As You Are at Christmas

by Davalynn Spencer

  Matt’s loaded fork stopped halfway to his mouth, and his eyes locked on Angela.

  He doesn’t know I’m supposed to go.

  Angela coughed and reached for her water glass, feeling like that red-booted zebra. “You know, Mollie, I’m sure Matt can handle the tree cutting. We still have a lot of baking and frosting to do—”

  “One more day won’t hurt. It’s the Lord’s Day, and you should be out in His big beautiful world enjoying it.” Mollie reached for the copper-colored potatoes.

  “I’ll enjoy the company.” Matt apparently had no objections.

  Angela caught his smug amusement and resented it. She was a grown-up. She made her own choices. Then she glanced at Mollie, and guilt wiggled up under her breastbone. What would it hurt to humor the woman?

  Matt’s comment sounded sincere, but his condescending smirk annoyed her. She’d seen that expression on little boys who thought they had everything figured out and didn’t need her help with their math.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t slow you down.”

  Laughing eyes betrayed his enjoyment at her expense, but a mouthful of roast and onion jam short-circuited his attention. His facial muscles relaxed, and he leveled his gaze at her. “This is really good.”

  Told you so.

  Matt reached for the pink bowl and helped himself to a second spoonful. “About tomorrow, Mollie.”

  The older woman continued eating. “Yes?”

  “I won’t be making it to the eight thirty service, but I’ll be ready to leave when you and Angela get home.”

  Angela watched her grandmother from the corner of her eye and waited for the customary correction she issued when someone didn’t do as she expected. The correction didn’t materialize.

  “That will be fine, Matthew. We won’t be late.”

  Angela coughed and nearly choked on her napkin trying to hide her surprise. She stared at Mollie. Did she not feel well? What happened to her usual sweet-as-sugar, stiff-necked reproach? She looked at Matt, who was shoveling in sweet potatoes and roast, oblivious to what Mollie’s response should have been.

  After a few moments of lighter conversation about the Christmas decorations, Angela finished her dinner and helped Mollie clear the table, marveling at the dexterity with which her devious little grandmother chose her battles.

  4

  Sunday morning Matt considered not shaving again but decided that some token effort was in order to honor the day. Or Mollie, at least. A clean face was easy. As long as he didn’t have to go deeper than skimming the surface.

  He had boundaries. No disrespect to his temporary hostess and benefactor, but he would not be railroaded into attending church. He’d gladly unplug her sink drain, haul boxes downstairs, cut a Christmas tree—even paint rooms that didn’t need it—but he drew the line at being herded into a pew.

  In truth, he was surprised that Mollie hadn’t argued with him, or tried her usual ploy of spinning refusal into agreement. Angela had been as equally astonished, and he chuckled remembering her near choking incident at the table. Her soft gray eyes had grown twice their normal size as she stared at Mollie over her napkin.

  Mollie played her cards close to her apron, and this morning she’d been as pleasant as ever with a quick breakfast of orange juice and sausage biscuits. Hand-pressed sausage and homemade biscuits, of course.

  Fast food joints were quickly fading from his list of places to eat.

  The muffled thud of two car doors announced the women’s arrival. He snagged his coat from the rocker in his room and checked the pockets for work gloves. Nada. He’d have to swing by the house on the way out.

  He trotted down the stairs as the grandfather clock in the hall struck the three-quarter hour. Angela came through the front door in jeans and snow boots.

  “I just have to get my heavy coat and gloves, and we can go,” she said from the entryway. The morning cold had flushed her cheeks, and her lips curved in a gentle smile.

  “I’ll go warm up the truck.” He pulled on his jacket and zipped it.

  “Wait a minute, Matthew,” Mollie called. He stopped in front of the door.

  Mollie hurried down the hallway still wearing her wool coat and scarf. She returned with a picnic basket.

  “Isn’t it a little cold for a picnic,” he said with a teasing grin.

