Christmas from the Heart

by Sheila Roberts

  “We are,” she said.

  “I think the fruitcake this year is even better than my last year’s one,” Mrs. Bentley told her.

  “You’ll have a hard time beating my apricot fruitcake,” said Mrs. Newton, who had slipped in next to her.

  “I’m glad I’m not judging. I don’t know how I’d be able to choose between the two of you,” Livi said diplomatically.

  “That was slick,” Morris said to her after church as they made their way out the door. “You managed to make both Mrs. Newton and my mom feel like winners.”

  “They’re both good bakers,” she said.

  “And you’re a good BSer,” he said.

  “You have to be diplomatic when you run a nonprofit.”

  It would have been nice if she’d reminded herself of that before she sent her rude email to Guy Hightower. But oh well. He was history. The current event was Joe Ford. When he saw all the good things they did, maybe he could bring his company on board the next year as a major donor.

  Speaking of... “Don’t forget you’re giving Joe a ride to the fruitcake festival.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Morris grumbled. “I don’t see why your dad can’t bring him.”

  “Because Dad and Mr. Smith and Dr. Johnson are helping with setup. You know that. And it’s enough that Joe’s helping judge the fruitcakes. I don’t want him to have to work before the event, as well. Anyway, you only have to bring him. I can take him home.”

  “Mom wants to get there early.”

  It was a feeble excuse and one Livi saw right through. Morris had not taken to the newcomer. But he was going to have to lay aside his feelings for the good of the cause.

  “It still won’t be as early as he’d have to be if he went with us,” Livi said. “Dad and I are on our way over to the community hall right now.” Morris still wasn’t looking happy. She laid a hand on his arm. “Come on, Morris. Help me out here.”

  “I help out all the time,” he said irritably.

  “Yes, you do. And I appreciate it. You are one in a million,” she said, and kissed his cheek.

  “Okay, okay. You don’t have to butter me up.”

  “I wasn’t buttering. I was speaking the truth.” Morris was a sweetie, and a good friend. He just wasn’t a Joe Ford. And that was probably at the heart of his dislike for the man. “It’s for Christmas from the Heart,” she added. Lost dogs, food drives, little old ladies with car troubles—Morris was always there, whatever the need. And if she needed him to drive someone to a Christmas from the Heart event he couldn’t tell her no.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, resigned to his fate. “But I don’t like the guy.”

  “Morris, you’re jealous,” she accused.

  “Okay, so maybe I am. But I got a feeling about him. Something ain’t right.”

  “Well, I’d love to stand here and psychoanalyze him with you but I’ve got to get to the community hall. See you soon,” she added.

  * * *

  Livi never really saw him. He was just good old Morris, the guy she’d dated once upon a time. Sometimes he wished Livi had never gone away to school.

  But nobody in her right mind turned down a full scholarship. Still, going away changed her. She came back home not only knowing more but wanting more. Her great-grandparents had money but somewhere along the way that well had dried up, leaving her parents solidly middle-class. After college, though, she returned yearning for a life of glamour. She wanted to see the world, wanted to visit Jane Austen’s home, walk on the moors where Cathy and Heathcliff had roamed. Morris had never been able to get into those books—“I am Heathcliff.” What the hell? She’d wanted to see the Eiffel Tower and ski in the Alps. As if their own mountains weren’t good enough?

  She’d stayed in Pine River but she hankered for Seattle. Christmas from the Heart was the anchor that kept her in town. That, and her dad and her friends. Of which he was one.

  What was it going to take to open Livi’s eyes to the good life they could have together? He needed to find it fast, because this newcomer was stirring up all those old yearnings for glamour and excitement.

  As if a good ball game or great sex couldn’t be exciting enough. As if planning a wedding, having kids and watching them grow up wasn’t good enough. He knew she wanted to be married, wanted a family. She could do all that with him. You didn’t need to wander all over the world looking at stuff you could see on TV to have a good life.

  “Morris, why are you frowning?” his mother asked after he’d settled her and her fruitcake in the car.

  “I wasn’t frowning.”

  “Yes, you were. You frowned all through lunch and you’re still frowning. I swear, you frown after every encounter with Olivia Berg,” she added.

  His mom was way too observant. “I do not.”

  “Yes, you do.” She shook her head. “You’re wasting your time on her. She’s not interested.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” he growled.

  “Well, it’s true and you know it. If only your father was still alive to talk some sense into you.”

  A freak accident at work had taken his dad five years back and that had left Morris to watch over his mom and little sister. Sis had gotten married two years ago and moved to Oregon and now it was just Morris, picking Mom up for church on Sundays, eating lunch at her place afterward and taking her to Family Tree for dinner every Wednesday night for their midweek special.

  Not that he minded watching out for his mom and spending time with her, but he missed his old man. And no matter what Mom thought, Dad would never try to talk him into giving up on Livi. Unlike Mom, who wanted Morris to hurry up and marry somebody so she could have grandkids, Dad understood true love. He’d waited patiently for Mom to come around through three years and one fiancé. Morris could wait.

  “Why are we stopping at Olivia’s?” she asked, when he pulled the car up in front of the Berg residence.

