Christmas on Candy Cane Lane

by Sheila Roberts

  Those had been good times. Ivy sighed yet again and rang the doorbell.

  A moment later the door opened, and there stood Tilda, a slight frown on her face. Behind her, two men and a couple of women were busy pulling up the carpet. The smell of cat urine wafted out to greet Ivy.

  “Hi. I saw the truck.” Wow, sparkling conversation starter.

  Tilda nodded.

  “I, uh, thought you guys could use something to eat.”

  Tilda took the offering and smiled just enough to be polite, but not enough to encourage friendly neighborhood relations. “Thanks.”

  “I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood,” Ivy persisted. Did pumpkin bread count as bribing an officer?

  “That was nice of you.” Now Tilda looked past Ivy. Her eyebrows dipped, and so did the corners of her mouth. “Do you know whose dog that is?”

  Ivy turned around to see Gizmo happily marking his territory—on Tilda Morrison’s rhododendrons.

  Chapter Four

  Hanging those outdoor lights not only makes your house festive, it also puts your whole family in a festive mood.

  —Muriel Sterling, Making the Holidays Bright: How to Have a Perfect Christmas

  Ivy gasped.

  So, she and the mutt, who was in the process of marking Tilda’s lawn, had a working relationship. Figured.

  “Gizmo, no!” Ivy hollered.

  Gizmo. Great name for the four-legged shrub destroyer who was now in the process of taking a dump right in the middle of Tilda’s lawn. “There’s a leash law, you know.” What a surprise that Ivy thought she was above it.

  Ivy looked at her as if she’d said the meanest thing in the world. “I know. I left him in the backyard.”

  “Maybe you should rename him Houdini.”

  “Thanks for the suggestion,” Ivy said irritably as she hurried to pick up the offender. Ah, yes, the true Ivy was surfacing once again. Pumpkin Bread Ivy had only been a facade. “Don’t worry,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll clean this up.”

  “You bet you will,” Tilda said under her breath.

  “Come look at this floor,” Georgie called to her.

  Tilda walked over to where the guys had torn up a big section of rug. “Wow, hardwood.” It needed some refinishing, but it was still gorgeous.

  “Total score, cuz.” Caitlin pointed to the plate in Tilda’s hand. “More gifts from the neighbors?”

  “My next-door neighbor, having a human moment.”

  “Sounds like you already know her,” Caitlin observed, taking the plate from Tilda.

  Tilda snorted. “I should. I’ve given her enough speeding tickets.”

  “Oooh, a rule breaker. Not fit to breathe the same air as Supercop,” teased Caitlin, helping herself to a slice of pumpkin bread.

  “She’s a princess,” Tilda said.

  “Princess or not, she sure makes good pumpkin bread.”

  “Then you’d better share,” Jamal said, coming over to grab a piece, too.”

  “Hey, how about the rest of us?” Enrico demanded, and Jamal took the plate from Caitlin and brought it over to the other two men.

  “It was nice of her to do that,” Georgie said between bites.

  “Everyone in this neighborhood is nice,” Tilda said.

  Caitlin elbowed her. “Enough to make your fillings hurt, isn’t it?”

  “Ha, ha.”

  The doorbell rang. “If it’s someone else bringing food, be friendly,” Caitlin told her.

  This time it was a wizened old lady with wrinkles crisscrossing her face. She was holding a small poinsettia in one hand and leaning on a cane with the other. She wore an ancient wool coat over some bright pink slacks, probably the kind with an elastic waistband, and her silver curls had been sprayed until they’d turned to stone.

  “Hello, my dear. I’m Elinore Walters, your other next-door neighbor. Welcome to the neighborhood,” she chirped, and handed over the plant.

  “Thanks,” Tilda said politely. When it came to houseplants, she had a black thumb, but it had been kind of the old lady to think of her, so she’d make an effort to keep this one alive. Anyway, it only needed to last through Christmas. She should be able to manage that.