  “Not a picnic.” She shoved the basket toward him. “This is the easiest way to carry a thermos of hot cocoa and a care-package. I imagine you’ll stop for a meal along the way, but this will be a nice snack on the road.” She patted his arm. “And you’ll need a little extra something for chopping down that perfect tree.”

  “Thanks, Mollie. We’ll make good use of it.” He suppressed a sudden urge to give her a peck on her grandmotherly cheek.

  She reached up and patted his face with a gloved hand. “You have a good time.” Then she lowered her voice and stretched closer to him. “Take your time coming home. I’ll have something warming in the oven if you’re still hungry when you get here.”

  Guess the kiss would have been in order. “You’re spoiling me, Mollie Murphy. How am I ever supposed to survive as an independent bachelor?”

  She looked him square in the eye. “You’re not.”

  “Ready.” Angela appeared in an ice-blue parka with white fur edging the hood. The contrast against her dark hair was striking.

  “So am I.” He hefted the basket. “Never got around to warming the truck, but Mollie’s sending us off with hot chocolate.”

  Angela helped her grandmother out of her coat and hung it on the bentwood hall tree before giving her a hug. “Thanks, Mollie. You’re the best.”

  “I know, dear. You just make sure to get the best tree.” She waved over her shoulder at them on her way to the kitchen. “Have fun.”

  Angela dashed down the porch steps and around to the passenger door to find it locked. Matt grinned at her through the window as he opened his side, set the basket on the seat, and pushed the lock release. By then she was jumping up and down from the cold with her hands buried in her coat pockets.

  “What are you going to do at eight thousand feet if you’re freezing now?” He started the engine and cranked the heater to its highest setting.

  “I’m getting my circulation going.” She turned her pretty face to him, and her soft eyes sparkled as she stomped her feet on the floorboard. She hunched her shoulders and burrowed deeper into her parka. “It’s colder in here than it is outside.”

  “A balmy thirty-one degrees out there,” he said, checking the outdoor temperature reading on the dashboard. “Heat wave.”

  The sound of her laughter stirred something in him as they drove out of town. But when he pulled into his long, snowy lane instead of heading straight for the interstate, she gave him a guarded look.

  “Forgot my work gloves. It’ll only take a second. I’ll leave the engine running for you.”

  ****

  The Oxford place appeared much the same as it had when Angela left for college. The front porch on the house sagged pathetically and one corner post was missing. Snow covered the lawn, but a clear path stretched from the driveway to the front door. Past the end of the house, corrals leaned wearily against one side of the old barn, a few cross rails missing. The architect certainly had his manual labor cut out for him.

  She unzipped her parka, pulled off her gloves, and stuffed them in her pockets. The cab’s cozy interior smelled like pumpkin bread, and her stomach rumbled. Tempted to dig into Mollie’s provisions, she peeked into the basket but put the lid down and waited. She didn’t want to look piggish.

  Why should she care what Matt thought? She sighed and instead considered the countryside. Only in Colorado could the sky be that clear—cold and cerulean over frosted peaks to the west. Aaron was probably missing it. Again. No doubt he was pushing iron around at the gym or slumped on his sofa playing video games. Why had she ever thought they shared anything in common?

  The solid thud of the front door brought her attentio
n back to the moment. Matt smiled and held up leather work gloves. Aaron probably didn’t own a pair.

  “Did you leave anything for me to eat?” Matt tossed the gloves on the dashboard, took his place behind the wheel, and unzipped his jacket.

  “What makes you think I’d eat while you were gone?” Her stomach rumbled again and she hoped he couldn’t hear it.

  “Because I’m hungry, and I figured you would be, too. I remember what you said about third graders.”

  She detected a tease behind the quirk of his mouth. “I am not a third grader.”

  His husky laugh made her arms tingle.

  “But since you mentioned it, I’ll serve while you drive.”

  “That a girl.”

  The off-handed remark worried her. What did she know about Matt Dawson? Here she sat heading up the interstate with a near stranger, pushed into his company by her grandmother who loaded them with treats for the trip. Trouble was, she trusted Mollie’s judgment. The woman was rarely wrong where people were concerned.

