by Leah Atwood
Which this absolutely was not.
Chicken Marsala would work. She used to make it often, and could recall the recipe from heart—the one her parents’ chef had given her that substituted broth, grape juice, and sherry vinegar for marsala wine, and it tasted better than the real deal. Herb roasted potatoes, a side salad, and garlic bread would complete the meal. She made a list of ingredients and checked off what she already had in her kitchen. Except for the chicken and lettuce, she’d have to pick up everything else.
She should buy a few drinks as well. Other than coffee and hot cocoa, she didn’t know what he liked. If she picked up a few flavors of soda, brewed a pitcher of tea, and bought a jug of lemonade, that should cover most the bases. Whatever she didn’t use, she’d donate to the shelter.
Let’s get this done. The frigid air had been warmed by the sun, leaving the normal cold in its wake. Zoe threw her coat on but didn’t bother with gloves or a scarf. She drove to the grocery store, thinking about everything except tonight’s dinner. Thank goodness she had a list, or she’d forget what she needed with her mind juggling a cacophony of thoughts.
The crowd didn’t help matters. In all her life, she’d never seen a grocery store this busy at three-thirty on a Monday afternoon. Where did all the customers come from? It wasn’t as though tomorrow was Christmas or Christmas Eve.
Advent? But that began last week. Although the park held events every night leading up to Christmas, the big kickoff was on December first. Maybe there wasn’t any correlation between the crowds and an event, and everyone happened to go at the same time. Either way, she rushed through the aisles the best she could and claimed a spot in line. In the seasonal aisle, she added two boxes of candy canes to her cart. The shipment she’d ordered online had been unexpectedly delayed until Wednesday, and she didn’t want to run out tomorrow night.
The line inched forward. She silently estimated the number of items in each cart ahead of her. On any other day, she’d wait without caring, but tonight she had plans. For the first time in years, she’d entertain at her place, and the meal had to be perfect.
As she drove home, and then carried the bags up the stairs, qualms turned to excitement. The thrill of making dinner for a guest made a fresh appearance, and she’d forgotten how much she loved having people over. Why had it taken her five years to invite a guest over to share her table? She’d eaten at Mrs. Jacobs’ house a handful of times and had gone to dinner with the ladies from church on occasion, but no one had come to her apartment to eat.
She set the brown bags on the counter and nudged the cats down when they batted at them. Before she started food prep, she wiped down the counters with a disinfectant spray. Thanks, cats, for having no concept of boundaries. They peered up at her from the cold tile floor with pitiful looks that caused Zoe to laugh. “Yes, you two are cute, but that doesn’t give you free reign of any area that food touches.”
She went to the pantry and retrieved her apron from the hook behind the door. It was a kitschy garment that she’d won in last year’s Sunday school white elephant exchange, but the three-dimensional Christmas bows and ribbon sewn on the apron protected her clothes as she cooked.
Immersed in cooking, arranging the salad in a colorful, artful manner, and setting the table, she lost track of time. She’d just finished changing out the poinsettia centerpiece for a green glass vase with holly berries sticking out when the doorbell rang. She ran to answer it, shocked to see Donovan through the peephole. Eek. What time is it? Glancing up, she saw the time in the thermostat—7:08. How can it be this late already? She hadn’t had time to change her clothes or fix her hair, which surely looked a mess.
It’s not like I’m trying to impress him. With that reinstated confirmation, she unlocked the door and let him in.
His eyes twinkled. “Nice apron.”
Heat rocketed to her cheeks as she yanked the strings and tugged it off. “I forgot I had it on. It was a gag gift.”
“Oh.” His face fell. “My mom has one exactly like it. I bought it for her last year.”
Way to stick your foot in your mouth, Zoe. Great start to the evening. “It’s festive and helps to put me in a Christmassy mood.”
Donovan broke into laughter. “I’m teasing—you don’t have to look so horrified. Mom would swat me if I brought that home to her.”