  “Your mother told me you’d be moving in today.”

  “You know my mom?” Well, duh. Everyone in Icicle Falls knew her mom.

  “Oh, yes. My sister and I go to Pancake Haus for breakfast on Saturdays and have the senior special. Your sweet mother always stops by to visit with us. And she sent me such a beautiful card when my Emmit passed on.”

  Her mom was a lot of things—funny, smart, hard-working—but sweet? Somehow Tilda had never thought of Mom as sweet. She wasn’t even sure what to say to that. “That’s, uh, good to hear.”

  Mrs. Walters was looking unsteady in spite of that cane and Tilda found herself asking, “Would you like to come in?” And where’s she gonna sit, on the floor? Well, she could bring in a chair from the truck. But could Mrs. Walters stand long enough to wait for it?

  “Oh, no. I can see you’re busy,” the little woman said with a wave of her free hand. That seemed to upset her equilibrium and she swayed.

  Tilda caught her by the arm. “How about I walk you back home?”

  “Now, that’s very kind of you, but not necessary.”

  Tilda thought it was. “I don’t mind.”

  “All right, then. I’d appreciate that. I don’t do stairs so well.”

  And she was living in a two-story house? Oh, boy.

  They made it down the stairs, Mrs. Walters’s cane wobbling with each step. If they’d been racing a slug, the slug would have won.

  “I can’t tell you what a comfort it is to have a policewoman next door to me,” she said. “I think someone tried to break into my house last night. I heard a noise.”

  A burglar on Candy Cane Lane? Yeah, and Santa smoked pot. “Did you call 9-1-1?”

  “I did,” Mrs. Walters said with a nod. “Two nice officers came out and looked around. I’m afraid by the time they got here, though, it was too late. The burglar was nowhere to be seen.” She smiled up at Tilda. “I’ll feel so much safer with you next door.”

  “Mrs. Walters, if you see anyone, you need to call 9-1-1.”

  “But you can get here so much faster. What number should I call?”

  “Nine-one-one,” Tilda said, making the old woman frown. “You know, Mrs. Walters, I often have to work nights. I’m not always home.”

  Mrs. Walters looked as if she might cry. “Oh.”

  Tilda felt like a big police meanie. “But when I’m here, I’ll be happy to keep an eye on your place.” Had she really said that?

  Mrs. Walters beamed on her. “That’s very kind of you, dear. You’re as sweet as your mother.” Not only did the word sweet not come to mind when Tilda thought of her mom, it didn’t come to mind when she thought of herself, either. She hadn’t exactly been sweet to Ivy Bohn, who had reappeared with a plastic quart bag and was now scooping dog poop off Tilda’s lawn.

  “Hi, Mrs. Walters,” Ivy said. “How was your Thanksgiving?”

  “It was lovely, dear,” Mrs. Walters said, feeling the need to stop and watch the poop scooping. “Have you met our new neighbor? This is Dottie’s girl. What was your name again, dear?”

  “Tilda,” said both Tilda and Ivy, whose cheeks were especially rosy and probably not just from the cold.

  “Yes, I have,” Ivy said, the picture of sweetness and light.

  “You don’t have your lights up yet,” Mrs. Walters informed her.

  “They will be soon,” Ivy said. “And how about you, Mrs. Walters? Is your nephew coming over?”

  “He can’t. He’s in Cancún. But I have a young man who’s done work for me before coming
to do it. And he’s not even charging me, imagine that. He’ll be here this week. He’s not married,” Mrs. Walters added.

  Ivy’s cheeks went even pinker, and Tilda’s face was suddenly feeling warm. “We’d better get you inside,” she said to Mrs. Walters. “It’s cold out here.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Walters agreed, glancing around as if she’d just realized it was late November in the mountains.

  They made their painfully slow progress up the front walk and then up the steps. “Oh, my, that is a workout,” panted Mrs. Walters once they’d reached her porch. “I wish I could manage stairs. I miss sleeping in my old bedroom.”