  O, Lord, keep me safe today. Help me pay attention to what’s going on.

  When it came to Mollie’s judgment on food, she was never wrong. Angela unscrewed the top of a large thermos, and the aroma of hot cocoa swirled into her face. She filled one travel mug for Matt, secured the top, and handed it to him. He took it with a smile as honest as the cloudless day, and her heart hummed an unfamiliar note.

  She filled the second travel mug for herself and set the thermos in its corner between two sliced loaves of plastic-wrapped bread. “Pumpkin or cranberry nut?”

  Matt glanced into the basket that filled the seat between them. “Pumpkin, of course.”

  Angela unwrapped the darker loaf and handed him a thick slice on a red paper napkin. “Mollie thinks of everything.”

  “She sure does. But honestly,” he gave her a serious look and nodded at the basket, “I expected her to pack china teacups and saucers in there.”

  Angela laughed and bit in to her own slice. “Your truck isn’t the boarding house. She must have made an exception.”

  Little traffic hindered them on the trip up I-25, and easy conversation about Mollie and teaching and architectural design made the three-hour journey feel like her usual twenty-minute drive to school. By half past one, they were on a dirt road headed toward a green Forest Service truck parked next to a gated fence. A ranger exited the pickup as they approached.

  Matt stopped at the gate and rolled down his window. “Good afternoon.” He laid his right arm across the top of the steering wheel.

  “You’re here to cut a tree, right?” The ranger nodded at Angela and returned his attention to Matt.

  “Yes sir. Ten dollars?”

  “Per tree.” He exchanged Matt’s ten-dollar bill for a receipt and tugged on his green cap. “You just made it. No entry after two thirty since you have to be out by four.”

  Matt looked toward the forest. “How far in do we need to go?”

  The ranger followed his gaze. “Not far. You can cut anywhere beyond this fence line.” He slapped the top of the doorframe. “Good luck, and watch the time.”

  “Thanks. We will.”

  Matt rolled up the window, shifted into four-wheel drive and pulled through the gate. “Here we go.”

  “That’s a lot to choose from.” Angela frowned toward the dense forest sweeping up the mountain like a dark mantle.

  “Do you know what you want exactly? How big?”

  “I don’t think we need anything over six feet.” She sized him up. “How tall are you?”

  “Six-two.”

  “Perfect.”

  He grinned at her quick reply, and she sensed a witty retort approaching.

  “Thank you. I like to think so myself.”

  She chuckled in spite of herself. “You have more in common with third-grade boys than you think.”

  He tossed her a wounded look and clutched at his chest.

  “You’ll get over it,” she said. “They always do.”

  A sudden bump bounced her against her seatbelt, and she grabbed for the armrest.

  “Hang on,” Matt said. “It will probably get worse before it gets better.”

  The forest closed in around them, the road roughened, and the depth of snow increased as they climbed the mountain.

  “Want to try around here?”

  “Sure. This is as good a place as any.” Angela slipped her gloves on, zipped her parka, and pulled up the hood.

  Ahead, another pickup sat off the road as far as possible and Matt pulled in behind it.

  A thin crust topped the snow, but still they sank into it up to their knees. Matt opened his truck-bed tool box and pulled out a saw and rope. He handed the rope to Angela and pulled on his work gloves. “Lead the way.”

  She stared at him, surprised that he didn’t march off into the woods with a manly “follow me” attitude. Another note in that unfamiliar melody sounded in her heart.

  Trudging through the knee-deep snowpack was harder than she remembered. “I’d forgotten how difficult this is,” she said, slightly out of breath.

  “Don’t you do this every year?” Matt’s longer strides had moved him beside her as they walked.

  “Actually, I haven’t done this since I was a kid. After Jim passed away, Mollie and I always went to the local Christmas tree lot.”

  Her explanation stopped him in his tracks, and she looked back. “What?”

