Montana Christmas Magic

by Casey Dawes

  Maybe it was a good sign when she looked at the menu and grinned.

  “I’m going to have a hamburger.”

  He glanced at the item. Should he let her know it was served on an English muffin?

  Probably not. Let her enjoy her fantasy of a burger and beer.

  “So how can we make this work?” he asked after they’d ordered.

  “I don’t know.” She played with the flatware around her salad plate.

  “C’mon, Julie. We’ve known each other long enough not to play games. We can figure it out.”

  “Do we have to talk about it now?”

  God, why was she being so difficult?

  “Sue Anne helped me set up a basic website for my art.”

  “That’s great. Those are good things.” He sipped his wine and stared at the decor, not really seeing anything. There was a big “but” coming.

  “I can’t paint,” she mumbled. “It’s not only the western scenes. Nothing I do looks right.”

  “Give yourself a chance. You’ve only been here a month.”

  “I’ve tried, Logan. I don’t fit here.” She raised her head and waved around the room. “This is amazing. It’s an interesting city with lots to do, but it’s also very easy to lose who you are. And I’m in real danger of doing that.” Her brown eyes were dark with determination.

  She paused a beat.

  “And so are you.”

  “I grew up here. How can I lose myself?”

  “You’re different here,” she said. “Maybe you’re right and this is the real you—a racket-wielding prep-school graduate with perfect teeth and a trendy haircut. But it’s not the man ... the man I was starting to ... well ... fall in love with in Montana.”

  Her statement landed in the middle of them, like a living creature he’d never seen the likes of before.

  She’d done it. She’d said the L word.

  Stunned into silence, he didn’t know what to say or do. He was being who he’d always been, living the life he’d planned in college. The time in the West had been an aberration, not this.

  His mother was probably right. He needed a woman who understood his lifestyle, not someone he was trying to mold into My Fair Lady.

  His heart felt like a big fist was crushing it.

  “You haven’t given it a chance,” he objected without much effort. They had nothing in common. He’d been a fool to think they could make it work. “Stay until Christmas.”

  The waitress slid their meals in front of them.

  “I can’t. It’s too pretentious here for me.” Tears dribbled down her cheeks. “I mean—who puts a hamburger on a muffin?” She waved at his dish of cheesy noodles and lobster. “In my life, macaroni and cheese comes from a box ... or from your mother’s oven loaded with tomatoes and ham. How does someone think of adding lobster to a basic comfort food?” She forced a wan smile, but the tears continued to fall.

  “What can I do?” Even after the accident, he hadn’t cried. Now his eyes were watering. “We can go to your folks’ for Thanksgiving and then come back here for Christmas, so you can see the beauty of the city in the season.” Compromise. That was the ticket.

  If anything, her tears streamed harder. She shook her head.

  “I don’t want Christmas in New York,” she said with a sob. “What we had at home was real.”

  “Like macaroni and cheese in a box.” Maybe humor would keep away the words he was afraid she was going to say.

  “Yeah.” The half smile. A slight slowing of the streams down her face.

  “I’ve tried. I really have,” she said. “But I can’t work here. And if I can’t paint, I’m not really alive. It took me a long time to realize that, but now that I have, I know I can’t sacrifice it for anyone, no matter how much I want to make this relationship work. And I do.” Her hand touched his briefly, like a butterfly’s wings.

  He swallowed, and his face slackened.

  “I want to be home for the holidays. I want Christmas in Montana.” She laid her napkin beside her plate and stood. Before she walked out the door, her fingers caressed his lips with the same butterfly kiss.

  Chapter 20

  In the days after Julie left, Logan threw himself into tennis, slamming balls with such ferocity that his coach made him lay off for a few days.

  “You’re going to destroy all the good work you did in Montana,” he said. “I’m benching you for the rest of the week. See you Monday.”

  Logan took to the streets, wandering up and down, anything to keep out of the apartment that still smelled of Julie—fresh air and vanilla—where he spent hours staring at the painting she’d created for him.

  In his rambles a week after that disastrous dinner, he passed a dimly lit storefront that somehow seemed familiar. He was near his old prep academy, and a smile tightened his lips. Julie hadn’t been keen on his prep-school looks.

  Didn’t matter now.

  He peered through the window. Gleaming furniture in a variety of designs sat in no particular system on the floor. A rocker caught his eye, its smooth lines begging for a front porch, a knitter, and a cat. Pulled by something he didn’t understand, he opened the door.

  “In the back!” a voice called from a door that was halfway ajar. It sounded familiar as well.

  He threaded through the furniture, pausing to rub his hands over the rocker. His hands were growing calluses in different spots now, and he was losing the hammer-roughened areas he’d acquired over the summer.

  He needed to put the damn place on the market. He wasn’t living there without Julie. Hell, he’d never return to the damn state again if he could help it.

  Would he ever hear from her again?

  A balding man with a monk-style tonsure stood at the worktable, coaxing a final shape from a hunk of wood with a coping saw. He glanced at Logan and smiled through the safety goggles he wore.

