, and staggered toward me. I grabbed for her, but she was too heavy, and we both went down.

  "Jones!" I shouted, struggling to roll Mavis off of me, onto her back. "Help!"

  Barefoot with his shirt unbuttoned, Jones was beside me in seconds. His fingers flew to Mavis's beefy neck as he leaned down to check her breathing. "She's not breathing, and there's no pulse." He started chest compressions.

  "What can I do?" I whispered, feeling helpless.

  "Call 9-1-1. Now! Tell them we have a seventy-year-old woman in cardiac arrest," he instructed before starting chest compressions.

  I ran for my cell and dialed the emergency number, praying all the while.

  Jones was checking for a pulse when I returned to the great room. "I got her heart started, but she's still not breathing on her own." He raised his voice so the operator could hear him.

  "An ambulance is on the way. Please stay on the line," the operator told me.

  I was barely listening to her, too stunned by what had happened. Oh, God, if Mavis died it would be all my fault. Why hadn't I minded my own business like Donna and Jones had advised?

  Sirens sounded in the distance. Jones was still working on Mavis, the 9-1-1 operator spoke, her tone reassuring, but I was lost in my private prayer. Please let her be all right, please let her be all right.

  The paramedics arrived and shoved me out of the way. Jones only stopped breathing for her when the EMT fitted an oxygen mask around her face. I recognized her, Jody Whittaker. She'd graduated a year ahead of me.

  "You did well," she told Jones.

  "Will she be all right?" I asked, feeling like I was going to throw up.

  Jody shrugged, non-committal. "Too soon to tell. We can take one of you to the hospital with us."

  "You go." I said to Jones before he could speak. "I'll call her son and meet you over there."

  His gaze searched my face. "Are you sure?"

  I forced a smile so he wouldn't see how close I was to my breaking point. "Yeah. I'm not even dressed yet. I'll be there in a few."

  He nodded, slipped into boots sans socks, and followed the gurney loaded with Mavis Humphries into the ambulance.

  I watched them drive off, too numb to feel the cold anymore.

  What had I done?

  * * *

  Peter had refused my offer to drive him to the hospital, as well as my apologies. Instead of driving straight for the hospital, I sped toward the Bowtie Angel on a mission. Aunt Cecily's missing recipe book had started all this, and damn it, I was going to find it if I had to tear the entire pasta shop apart in the process.

  I started in the main room, crawling around on the black and white floor, checking the creases of the red vinyl booths and came up empty. Frustrated, I headed toward the kitchen and pulled pots off of shelves, moved our industrial mixer, the fridge, the stove. My searching grew more frenetic and louder as I came up empty.

  A loud rapping on the back door made me jump. "We're closed!" I shouted irritably.

  "It's me!" Kyle's voice carried through the door. "Let me in, Andy—it's freezing out here."

  I stomped to the door and yanked it open. "I'm a little busy at the moment."

  The way Kyle's eyes widened, I knew I must look like hell. My curls tended to grow in volume with my agitation. And even a casual observer could tell I was thoroughly agitated. He was gentleman enough not to say
it out loud though.

  "In or out," I snapped.

  Kyle crossed the threshold, shutting the door behind him. "Jones called me. He told me what happened this morning."

  Turning my back on him, I headed for the pantry. A casual search revealed bupkis, so I started removing items from shelves. "How's Mavis?"

  "Too soon to tell." Kyle followed me into the small space, removing his hat as he went. "Andy, what's going on?"

  "I'm looking for Aunt Cecily's blasted recipe book." I dragged a sack of flour out from its shelf.

  "It's Christmas Eve. Don't you have anything else to do?"

  "Don't you have anything better to do, Sherriff?" I countered tartly. "Like go make up with your fiancée?"

  Kyle gave an audible sigh. "She's just as mad at me as you are."

  "Oh, I'm not mad." I said, displacing several tins of olive oil. "I'm flipping furious. Isn't it enough that you ruined my life? Now you have to screw up our daughter's life too?"