  “You mean this isn’t an annual tradition?”

  “It was.” She faced him. “But not for the past twelve years or so.”

  Unspoken thoughts bunched up on his face. Anger or amusement?

  “You know what’s going on, don’t you?”

  Heat rose to her cheeks, and she wished it would sink to her snow-entombed toes instead.

  “Yes, I do.” She scanned the forest cloaking them and shook her head. “But how do you tell Mollie no?”

  His lighthearted laugh relieved her.

  “You don’t mind?”

  She didn’t mind at all, though she had resented Mollie’s maneuverings at first. Matt was easy to be around, talk to, laugh with. But she couldn’t tell him that.

  “Like I said before, I’m used to third graders.” She turned to continue hiking, and from the corner of her eye saw him reach for the snow. She ducked just in time.

  “Hey! What was that for?” She tried to escape but fell instead and landed on her backside.

  He scooped another handful, and she did the same. The dry snow failed to stick together or land with much force, and they managed only to cover each other with fine powder and laughter.

  “Peace!” Angela floundered from her fallen position and struggled to get to her feet.

  In two long strides, he was beside her and offered his free hand. “Peace.”

  Her pulled her up as lightly as if she weighed nothing at all, and she put her other hand out to keep from falling against him as she regained her balance. “Tree, Mr. Dawson. We need a tree.”

  He held her gloved hand a moment longer, as if measuring its weight in his own.

  Breaking from his gaze she peered into the woods again. “I can’t see the tree for the forest.”

  Snorting out a laugh, he stepped around her and into the lead. “Don’t you have that backwards, madam school teacher?”

  “On purpose. Look at all these magnificent spruces and pines. Which one is the perfect choice?”

  “That’s your job. I’m just the hired help.” He raised the small handsaw in demonstration and took off into the snow.

  Angela followed, grateful to have his deep footprints to tread in rather than trying to blaze the trail herself. She appraised the trees as they walked and after a few strides chose one off to the left.

  “What about that one over there?” She stopped and pointed to a stately blue spruce grouped with several other shorter trees.

  Matt tramped over and pushed snow away from the tree’s lower branches. Then he wrapped a hand around the base. “
This one will work.”

  “Stand next to it.”

  He obliged, grinning next to the slightly taller tree.

  Perfect.

  “We can’t leave more than a six-inch stump, so it’ll be only a little shorter once we set it up in the dining room.”

  “Perfect.”

  He grinned wider, if possible.

  “The tree, Mr. Dawson. The tree.” She answered his grin with one of her own and helped him scoop away the snow so he’d have a clear cutting zone.

  5

  Wrapped in tarp and secured with rope, the spruce lay cocooned in the bed of the truck. Matt rechecked the ropes on each side and walked around to the driver’s door. Angela had already settled in and was pouring more cocoa into his mug. He could get used to this. To her.

  With no room to turn the truck around, he backed most of the way out until they reached a wide curve in the road. From the lengthening shadows, it had to be close to four. He checked the clock on the dash—three forty-nine. They’d cut it close. That little snowball fight on the way in probably cost them a few minutes, but it was worth it.

  He took a drink of lukewarm cocoa and eyed the picnic basket. Angela noticed.

  “Bread or cookies?” she said as she lifted the lid.

  “Both?”

  She snickered under her breath and opened one of the little red napkins, filling it with a frosted Christmas tree, a chocolate chip cookie, and two slices of pumpkin bread.

  “Thanks.” He laid the offering on the narrow strip of seat between his right leg and the basket and stole a glance at her face. Peaceful. Happy. So unlike what he’d grown up with.

  The ranger at the gate waved them through and park-like grassland opened around them. Late afternoon shadows stretched across the road, and the sun hesitated just above the mountains. He figured a half hour of day light remained.

  “Where do you want to eat dinner?”

  She pushed her hood back and static drew out the shorter lengths of her hair like a science experiment. She tried to smooth it down but failed, and it made him smile.