“That was cruel.” She tossed him the apron. “Just for that, I’m giving it to you.”
His eyes shifted to where it had landed on top of the bakery boxes and grinned. “You really shouldn’t have.”
“You’re right. The punishment doesn’t fit the crime.” She eyed the boxes. “How about you hand over the desserts instead?”
“That’s restitution I don’t mind paying.” He draped the apron over a chair and transferred the boxes to her outstretched hands.
She lifted a lid and inhaled the scent of pumpkin, cinnamon, and cream cheese. “Can we skip straight to dessert?”
“We’re adults.” He wiggled his brows. “We get to make the rules.”
“Good point, but I worked too hard on dinner for it to get cold.” She smiled and closed the lid before she caved and cut a slice.
“Whatever’s cooking smells great. I followed my nose to your apartment.” He sniffed as if to make a point. “What did you make?”
“Chicken Marsala with roasted red potatoes and a salad.”
“I’ve never had chicken Marsala, but I can’t wait to try it.”
“What would you like to drink? Many people pair it with a Pinot Noir, but I don’t bring wine in the house or any alcohol.” The way she said it sounded self-righteous to her, and she hurried to explain herself. “After my family was killed by a drunk driver, I banned all alcohol. Maybe it’s a bit extreme, but it’s a reminder of what took my daughter, husband, and sister.”
“You don’t have to justify your decision, and for the record, I don’t drink. Alcoholism runs on my dad’s side of the family, so I’ve always kept my distance.” His smile put her at ease. “Do you have any iced tea?”
She nodded, pleased she could honor his request. “Freshly brewed an hour ago.”
“I’ll take a glass of that. What can I help with?”
“Everything is under control.” The apron on the chair caught her eye, and she pointed to the pantry. “You could hang the apron up in there for me if you don’t mind.”
A mischievous gleam shone in his eyes. “I thought it was mine now?”
“Then, by all means, take it. Be my guest.”
He smirked. “I am your guest.”
She erupted into laughter. Who knew a tacky apron could be an icebreaker. Any remnants of anxiety in her faded away, and she settled in to enjoy the evening.
Chapter Eight
Janine from Human Resources stopped Donovan in the hall. “I didn’t get your RSVP to the annual Christmas party, and the caterer needs the final tally by tonight.”
“Can I let you know this afternoon?”
She nodded with reluctance. “As soon as possible, please.”
“You can put me down for sure, but I don’t know about the plus one.”
“All right.” Janine turned and marched toward her office. Her no-nonsense personality grated on the nerves of most the staff, but Donovan had come to understand her as a dedicated professional.
He dropped off a stack of papers with the office assistant who would shred them, and then he returned to his office. He’d avoided thoughts of the Christmas party, but he had to make a decision. In past years, the event had always been a simple party, but the Talbots, who owned the paper, wanted to have a Christmas gala this year to mark the one-hundredth year of the paper.
Didn’t a gala need more than the thirty people employed by The Daily Nativity? Even with guests and family, the total wouldn’t exceed seventy-five, if that. The official invites had mentioned special guests from throughout the years so that could add a substantial number in attendance. It wasn’t that he was opposed to the gala itself—he applau
ded the Talbots for going a new route—but how much fun would it be without a date? Everyone he’d talked to so far would attend with their spouse or significant other. Those not in a relationship had invited a friend. He’d be the third wheel in conversation that night.
But to ask a woman for a date? He’d dated very little since his divorce. At first, he’d grieved the loss of his marriage and wasn’t interested. Then fear took hold, and he kept himself at a distance, which didn’t lend itself to meaningful dates. He could count on his hands the total dates he’d gone on in the last several years, and only two of those had produced a second date. None a third.
He could ask Zoe. Would she say yes? They’d formed a solid friendship in the last three weeks. Asking her could substantially dent their comfort level. But no other woman came to mind. Not only that, he wanted to attend with Zoe. She made him laugh and brought joy back to those lonely evenings. They’d shared many conversations over the course of their trips around town, but found peace in the quiet moments as well.