  Kyle said nothing. The silence gave me a minute to hear the harsh words I'd uttered. Closing my eyes, I muttered a very unladylike oath then turned to face the music. "Kyle—"

  He shook his head. "I deserve that."

  "No, you don't. You didn't ruin my life—it was already FUBAR when you got here."

  The corner of his mouth kicked up. "FUBAR? Since when are you down with the military lingo?"

  "Blame Pops. He was a gunner's mate in the navy. I glommed on to a few of his favorites over the years." We were getting off topic, which was my incredibly half-assed attempt at an apology. "You didn't screw up my life, but you will mess up Kaylee's if you waltz into hers."

  Kyle deflated like a balloon. "Yeah. I just want to fix it, you know? It hurts me that I wasn't there for her when she needed me. I always wanted that, to be needed by someone. You were always so strong though. You never needed me. "

  He was so wrong about that. "Kyle—"

  He held up his hands. "It's true, Andy. You never needed anybody. Except maybe Jones."

  I opened my mouth, but no words came out, so I shut it again.

  "Things are getting serious with the two of you." It wasn't a question.

  "Yeah. I think—" I had to swallow past the lump in my throat. "I think he might propose."

  It was weird, telling the man I'd once refused that another man intended to propose to me. But at the same time it felt right, like patting an old scar and being glad you healed from it, grew stronger for the experience.

  "So, will you accept?"

  I searched Kyle's face, looking for any signs that he might be even a little bit jealous. All I saw was genuine curiosity. "I don't know. It seems so sudden but…"

  "But?" Kyle prompted, one blond eyebrow arched.

  "I don't want to lose him. And if I say no, I will lose him." I shook my head. "I don't want to get married."

  He frowned. "Why?"

  "It's complicated."

  "It always is with you." Kyle clapped his hat back on his head and moved toward the door. "Go to the hospital, and pick up your damn boyfriend. The recipe book is just a stupid thing. It'll wait forever if it has to. People won't."

  He shut the door quietly behind him, leaving me alone with my mess.

  Time to clean house.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jones was waiting for me in the hospital lobby. He frowned as he studied my face. "Are you all right?"

  Quickly I shook my head. "I don't want to get into it now. How's Mavis?"

  "She's still in the ICU. They think she'll pull through though. Peter's with her now." Jones pulled me close. "I love you."

  I jolted as though he'd stuck me with a cattle prod. "Why, for the love of grief?"

  "Beats me."

  It was a good thing we were already at the hospital because my heart was pounding way too hard. "Jones—"

  "Shh," he said "You don't have to say anything. It just seemed essential that I tell you."

  I smiled and shook my head. "You are way too well-adjusted for me, you know that, right?"

  "I had a notion. Come on—don't we have some holiday hoopla to muck about with?"

  Though I wanted to see Mavis, to apologize to both her and Peter, I recognized that now was not the time. "Yeah. We do. And I brought you some socks. They're in the car. I know you're all cold weather immune, but still."

  His face softened. I blushed. It may not be a declaration of love—we both knew it—but I could tell he was touched by my thoughtfulness.

  We drove to the Victorian on Grove Street. It stood cold and empty, just as it had since Nana died. She'd been the one to make this house a home. I was determined to do my best to live up to her memory and bid it a farewell.

  "Where should I start?" Jones asked as we let ourselves in. All the upstairs rooms had been emptied of personal belongings, though they still held beds and nightstands. Donna had advised us that leaving some furniture in a home was critical to potential buyers. I was grateful that at least it wouldn't echo.

  "Have you had anything to eat?" I shucked my jacket and headed toward the kitchen.

  "Just really horrendous coffee at the hospital."

  I nodded. "Me either. At least the fridge is stocked."

  He looked surprised. "It is?"

  I smiled and took out the deli tray I'd ordered the day before. "Hey, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day are the only days in a calendar year Aunt Cecily doesn't insist on cooking. I did some online shopping and paid an arm and a leg to have it delivered."

  "But when did you have time to come here and arrange it all?"

  I snagged a can of condensed tomato soup out of the pantry. "Donna let them in and put everything away. Hey, it's your first real holiday with me. I can't fall down on the job, now."