  “They’ve got a guy staying with them and I have to give him a ride over to the community hall.”

  “Oh, honestly, Morris,” Mom said in disgust. “Surely Livi could manage getting her own houseguest to the fruitcake competition.”

  “She and Mr. B had to get there early.”

  “So, who is this man?”

  “Some rich dude whose car broke down and there wasn’t any vacancies at River’s Bend so they took him in. He’s one of the fruitcake judges.”

  “One of the judges?” his mother said speculatively. That ended the complaining.

  At least someone was looking forward to picking up the rich dude.

  * * *

  Morris Bentley arrived to pick up Guy at quarter to two, fifteen minutes before the big event was scheduled to begin. He was dressed in jeans, boots, and wore a Seahawks sports shirt under his jacket. There on the lapel was a pin that proudly proclaimed, “I gave from the heart.” The one thing he wasn’t wearing was a smile.

  “Livi told me to pick you up,” he said, and might as well have added, “I’d as soon throw you in the river.”

  Guy nodded. “Thanks.” He felt Bentley’s assessing gaze on him as they walked to Bentley’s car, a vintage muscle car. The guy probably had a truck, too, like most of the men in town did. “Nice car,” he said.

  “It was my dad’s,” Bentley said. “Made in America.” No foreign cars for Morris Bentley. “Got a truck, too,” he added. So take that.

  “Probably comes in handy,” Guy said.

  “I can haul a lot of wood.” Me and my blue ox, Babe.

  It was going to be a pissing contest all the way to the fruitcake gross-out. Guy hoped they didn’t have far to go.

  A middle-aged woman with alarmingly black hair and a body like a linebacker sat in the front passenger seat, wearing a red wool coat and a scarf almost as black as her hair. She, unlike her son, was smiling.

  “Hello,” she greete
d Guy as he climbed in the back. “You must be our new judge.”

  “Just for this time,” Guy said. “I guess one of your regulars got sick and I’m filling in. I’m Guy... Joe Ford.”

  Bentley was in the car now and looking at Guy in the rearview mirror, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. Great.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Joe. I’m Mary Bentley, Morris’s mother. I have a fruitcake entered in the contest. Do you like fruitcake?”

  Oh boy. “Who doesn’t like fruitcake?” Guy hedged.

  “A lot of people don’t.” She made it sound like a crime.

  “That’s ’cause they never had yours,” Morris said to her.

  Did he really believe that or was he lying? Either way, it made him a good son.

  “This is quite the event,” Mary Bentley informed Guy. “Everyone in town turns out.”

  “So I hear,” he said.

  “And it’s for such a good cause. Christmas from the Heart helps so many people.”

  So he kept hearing. “Sounds like it.”

  Too bad he hadn’t done some research into the organization before cutting them loose. But honestly, there was only so much money to go around, and, curse it all, it wasn’t like Hightower hadn’t given anything to anyone.

  For their own ulterior motives. He looked out the window at the houses they were passing. It sure wasn’t the Highlands or Mercer Island. These people were struggling to find their footing in an ever-changing economy.

  Well, everyone was struggling, even businesses that looked successful.

  “Where are you from?” asked Mrs. Bentley.

  “Seattle.”

  “I grew up in Seattle,” she said. “It’s certainly changed from when I was a girl. And not for the better,” she added. “So overpopulated and the freeways are a mess.”

  “It is a busy city,” Guy said. Yeah, traffic wasn’t good, but that didn’t bother him. He liked the way the city had grown, liked the action.

  “But I guess I’ve always been a small-town girl at heart,” she continued.

  “Nothing wrong with small towns,” added her son.

  And this small town was where he would live his whole life and be perfectly happy. He’d never think to take Livi Berg to Paris.

  They pulled up in front of a large building with a metal roof that looked like a log cabin on steroids. It was massive and had an equally massive front porch running along its front. The community hall.

  The event hadn’t even started yet but already the parking lot was full—older-model cars, many with ski racks, a Prius or two, a ton of trucks with gun racks to remind him that he was in hunting country. Here was the heartbeat of the town. He could picture square dances and birthday parties taking place inside. Probably some anniversary parties and wedding receptions, too.

  And fruitcake competitions.

  Oh boy. Let the fun begin.

  11

  Livi was supervising the silent auction table when Joe Ford walked in. Even casually dressed he stood out from the crowd. A lot of men were present in jeans and sweaters and boots but his clothes plainly said, “I don’t shop where the rest of you shop.” He looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of GQ, and looking at him made her mouth water.

  “Oh my gosh, is that the guy you were telling me about?” asked Kate, who was standing next to her.

  “It is.”

  “You said he was good-looking but you didn’t say hot enough to set this whole place on fire. I can’t believe he doesn’t have a girlfriend. He must be gay.”

  Livi remembered those two kisses they’d shared. “I don’t think so.”

  “How do you know?”

  Livi could feel a glow overtaking her cheeks that had nothing to do with the holidays.

  Kate’s eyes narrowed. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  It was too late to tell her now. Joe was fast approaching, Mrs. Bentley and a cranky-looking Morris flanking him.