  “I was wondering when you were finally going to come to your senses,” he said. “The table needs some extra sanding. Sandpaper’s in the cubby. Extra fine.” He pointed to a stack of small shelves, similar to teacher’s mailboxes in his school’s office.

  For a full minute, Logan just stared at him.

  No. It couldn’t be. The furniture maker he’d apprenticed with had been way downtown, in the old meatpacking area.

  But there were the same bright blue eyes. In spite of the fact that his hair had gone white and he was missing a huge chunk of it, Logan recognized him. He’d never forgotten Jake Abernathy’s hands.

  Without knowing why, he slipped off his leather jacket and hung it on the rocker in the other room, where it would be protected from the dust. He picked up the sandpaper and went to work, just as the old man had taught him over a decade ago.

  Fifteen minutes went by before he was comfortable enough to say anything.

  “I went to Montana, you know.”

  Abernathy nodded. “I remember you used to visit your uncle. How is he?”

  “He passed away soon after I got there.”

  “Happens.”

  The sounds of wood being shaped played against the soft tones of classical music, seeping into Logan’s soul and reminding him of windswept prairies and a woman’s soft hair against his.

  Good thing they hadn’t made love. The ache would be unbearable then.

  “What made you give up the tennis thing? You were bound and determined to be the next up-and-comer.”

  “I haven’t. It’s just my coach made me take a break for a few days. I was wandering around and stumbled across your place.”

  “Happy you did.”

  Swoosh and scratch against violins. The smell of fresh wood tickled his nose. As he worked, he began to talk. For the first time, he told another human being the entire story, from waking up in the hospital after the crash to Julie’s exit from the restaurant the previous week.

  “She didn’t ask me to take her to the airport,” he said quietly. “Far as I know, she arranged for her stuff to be shipped back and caught a cab to LaGua
rdia.”

  Jake nodded but didn’t say anything.

  Logan concentrated on the table. He’d just spilled his guts to a stranger he hadn’t seen in a very long time.

  “Don’t forget to move,” Jake said. “Sanding in one spot makes it uneven.”

  That’s what his life was now—uneven. Rootlessness plagued him, and he had no desire to see anyone. He could drive through tennis, forgetting he was anything but a ball-hitting machine, but that wasn’t living.

  The routine of sanding, smoothing, and checking his work lulled him into another space where the air was crisp and the sun reflected every inch of the big sky across the land. He missed Hobo.

  In a city with millions of people, he was more alone than he’d been on Willy’s ranch.

  His ranch.

  It was time to grow up. He’d made a commitment to his tennis coach to train and to help out with coaching less fortunate kids on the game.

  He’d call the attorney tomorrow morning and tell him to get the process started.

  It was time to put his sojourn in another land behind him and deal with reality.

  • • •

  She was home.

  Julie pushed the covers aside and snuggled her childhood teddy bear on the pillow. The sun was streaming through the windows, and she could tell from the silence of the house that she was alone.

  Her dad had paid for her airline ticket. So far they hadn’t questioned her about what she intended to do with her life.

  Today she’d start. It was the perfect day to pull out her camera and sketchpad and drive to places she’d haunted since she was a little kid. She had work to do. Before Julie left the city, the gallery owner had invited her to keep in touch. She didn’t have to be a New Yorker to be shown.

  Both the Stevensville and Phillipsburg galleries had sold her paintings, and she’d been able to boost her savings. The money wasn’t huge, but it was a start, enough to give her hope she’d be able to move someplace on her own someday.

  At her first stop, she was lucky enough to encounter three whitetail deer that were busy foraging in a freshly harvested cornfield. With winter approaching, they were concentrating on filling their stomachs and ignored her.

  An ache lingered from Logan’s loss, but in time it would fade. All she needed was this land and her people to make her whole again. Someday, maybe, she’d be brave enough to love again.

  Drawing on the practice she’d done while she was away, she sketched several variations of the animals, pleased that they bore a resemblance to deer. A lone cottonwood tree in the distance stood sentinel, and she played with that, too.

  Stopping in Lewistown, she picked up a few toiletries and some supplies for dinner, a surprise and thank-you to her parents.

  “Hi, Mom,” she said as she walked into the kitchen. “Good day?”

  “Definitely. My favorite girl has come home. How could it be anything else?”

  “I never knew I was your favorite. Better not let the others hear you say that.”

  “You’re my favorite because you’re the one in my kitchen right now. The others will have their turn.” Her mother spotted the bag of groceries. “What’s that?”

  “I’m cooking.”

  “Since when do you cook?”

  “I’ve been fending for myself for a few years now, Mom. I did pick up some skills from you.” She smiled. “It’s my signature dish.”

  “Ah ... spaghetti. It was always your special dinner. What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing. Take a nap, get an extra hour of knitting in, or sit down and keep me company.”

  “My pleasure.” Her mother grabbed a glass of water and sat at the kitchen table. While Julie cooked, they made amiable small talk about their day. Julie had said very little about New York, and her mother hadn’t pressed.

  “I’m so proud of you, honey. Your dad and I both are.”

  “Even though I didn’t stay home and add to the family tree?”

  “It’s better you follow your heart.”

  That heart was a little bruised right now.

