The First Love Cookie Club

by Lori Wilde

  The Lincoln cornered the town square with its gorgeous old courthouse erected in the 1870s when the town was in its infancy. All the buildings lining the four quadrants of the courthouse had been constructed in the same era. When she’d walked the streets of Twilight as a girl, Sarah had often half expected to see Jesse James tying his horse to one of the wooden hitching posts that still sat outside the Funny Farm restaurant. Rumors swirled that the infamous outlaw had once used the caves around the Brazos River as a hideout.

  For the moment, however, Charles Dickens was being layered atop the usual Old West architecture. The first weekend in December the Twilight Chamber of Commerce threw a Dickens on the Square tourism event. At ten in the morning, workmen were busy setting up various stages around the courthouse lawn. Strolling carolers warbled in group song, practicing their vocal range. Vendors erected street stalls for displaying their wares— Victorian-inspired crafts, clothing, jewelry, and holiday decorations.

  The lantern parade on Friday evening officially kicked off the event, featuring “Queen Victoria” in the lead, followed by floats filled with various characters from the novels of Charles Dickens. The last float traditionally carried Father Christmas. Out of all the festivals this festival-loving town threw, Dickens on the Square had been Sarah’s favorite. Something about the pageantry of nineteenth-century England appealed to her romantic nature.

  Yeah, back when you were fifteen and stupid.

  She shook her head, stared out the window, and found her gaze drawn to the men in the crowd. It was only after her heart gave a strange little stutter at the sight of a tall, dark-haired man that Sarah realized she was subconsciously searching for Travis. The man turned around, and when she saw it wasn’t he, the pent-up breath she hadn’t even known she’d been holding slipped from her lungs in one long sigh.

  The driver pulled the car to a stop outside a restored Victorian house painted a soft rosy pink. Scattered all throughout the yard were angel lawn ornaments. The sign out front read: “The Merry Cherub Bed-and-Breakfast.”

  She walked up the steps, but before she could ring the bell, the door was flung open to reveal a beaming middle-aged man with a graying goatee dressed in the fashion of Charles Dickens—top hat, frock coat, walking cane. He looked at once charmingly quaint and absolutely ridiculous.

  “Hello, Miss Cool,” he boomed, and thrust out his hand. “Mayor Moe Schebly. It’s an honor to meet you.”

  Sarah gave him her hand and he pumped like he was trying to get her to gush water. “Thank you for inviting me, Mayor.”

  “We’re delighted you could make time in your busy schedule for us.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “If it’s not too much of an imposition, I’d like to quickly go over the details of this evening’s festivities with you and your role in them before you get settled into your room.” He tapped the face ofhis watch. “Charles Dickens has a tight schedule to keep.”

  “I understand.”

  The mayor pulled a brochure and a piece of folded paper from his dark gray waistcoat and passed it to her. “You’re in the parade, of course, and you’ll be riding in the final float with Father Christmas and little Jazzy. Don’t feel you have to wear a costume. Although I have taken the liberty of arranging to have several gowns placed in your room should you decide to do so.”

  “Um … okay.”

  “If you have any questions, my cell phone number is printed on your schedule.”

  “Thank you.”

  “See you at the high school football field at five o’clock. That’s where we load up the floats. I’ve included a map of the town for your convenience,” Mayor Moe turned Charles Dickens said. “And now I must run. See you at five.”

  And then he was gone.

  A woman who was about a decade older than Sarah had been standing behind the mayor during his rushed instructions. She too was adorned in Victorian-era clothing. The old Sarah would have sighed at the romance of it all, but Sadie Cool wondered just exactly how uncomfortable that corset really was.

  “Hello.” She smiled warmly. “I’m Jenny Cantrell; my husband, Dean, and I own the Merry Cherub. It’s wonderful to meet you, Miss Cool. Please follow me and I’ll show you to your room.”

  For the first time, Sarah got a good look at the interior, and all she could do was stare in stunnedsilence. The place was awash in angels. Angel wallpaper, thick and velvety-looking. Angel mobiles dangled from the ceiling, flying gently from the air movement of the heating vent. Angels were carved into the staircase and the impressive crown molding. Ceramic and porcelain angels sat on display inside a mahogany curio cabinet beside the front door. There was an angel umbrella stand and an angel coatrack and even an angel rocking chair. The angels came in every conceivable style and color—round, cherubic angels that looked like babies. Fun, playful cartoon angels. Tall, thin angels with windblown hair, halos, and benevolent expressions.