Tapping his fingers on the old metal desk, he stared at his phone. Just call her and ask. Why did he revert fifteen years in age when it came to Zoe? Because you like her. It was true. If he ever had a serious relationship again, he’d want it to be with someone like her. Someone well grounded, compassionate, selfless.
Not to mention stunning. The beauty of her spirit only enhanced the beauty of her outward appearance. The shade of her brown hair matched the dark chocolate bottom of the peppermint bark she loved so much. Several times a few strands had brushed against him and were as silky as they appeared. Her gray eyes held little back, and she let her emotions show.
Occasionally sadness filled them, for which he couldn’t fault or judge. His heart went out to her, and he prayed he never experienced the loss of a child. Last Wednesday, she’d pulled out a photo album and showed him her favorite pictures. Putting a face to Aubrey had ripped his emotions to shreds. He’d gone home, held a picture of him and Brody, and thanked God for every second they’d had to spend together.
I’m going to do it. I’m going to invite her. As a friend though. I like her, but neither of us is ready for anything more than friendship. But maybe soon.
Mind made up, he reached for his phone and called Zoe before he found a reason to procrastinate again. The line rang and rang until her voicemail picked up. He let out a low growl—he hadn’t been prepared to leave a message. Quickly realigning his thoughts, he waited for the beep, then left a message. “Hi Zoe, it’s me. I had a favor to ask, but if you can’t, it’s fine. Anyway, my company is having their annual Christmas party on Friday, and I have to RSVP by tonight. Sorry for the short notice, but I wasn’t sure if you’d want to go and didn’t want to pressure you, which I guess backfired by asking you two days before. If you’d like to go, give me a call by four this afternoon, please. Thanks. Otherwise, I’ll see you tonight.”
He hung up and pounded his head against his desk, embarrassed by how moronic he’d sounded. He made his living with words, yet his invitation had come out bumbled and unprofessional. If he’d heard his own message from someone else asking him to an event, he’d consider declining. Calling back and offering a lame explanation—had she answered, he wouldn’t have been thrown off and could have issued a more polished invitation—would only make the situation worse, so all he could do was wait.
Turning his focus to work, he typed the first lines of his latest article. For once, he was glad to be working at the office instead of from home. He didn’t need any extra distractions while he stewed over a return call from Zoe. He flipped through his notes from this morning’s chamber of commerce meeting and underlined the highlights of the rezoning debate which would go before the city council next month.
When he had a strong opinion on an issue, his job became more difficult. Though he believed extending city limits would benefit Nativity, he had to write a neutral article that didn’t reflect his bias. He typed five more lines, then stopped to reread what he’d written. The first paragraph was easy. Now came the more difficult task of elaborating in facts without adding an opinion.
He scribbled a note and moved his hand back to the keyboard, about to write again when his phone rang. His pulse quickened. Zoe.
“I just got your message,” she answered. “I spent the morning at the shelter sorting through a large donation of clothes and linens that came in.”
That’s right. She’d mentioned that last night, but in his nervousness, he’d forgotten they’d arrived. “That’s great. Was it what you needed to cover the needs?”
“Yes. We’d put out a call for donations in specific sizes and received entire wardrobes for our newest ladies.” Gratitude lifted her voice to a melodic tone. “Good quality clothes at that. Too often we’re treated like a dumpster and get clothes with stains and holes that aren’t fit to wear. We want to give back dignity to our guests, and that won’t do it.”
He cringed. He’d been guilty a time or two of throwing items in a bag without paying attention to their condition. “And the bedding?”
“Thirty full sets. Enough for the new bunks, and extras to use as needed.”
“I’m happy to hear.” He flipped to a new page of his notebook and wrote a reminder to run an idea by his boss. They hadn’t run an article about the shelter in a while, and he believed the community would appreciate an update on their growth.
“So…” Zoe drew out the word in a long breath. “What’s this Christmas party?”