  Jones didn't respond, and I glanced at him over my shoulder. "What is it?"

  "Nothing." But there obviously was something, the way he smiled at me. "Are the decorations in the garage?"

  "Yeah, look for the red and green Rubbermaids."

  While Jones went out to retrieve the bins, and I heated soup, the distress of the morning melted away. When the soup was hot, I ladled two bowls and set out paper plates and hard rolls for the sandwiches.

  "What was Christmas like when you were growing up?" I asked Jones as we sat down to eat.

  He shrugged and added mustard to a roll. "Nothing special, really."

  I frowned. "No?"

  "Either my mother had a date, and we spent the holiday with him, or she'd drink herself into oblivion. I stopped putting any importance on the actual calendar days early on."

  I sat back, soup forgotten. "So does all this make you uncomfortable?" I waved to the bins he'd brought in and the stereo where Nat King Cole sang "The Christmas Song."

  "Of course not." He smiled. "It's not what I'm used to but it's…nice."

  Now I understood what that look had meant. Jones had been surprised that I would go to the trouble for his sake. "Well, my Nana went all out for the holidays. Fresh pine bows and evergreen garlands affixed everywhere. Plus a blue spruce with white lights and red bows. Combine that with the scent of cinnamon and cloves, and the place smelled incredible. The music was great too. And the food, of course, was incredible. But I think the thing I loved most about Christmas was that it seemed like, for one day, everything was all right. I didn't feel like that very often."

  "I know what you mean." Jones took my hand and squeezed.

  I squeezed back, sorry that he hadn't even had a Christmas reprieve, that his mom hadn't made a fuss over him. "Tomorrow's going to be great. I have it all planned out."

  He released my hand so I could finish my soup. "So, Chef, what's on tomorrow's menu?"

  "Glazed Virginia ham and Southern Spoon Bread. It's like corn bread but less crumbly. That's Pop's tradition. Then the Rosetti side calls for Christmas Pasta. Because you know, eating pasta 364 days a year just isn't enough. Donna's on the veggies, and Mimi offered to bring desert."

  Jones took his plate and set it in the si
nk. "What can I do?"

  I pushed back from the table and rose. "Let's set up the tree first."

  He frowned. "I thought you said you got a fresh tree."

  I'd bought one of the prelit jobs on a Black Friday sale, thinking it would make the most sense. "Real trees are messy. And any tree lots open at this point on Christmas Eve will be picked over."

  Jones grinned. "I have an idea."

  An hour later, we stood side-by-side on his father's property wielding an ax and a saw.

  "Pick one." He indicated the small irregular shaped evergreens.

  It was obvious these trees weren't farmed. Larger pines stood all around us, filtering the weak sunlight through heavy branches. Some looked more like bushes than trees. Then there was the idea that there might be something living in those thick boughs. Did snakes climb trees? Should we really cut down a tree that was going to go out with Wednesday's garbage, that would shed a bazillion needles and possibly deposit bugs into the house? But Jones looked so excited that I pointed to a random tree. "That one."

  "Stand back." He hefted the ax, and I took several steps back when the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being ratcheted back pierced the frigid air.

  "Hold it right there," a deep male voice said.

  My hands flew up in the air. "Don't shoot!"

  Jones set the ax down slowly. "Dad."

  "Malcolm?"

  I turned, gaping at Jones's father. Robert Tillman was obviously drunk as a skunk. The fact that he didn't recognize his own son was a big tip-off. But he had several days' worth of stubble covering his chin, and his eyes were bloodshot, his flannel shirt buttoned two buttons off.

  "Please put the gun down," Jones said calmly. Much too calmly, considering the circumstances. I had to check, but there was a distinct possibility I'd peed my pants.

  "What the Sam Hill are you doing out here?" Mr. Tillman said, thankfully lowering the shotgun.

  "Cutting down a Christmas tree," Jones stated calmly.

  Mr. Tillman glowered. "Does this look like a friggin' tree farm to you, boy?"

  I knew the last few months had been rough on him, but the polished businessman had been replaced by someone who looked and talked like Yosemite Sam.