  Rattled, Sarah edged after Jenny, who’d already started up the staircase.

  Jenny stopped on the landing at the top of the stairs and took a key from her pocket. “I’m putting you in the VIP room.”

  The entire room—still decidedly angelic in theme—was done in various shades of pink. Egads. It looked like heaven had vomited Pepto-Bismol after eating cotton candy. She had to admit the decor took some getting used to. But there was a nice spa tub in the room and the bed looked plush and comfortable.

  Jenny handed Sarah the room key. “If you need anything at all just call the front desk.”

  Sarah walked across the room and sank down on the mauve love seat positioned beside the window. She peeped through the lace curtain to the street below. Her grandmother’s house was a few blocks over, down by the water on Lakeshore Drive. She had an urge to go see it. Her parents hadsold the place after her grandmother died without even asking her opinion. Another reason there was a rift between her and her folks. But, Sarah supposed, after her big humiliation in Twilight, they’d figured she never wanted to come back here and they certainly hadn’t wanted the place.

  Memories tumbled in on her. Flashes of how she used to be. Shy, overweight, her nose stuck in a book so she could hide away from things that bothered her. Once upon a time, Twilight had been part of her magical escape from boarding school and her parents’ impossibly high expectations of her. She’d counted the days until summer vacation, until the Christmas holiday.

  And then she’d gone and ruined even that refuge.

  Twilightites loved their celebrations. They never passed up an excuse for a festival or carnival or party. Part of it was due to the nature of the town’s commerce, which was, first and foremost, tourism. But an element that couldn’t be ignored was the community’s genetic propensity for romance.

  The town itself was reportedly founded on a legend about two lovers separated during the Civil War, who fifteen years later were reunited on the banks of the Brazos River where Twilight now stood. But none of that malarkey was written in the history books. According to the official version, Twilight was started as a military fort to combat violent Kiowa and Comanche uprisings that were prevalent at the time.

  But reality didn’t bring in the tourists.

  Instead, the story of Colonel Jon Grant, sent to oversee the fort, and the woman who later becamehis bride, Rebekka Nash, became the preferred legend.

  Not that Travis allowed himself to believe in any of that fated, destiny, happily-ever-after crap. He knew better. He believed in one thing and one thing only—his daughter, Jasmine.

  Looking at her now, so robust and excited, sent his spirits soaring. She’d been on the new medication for six weeks and she’d just received her third dose. So what if the seventy-five hundred dollars had drawn his savings account dangerously near zero. He would gladly surrender every last cent he owned for her. Of course, he was already worried how he was going to afford the next round, which was due just before Christmas, while at the same time giving Jazzy the Christmas she deserved. He had a few things he could sell—a
n antique shotgun his granddaddy had left him, his fishing boat, a secondhand Kawasaki motorcycle that had sat in the garage since Jazzy had come into his life and changed his wild-boy ways. And there was her college fund. He didn’t want to dip into it, but it was there if needed.

  But what about the injection after that and the one after that?

  Travis shoved the worry aside. He’d cross those bridges when he came to them. For now, he was enjoying the fact that his daughter was well enough to ride in the open-air float on a cool day without a hint of breathing trouble.

  Jazzy’s blue eyes were unusually bright. She was dressed like Isabella from The Magic Christmas Cookie—pigtails, pink pinafore, blue gingham apron. His Aunt Raylene had made the outfit after

  Jazzy fell in love with the book. Over the top of her costume, she wore a pink and blue car coat with a puffy hood. In her hands, she clutched her well-worn Isabella doll, and her cheeks were flushed bright pink.

  Excitement? That was okay, but what if she had a fever? He reached over to splay his palm over her forehead.

  Jazzy drew back and looked irritated. “I’m okay, Daddy.”

  “Just checking.” He smiled.

  “Father Christmas.” Belinda Murphey was in charge of getting everyone onto the floats in time for the parade. She had a clipboard in her hands, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, and a whistle around her neck. “You and Jazzy can go right on up.”