  So she wasn’t trying to climb up to the second story; that was a relief. How she managed anything was a mystery to Tilda. “Are you okay living here on your own, Mrs. Walters?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m fine,” Mrs. Walters said with another wave of the hand that left her teetering and had Tilda putting an arm around her shoulders. “The Meals on Wheels people bring me lunch and dinner. A gal on the corner cleans for me once a week and hardly charges me anything. Ivy fetches my mail from the mailbox. Madeline down the street runs errands for me.” She smiled at Tilda. “This really is a wonderful neighborhood.”

  So it would seem. The other people on the street had set the good-neighbor bar pretty high. Tilda hoped she’d be able to keep up.

  * * *

  It didn’t take long to find Gizmo’s latest escape route. A board in the back fence had come loose, making it easy for him to wriggle his way to freedom. A few well-placed nails—who needed a man?—and the yard was once more secure. Gizmo was in a time-out in his doggy bed in the family room. He whined as Ivy came into the kitchen to wash her hands.

  “Yes, you’re in trouble,” she told him. “And no, you’re not going out front with me while I hang the lights. Just stay in here and think about what a naughty dog you’ve been.”

  Gizmo let out another whine and put his head on his paws, a sure sign of penitence.

  “Yeah, you should feel bad,” she said, showing no mercy. “Tilda already hates me, you know.”

  And a few slices of pumpkin bread probably wouldn’t change that. But at least she’d been trying. Oh, well. All the other neighbors liked her fine, so what did she care about one snotty cop?

  A cop who helped you get your tree home, she reminded herself. Maybe, down the road, they could find their way to neighborly. If Gizmo would stay in his own yard. Sheesh. Every male in her life was a pain in the patootie.

  The candy canes were a little hard to get in as the ground was frozen, and that required some serious chipping with a shovel. By the time Ivy was done she’d worked up a sweat. Good. With luck, she’d burned off enough calories that she could enjoy her cream-puff swan guilt-free when her sister came over later. Now, on to the lights.

  It was encouraging to see that they weren’t tangled. Rob had always been careful putting them in their plastic bin. “Too much of a hassle to untangle them,” he used to say. He also used to complain about what a pain it was to put them up, but every year he’d buy more, and he’d taken great pride in dressing up the outside of the house while she decorated indoors. One year they’d won the prize (a bottle of Icicle Creek wine) for the best-dressed holiday home.

  Ivy didn’t plan on winning any prizes this year. She simply wanted to get this chore done as quickly as possible, before she turned into a Popsicle. She’d cooled down considerably standing around checking the lights and her nose felt like an ice cube.

  She dragged the big metal ladder from its spot against the garage wall, then laid it down on the front lawn and extended it to its full length. Whew, that was a lot of ladder. She didn’t like climbing ladders.

  “You can do this,” she told herself, then proceeded to pull it up and lean it against the house. The thing felt twice as heavy once it went vertical and seemed to have a mind of its own, waving in all directions like a giant out-of-control wand. She finally got the ladder to make contact with the roof, but at the last minute the stupid thing fell off to the side, landing on the azaleas in the flower bed. That was fun. At least it hadn’t gone through an upstairs window. She hauled it off the azaleas and tried again. This time it fell in the opposite direction. Okay, third time’s the charm.

  And, indeed, it was. She stood for a moment, panting and admiring her accomplishment. She so didn’t need a man. Well, not the one who’d defected, anyway.

  She stood for a moment, eyeing the ladder. It was not an inviting sight. She didn’t want to be out here, risking life and limb for the Candy Cane Lane cause. People fell off ladders all the time and broke arms and legs. Necks even.

  “Oh, stop it,” she scolded herself. “You’re not going to fall.” She picked up the string of multicolored lights and began her ascent, singing as she went, changing the lyrics to another Christmas classic. It’s so nice to fix your home for the holidays. And wouldn’t the kids be excited when they returned and saw all the pretty lights? Up another rung. Just a few more to go. Easy peasy.