  “I’ll tell you later,” she said, and hurried forward to welcome him, the little drummer boy banging around in her chest.

  * * *

  The community hall was big, but once Guy got inside it seemed to shrink. Trussed up in tinsel and little white lights, the place was a holiday beehive, packed with people and thrumming with activity.

  A quartet dressed like Dickens carolers stood in one corner singing “Deck the Halls,” not that you could hear them that well above the various conversations taking place, the laughter and the excited kids running around whooping.

  On the opposite side of the room, a guy in a cheap Santa suit sat on an ancient carved chair next to a huge Christmas tree taking present requests from kids who had yet to be turned loose. A chunky woman in an elf costume, probably his wife, was taking pictures.

  People were lined up in front of a booth on another side of the hall, and Guy figured that was where everyone was bartering their services.

  The silent auction items had been set up in another section of the hall, a long table spread with all manner of gift baskets and certificates. A crowd of happy fruitcake fans circled it, checking out the various offerings.

  There were other booths as well, selling hot cider and cocoa, pretzels, corn dogs and popcorn and the aromas all mingled and danced on the air.

  By the main door sat a giant box painted green with a huge red ribbon around it. Judging from the whiteboard set up next to it, already bearing names and numbers, that had to be the donation box. The woman he recognized as Livi’s assistant was standing next to it, greeting people.

  Livi’s father and another man were down by the stage, the main attraction, setting up a final row of chairs for the audience. The front of the stage was festooned with cedar garlands while on the stage itself, off to one side stood a red cloth-draped table displaying the various fruitcakes that had been entered, a good dozen. A dozen fruitcakes to sample. What circle of hell did that qualify for? On the other side was the judges’ table, complete with plates, forks, napkins and bottled water, as well as notepads and pencils and what looked like three-by-five notecards. A microphone had been set up in the center for whoever would be MC for the event.

  And here came Olivia Berg. She looked like the spirit of Christmas in her clingy red dress, a Santa hat perched on her head. He wanted to reach out and tug on a lock of that curly hair. Instead, he stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets.

  “Everything looks so festive,” Mrs. Bentley said to her.

  “I’m really proud of what a good job our decorating committee did this year, especially when we were on such a tight budget,” Livi said.

  That again. It always came down to money. Guy managed a weak smile.

  Livi’s smile was anything but weak. It was a hundred watts. This event was her baby and she was proud of it.

  “Hi, Livi,” called a little old man wearing slacks and tennis shoes and a tie populated with elves over a shirt that looked well-worn.

  “Hi, Mr. Crandall. You’re looking festive,” she called back.

  “’Tis the season.” He finished with a wave and moved on.

  Another man stopped by. “Just made my donation for this year,” he told her.

  “I knew we could count on you, Gerald,” she said, and emphasized her gratitude with a friendly hug.

  Livi Berg was good at what she did. Guy could picture her at a fund-raiser held someplace like the Four Seasons, schmoozing with five-hundred-dollar-a-plate diners. That was where she needed to be. She was picking up crumbs when she should be at the main table.

  Well, she’d been at the Hightower table and look how much good that had done her. The generosity of these simple people and small business owners who were giving because they wanted to, not because they had to in order to maintain a good image, put him to shame.

  “Are you all ready for your judging duties?” she asked Guy.
/>
  “I don’t know. That’s a lot of fruitcake.”

  “I could have done it,” Morris said. “If you’d just asked me.”

  “Morris, your mom has a fruitcake entered. You’d be biased.”

  With his mother standing right next to him Morris wisely didn’t argue with that. Instead, he said a sullen, “I’m gonna go help your dad set up chairs.”

  “And I’d better introduce you to the other judges,” Livi said to Guy. “Will you excuse us, Mrs. Bentley?”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Bentley said, and wandered off in the direction of the silent auction table.

  “This is quite a production,” Guy said to Olivia as they made their way through the crowd.

  “It is,” she said. “This is our third year and it just keeps getting bigger and better. We’ve got people coming from as far away as Arlington now. Which is probably why the motel was full.”

  “For fruitcake,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “For prizes to be won,” she said. “And the fun.”

  They got to the base of the stage, where two women stood chatting. One was ancient, stooped, with gnarled hands, wrinkles on top of wrinkles and white hair. She was wearing red slacks, a black sweater populated with penguins and a necklace of blinking Christmas lights. The woman next to her didn’t look much older than Guy. She was slender, had straight brown hair, a nice face and an equally nice smile. If Livi hadn’t come up beside her he’d have thought she was pretty good-looking. Next to Olivia Berg she faded to background.

  “Joe, I’d like you to meet Tillie Henderson, who owns Tillie’s Teapot,” Livi said, motioning to the older woman. “It’s the best tearoom for miles around.”

  Guy could already picture it—a chick-centric place with lace curtains and tables dressed up with fancy china like that Limoges chocolate pot sitting in his car. It sounded like the kind of place his mom would love.

  “It’s the only tearoom for miles around,” Tillie said. She held out an arthritic hand for Guy to take. “Nice to meet you.”