  Travis bent down to pick up Jazzy, but she tossed her head. “I can walk. I’m too big for you to carry around.”

  Not really, but okay, maybe he was being overly protective. It was difficult finding a balance between being watchful and letting her do as much as she could by herself, giving her the room to be like other kids. “Sure you can, honey.”

  She started up the steps and he put a hand to her back. “Daddy …” she warned.

  “Sorry, sorry.” He forced himself to put his arm down.

  Jazzy made her way to the sleigh centered in the middle of the float and climbed aboard with mincing, ladylike steps. Every time he looked at her his heart ached a little. He loved her so damn much, the intensity of it cut sharp as a knife. Before he’dhad a kid, he hadn’t known this kind of love existed. He still couldn’t understand how Crystal could walk out on her.

  His daughter settled into the seat, spread out her skirt all around her, and then beamed over at him. “You can come up now, Daddy.”

  He climbed the steps in his Father Christmas costume. In spite of the itchy beard, he loved this, being here with his daughter, playing Santa Claus. It made him feel lighthearted again. Something he hadn’t felt since Jazzy had gotten sick.

  Once upon a time, he’d been the original good-time Charlie. Living only for himself, seeking adventure in all the wrong places, burying his sorrow over his mother’s death the only way he knew how—by partying hard.

  But one tiny little girl had changed all that.

  It was a miracle really, the new medication Dr. Adams had given Jazzy off-label. How the hell had he gotten so lucky to have such a wonderful daughter, a loving community, and an open-minded doctor? He swallowed past the lump in his throat.

  Dammit, Walker, don’t go getting all sentimental.

  He sat beside Jazzy. “Can I put you on my lap or are you too big for that too?”

  She gave it some thought and finally nodded. “That would be okay.”

  He tucked her into the crook of his arm, felt the thrumming of her little heart through her clothes. Was it beating too fast? He took a quick peek at her lips. Nice and pink. Whew.

  Travis forced himself to relax and mentally gear up for the Father Christmas gig. After the parade,he’d be inundated with short stacks begging to sit on his lap and recite their wish lists. But he loved that kind of thing and children swarmed him like bees, making him feel like a kid again.

  He glanced around at the other floats, saw a black Lincoln Town Car turn into the entrance and pull to a stop beside the rest of the cars parked inside the stadium. The driver got out and opened the back door. A willowy woman of medium height unfolded herself from the backseat.

  Immediately, people surrounded her. Travis supposed she must be Sadie Cool, the celebrity author of the children’s book Jazzy loved so much. Inexplicably, he felt his own pulse rate pick up.

  She moved toward the floats, the crowd parting to let her pass. Travis’s gaze tracked down the length of her long, shapely legs. Defying the Christmas costumes everyone else wore, she had on a tailored charcoal gray pencil skirt, a fluffy white long-sleeved sweater, and catch-me-do-me black stiletto boots. Her bearing was regal, square shoulders, head held high. Some might mistake it for aloofness, but a strange hitch in the center of his chest told him that she was very shy and used the detached posture as a shield. He wondered if he was the only one who could see the vulnerability she struggled so hard to hide behind that polished smile.

  In that moment, she lifted her head and her eyes met his. The breath left his lungs in a quick huff of air as surely as if he’d been tackled to the ground by an oversized linebacker. Longing fisted his soul, tight and painful, touching him deep. Inside his white Santa gloves, Travis’s fingers curled into fists.

  In his mind’s eye he could see her stripped naked, lying on his bed, giving him a real smile, naughty and inviting.

  Whoa, wait just a damn minute.

  He stomped on his X-rated thoughts. She was a stranger. A famous writer so far out of his league it was laughable. A drop-dead beauty in designer clothes with—his gaze roved over her again, succinctly—a really nice pair of breasts.

  “Daddy?”

  “Uh-huh,” he answered without glancing at his daughter.

  The woman looked oddly familiar, but Travis couldn’t place her. She had sleek, caramel-colored hair, so glossy it made him think of polished pine, that was pulled back into one long braid that fell down the middle of her back and a sweep of side fringe bangs that gave her an exotic look.