  “How are you really doing, Julie?” Her mother’s voice was soft.

  Julie added the sliced mushrooms to the frying pan and stirred.

  “I’ve been better,” she admitted. “I wish things had turned out differently, but I couldn’t bear living in the city or being around what the city made him another minute.”

  “He changed that much?”

  “It was subtle. His basic character was the same as it had been on the ranch, but he seemed more driven and more artificial. It was as if being here freed him from the need to wear a mask to protect himself.”

  “It can’t be easy to be ‘on’ for tennis fans. I expect they can either be really nice or turn on you if they think you’re not doing the right thing. Add that to the continual pressure of society attitudes. I mean, it’s bad enough here at the knitting circle. There are always a few ladies who make themselves more important than they need to be when a stranger is around.”

  Julie chuckled.

  Once the meat, vegetables, and tomato sauce were simmering nicely, she grabbed her own glass of water and sat across from her mom.

  “Thanks for letting me stay,” she said. “I thought about going back to my old job and apartment. It was still open, but it felt too much like returning with my tail between my legs. I guess I’m not sure what to do next. I can’t stay here forever.”

  “Take your time, honey.” Her mother patted her hand. “You and your dad were always good at figuring things out together. After dinner, I’ll clean up and you go chat with him out in the workshop. I’m sure you’ll come up with some ideas. Don’t forget your friend Sue Anne is a go-getter. Brainstorming with her may help.”

  All good suggestions. She nodded.

  “Anyone home?” Her father pushed open the back door, a bottle of wine in his hand. “Chianti for spaghetti!”

  His fake Italian accent made her laugh. “How did you know?”

  “Your mother texted me.”

  “You text?”

  Her mother waved her hand and stood. “All my friends are doing it. I didn’t want to be left behind.” She handed her father a corkscrew and got plates out for dinner. “I figured we could eat in the kitchen. Nice and homey.”

  “Sounds good.” Her father handed her back the open bottle with a kiss on the cheek. “How is my beautiful bride this evening?”

  “If you guys are going to get all mushy on me, why don’t you go into the living room while I finish up?”

  Her father laughed and put his arm around his wife. “I think we’ll do just that.”

  They were sweet. That’s what she needed—a man like her father. Wasn’t that what all little girls wanted eventually? Unless their father was a brute, of course.

  Once dinner was over, she helped her mother clear the table before getting her sketchpad and heading out to the workshop.

  “Daddy, let me show you the sketches I made today. I’ve got some ideas for the next paintings. I want to do a set—three pieces that are similar, but in different parts of the day, with different animals in each.”

  “I thought you shied away from creatures,” he said as he took the book.

  “I’ve been practicing.”

  He paged through the book, taking time to study the sketches at the end.

  “These are really, really good. The only thing you might consider is a little more tension in their muscles. They’re always ready for fight or flight.”

  “Not these three.” She laughed. “They had only one thing on their minds.”

  “Yeah. Fill up before hunting season arrives.”

  “But I’ll keep it in mind.” She took her customary spot in the corner and watched her father work on repairing the leg of a spindly desk. Unable to keep her hands still, she started a sketch of his face. Human beings were another subject she tended to do reluctantly. She tamped down the urge to look at the ones she’d done of Logan in the beginning of the book.
<
br />   Eventually, she needed to move on. She only allowed herself so much time a day to wallow in self-pity, and she’d already used up her daily allotment.

  “Remember that retreat idea I had?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you think it’s viable?”

  “Business plan looks good.” Using a delicate chisel, he gently took out a slice of wood in the new piece he was creating to serve as the new joint.

  “Before I do all that work, I want to know if you can see anything that should steer me in a different direction.” This was a risky operation, requiring a lot of up-front investment.

  Money she had no idea how she’d get.

  But she’d figure it out.

  “It does tie you to one place,” he pointed out. “Difficult to travel if you want to paint other scenes.”

  “I’ve had enough travel for now.”

  “I can see that.” He grinned at her. “My concern is you taking on that much debt. Has something like this been done before?”

  “Yes. I checked into it while I was in New York.” When she was still trying to get Logan excited about the idea.

  The ache in her heart intensified for a few seconds.

  Her father stopped fussing with the joint.

  “Okay. I can see you are like you were as a kid—get an idea in your head and nothing was going to stop you from doing it.” He smiled. “You always had a quiet intensity—not making a big deal about things, but determinedly going after them, one step at a time.”

  Like the summer she decided to save up for her first grown-up art supplies—oils, brushes, and canvas. She had a lemonade stand by every Little League game, along with scrapes and black-and-blue marks from tugging her supplies around town.

  Yep. Determined.

  “The weakest part of your plan is the marketing. How are you going to get the word out? So here’s what I want you to do. Spend the next two weeks diving into the industry—figure out which marketing strategies would work for you and which wouldn’t. Create a vision on paper for me. Yes, I want words, but if sketches can convey what you imagine, do it.”

  Of course.

  She paced the small space. A logo. She needed a logo and a website. Maybe some catchy ads in artists’ magazines. Join some online artists’ groups. Paint a picture of the vision she had.