Her tone gave no indication of her answer, which only heightened his awareness that he wanted her to say yes. “This one will be fancier than other years. The Talbots are calling it a gala and are using the occasion to celebrate one hundred years of The Daily Nativity.”
“I haven’t been to an event like that in ages.” Her voice took on a bittersweet tone.
“They’re having ballroom dancing with live entertainment.” When he heard her gasp of delight, he clarified. “Nativity High Orchestra is playing, but to be fair, they’ve won several state competitions and one national one.”
“I’ve heard them. Many of them will go on to have successful careers in music if they choose.”
That meant a lot coming from someone who’d often attended the New York Philharmonic.
“Dinner will also be served, catered by Hepburn’s.”
“Say no more.”
His cheeks hurt from the width of his smile. “Does that mean you’ll come?”
“Yes. I haven’t had a night out in ages, and it sounds fun. What is the dress code?”
“Festive.” Whatever that meant exactly. He rolled his eyes at the lack of clarity.
“Somewhere between black-tie and garden attire?”
“Yes.” Sounded good to him, and she’d know more about these things.
“Wait, don’t you have Brody Friday night?”
The spark of joy at her acceptance dimmed. “His mom’s church is having a Christmas party for the kids, so I’ll pick him up Saturday morning.”
“I’m sorry. I know you’ll miss that time with him.”
“It’s okay. As a compromise, I’ll get him Sunday night and take him to school Monday morning. I’ll be late to work, but I have an understanding boss.”
“Oh good. I’m glad it worked out.”
“Me, too.” The joy returned with the reminder he wouldn’t lose time with his son, it was simply shifted. “I need to turn in our meal preferences. The options are parmesan crusted pork tenderloin or chicken Provencal.”
She clucked her tongue. “Tough decision.”
“I can put in one of each. That way you can choose what you’re in the mood for that night, and I’ll take the other.”
“What if we both want the same thing?”
He chuckled. “I can’t go wrong with either choice. I’ve had them both, and my stomach will be happy, regardless.”
“We’ll go with your plan. I’ve always been terrible at decision making.” She laughed nervously. “I either can’t make
one or do so impulsively. There’s no happy medium. Sometimes it works out though, like moving to Nativity.”
“I’d say you’re doing all right, no matter how you make your decision.” The small clock on his computer caught his eye. “I have to get back to work, but we’ll finalize plans tonight.”
“Sounds good. Don’t stop for a drink. I picked up a tin of Smore’s Hot Cocoa for us to try.”
“Can’t wait. I’ll see you soon.”
He ended the call and sucked in a breath until his lungs couldn’t hold any more air. He had a date. Not an official one, but a date nonetheless. His mind spun with the possibilities, and he quickly compiled a list of what he’d have to do beforehand. Did men still give flowers on a first date? He didn’t care—he would. Maybe he’d be different and bring her a poinsettia. Weren’t they dangerous for cats? Scratch that idea. He’d come up with something before then.
Chapter Nine
Zoe appraised herself in the mirror and smiled at the image reflected. She hadn’t felt this alive since before she’d moved to Nativity. Her new dress shimmered against the light of her vanity. The cream-colored gown flowed to her ankles and matched the satin pumps she’d found in her closet. Red lace trim sewn along the top of the bodice created a festive holiday accent.
She’d gone to the salon earlier and had her hair professionally styled. The stylist had swept her bangs to the side and pulled the rest into a chignon full of loose curls, courtesy of a professional grade curling iron and hair product. Too bad she couldn’t easily reproduce the look on her own—her straight hair rebelled at the very mention of curls.
Dressed, hair and makeup finished, all she had left to do was accessorize. She knew the perfect set of jewelry to wear, but she’d hesitated to put them on. They were the last gift given to her by Tori. She’d kept them hidden at the bottom of her jewelry box, along with the bracelet from Damien that had been recovered from the scene. She couldn’t bear to wear it, nor could she get rid of it.