  The closer she drew, the more convinced he was that he knew her. His mind nagged, but for the life of him he couldn’t put a name to the gorgeous face. Did he know her? If so, how in the world could he have forgotten a woman like that?

  “Daddy.” Jazzy tugged on his sleeve.

  He ripped his gaze off the woman, turned, and slipped his arm around her. “What is it, sweetie?”

  “Is that her? Is that Sadie Cool?” Her little body vibrated like a tuning fork and her smile lit up her whole face.

  “I think maybe it is.”

  “She’s so pretty.” Jazzy breathed. “Like Rapunzel with that long hair.”

  “Yes, she is.” He looked at the woman again. She was sashaying straight toward their float, Belinda Murphey at her side.

  The closer they drew, the faster his pulse raced, and when they stopped at his float and climbed the wooden steps, Travis felt his stomach vault into his throat and his tongue twist into a Gordian knot.

  “Father Christmas,” Belinda said. “This is Sadie Cool.”

  He put out his gloved hand to shake hers. “Ho, ho, ho,” he said lamely.

  “I’m Jazzy,” his daughter exclaimed, hopping up from her seat to throw her arms around Sadie Cool’s trim waist. “And I love you!”

  Overwhelmed, Sarah just stood there, the little girl’s arms squeezing her tightly. How did she winnow out of this embrace? Sarah was not a touchy-feely type and she didn’t know the first thing about kids. Especially affectionate ones with no internal filter. Or maybe all kids were like that. How would she know? She’d been an only child, had never babysat. Benny asked her why she’d even written a children’s book and her only explanation had been that she’d written it for the kid she’d once been. Overlooked and underestimated by her parents, her mind filled with a lush fantasy life. This kid, this outgoing, easily affectionate, cheery-faced, obviously much loved Munchkin took her by surprise.

  “She’s never met a stranger,” the man in the Santa suit explained.

  Geez dude, she
longed to say, ever watch the evening news? Hardly a week went by where some tragedy didn’t befall a kid who was too trusting. Teach your daughter about stranger danger. Then again, she had to remember this was Twilight. Right or wrong, people were simply more trusting here.

  “Father Christmas is my daddy.” Jazzy giggled and beamed up at Sarah.

  Okay, all right, so the child could cure seasonal affective disorder with one of those million-watt grins. Now she knew how the Grinch felt when faced with spunky Cindy Lou Hoo. Outmatched. “My, aren’t you a lucky little girl,” Sarah mumbled, not knowing what else to say.

  Jazzy’s blond corkscrew curls bobbed enthusiastically. “He’s the best daddy in the whole world.”

  For the first time, Sarah noticed the girl was dressed exactly like her heroine Isabella from The Magic Christmas Cookie. And odd feeling ran through her that was at once both comfortable and ill-fitting.

  “Have a seat, Miss Cool,” Belinda Murphey advised. “The parade is about to begin.”

  Sarah looked around and realized there was only one place to sit—beside Santa in his sleigh.

  He patted the seat beside him, his gray eyes twinkling mischievously behind wire-framed Santa glasses. Gray eyes that reminded her of Travis. “Park it, Sadie.”

  A flippant Father Christmas? Not precisely Victorian. Reluctantly, Sarah settled in next to him as he pulled Jazzy into his lap. Underneath the float, she heard the truck engine rumble to life.

  His voice reminded her of Travis too.

  You’re hypersensitive. Get over it. He’s not Travis.

  No, but sooner or later she was going to run into Travis and that’s what had her on edge. Nervously, she smoothed her unwrinkled skirt with her palms and avoided looking at Santa as the float lurchedforward following the other floats sliding from the football field. There were horse-drawn carriages mixed among the floats and a bagpipe band and the high school pep squad dressed in serving wench attire.

  Jazzy was leaning over the side of the sleigh, waving enthusiastically at the crowd gathered along the parade route. As the sun slid down the horizon, sweetly kissing the lake, the gas lanterns, mounted on black wrought-iron streetlamps, flickered on. Street vendors hawked a variety of foods. From roasted turkey legs to steak on a stick to shepherd’s pie—the air lay rich with the scent of sautéing onions and garlic and robust spices.