  Crap, it was high up here. Don’t look down. She’d heard that somewhere, probably not in connection with hanging lights, but it seemed like good advice. She went up another rung. Okay, time to stop and hug the ladder. I don’t want to be here for the holidays. She hugged her new metal friend tighter and whimpered. Maybe she didn’t need to put up lights this year.

  But she lived on Candy Cane Lane. She had to. “Just another step,” she told herself. “You can do this.”

  Fifteen minutes—five minutes per rung—later and she was within reach of the roof. And there were the little plastic hangers to hook the lights on. She could do this, no problem. She hung the cord on one. “You did it!” she cheered. The ladder wobbled and she grabbed it and closed her eyes. This will all be worth it when you’re done. This will all be worth it when you’re done. Oh, man. Why hadn’t she hired someone? She took a deep breath and reached up and another piece of cord fell onto its hook. There, now, was that so hard? She’d have this done in no time. She leaned out to hang another section.

  And then, suddenly, she was losing her balance, hovering over the azaleas like some kind of bat hanging around for the holidays. The ladder didn’t want to hang around with her and started leaning to the right. Noooo. What to grab—the lights, the gutter? Or her hair and pull it out and shriek? Oh, yeah. She was already shrieking and her hair was under her hat. The ladder was now headed for the ground.

  Like Tarzan grabbing for a vine, Ivy reached out desperately and caught the string of lights. Aaaah!

  There was no swinging to safety. The lights pulled away from their moorings and down she went like some pathetic cartoon character.

  She landed on top of the shrubs with the treacherous ladder crashing down just to her left. Oh, my. That could have knocked her out. As it was, she was seeing stars in spite of the fact that they hadn’t come out yet. She lay there for a moment while her heart did a wild lap around her chest, and wondered if anything was broken. Her back? It sure hurt. Oh, no! If she’d broken her back she’d be stuck here like a living yard ornament. She wiggled her toes inside her boots. Okay, good. Her back wasn’t broken. But a branch was poking through her coat, trying to stab her to death. She vowed never to laugh again when someone fell off a ladder in the movies.

  “Ivy, what are you doing?” called a familiar male voice.

  She didn’t have to turn her head to know who it belonged to. Great. What was her ex doing here and with such impeccably evil timing? Maybe she was hallucinating. She blinked hard, hoping he’d disappear. Nope. Still there. How humiliating.

  “I’m hanging the lights,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “I can see how well that’s going.” He came over to where she was sprawled and helped her down from her prickly perch.

  Solid ground. Thank you, Lord. “Thanks,” she said with a groan. And then, remembering what a
rat he was, demanded, “What are you doing here?”

  “I got back to town early and thought I’d come by and see if you needed help with the kids.”

  “I don’t. They’re with Mom and Dad in Issaquah, visiting Grandma.”

  “Lucky them. So why aren’t you at work?”

  “Deirdre’s there. They don’t need me.”

  He gave a cynical grunt. “They always need you.”

  This had been a constant bone of contention when they were together. Even though Rob had pitched in, he’d also complained about how often the shop took her away. He used to say they were like hamsters running on a wheel.

  “The shop owns you,” he used to complain. “I might as well be single for all I see you.”

  “It’s mostly during the holidays,” she’d remind him.

  “Yeah, when people actually want to do things together.”

  He didn’t like her working so much, but he certainly never complained about the double income.

  But he did complain about what it cost them to earn it. “We don’t need that much to live on,” he’d been known to say. “Look, I’m not asking you to desert the family business. I just want you to take some time off. I want us to enjoy life a little.”

  Well, he was enjoying life now, the skunk turd.

  “Let me finish this for you,” he offered.

  “You don’t live here anymore,” she snapped. “I can do it.”

  “Ive, don’t get all stubborn on me, okay?”

  “I’m not getting stubborn,” she insisted, jerking away. “I don’t need any help.”