Ivy left the kitchen and started down the hall just in time to see Hannah opening the front door, Gizmo there beside her. “Hannah!”
“It’s okay!” Hannah shouted back.
No, it was not okay. She didn’t want Hannah in the habit of opening the door, partly for safety but also because of—oh, no, there he went! “Gizmo!”
Too late. Dog gone. He’d smelled freedom and bolted for it. Ivy raced down the hallway, hoping she could lure him back before he got too far away.
Mrs. Walters was holding two large, plastic candy canes filled with candy. “Oh, my, your little doggy just got out,” she told Ivy.
What to do first? Scold Hannah, go looking for Gizmo or get Mrs. Walters in out of the cold. Mrs. Walters took top priority. “Come on in,” Ivy said. Then, as the old lady tottered inside, Ivy turned to her daughter, “What has Mommy told you about opening the door?”
“But it was Mrs. Walters!”
And now, here was another escapee. “Uppy!” said Robbie, reaching his hands toward her.
Ivy picked him up and continued her lecture. “But what if it had been someone you didn’t know?”
Her daughter refused to follow her logic. “I know Mrs. Walters.”
“You also know you’re not supposed to open the door. You leave that to Mommy. Now I’m going to have to go find Gizmo.” Just what she wanted to do in the freezing cold, go out and search for her dog, the great escape artist. “Mrs. Walters, would you mind staying with the kids for a few minutes?”
“Not at all, dear,” Mrs. Walters said.
So everyone paraded back into the living room and Ivy inserted Robbie into his playpen once more. Of course, he wasn’t happy and sent up a howl. “You stay there,” Ivy said firmly. “If you don’t, Mommy’s going to be very mad.”
Robbie paid no attention. Instead, he continued to howl and put one foot up on the railing.
She put it back down. “No!”
“Waaaah!”
“Oh, don’t cry, sweetie,” cooed Mrs. Walters.
Robbie increased the volume level and Mrs. Walters turned down her hearing aid.
“I’ll just be a few minutes,” Ivy said, and hoped that was true. “If Robbie gets out of his playpen...” What then? She didn’t want Mrs. Walters breaking her back trying to put him in again.
“Why don’t you let him sit next to me on the couch,” Mrs. Walters suggested. “We can read a nice story. Would you like that, Hannah?”
Hannah nodded eagerly.
“Well, then, you pick out a book and we’ll read until Mommy gets back.”
Ivy plucked Robbie out of his playpen and the howling magically stopped. Hannah had found her favorite Little Bear book and was already settling in next to Mrs. Walters. Ivy parked her son on the couch on the old woman’s other side, and he promptly shut up and stuck his thumb in his mouth. Aah, blissful peace and quiet.
Too bad she couldn’t stay inside and enjoy it. “I’ll hurry,” she promised.
“Take your time, dear. We’ll be fine,” Mrs. Walters said.
Until Robbie got tired of sitting still... Maybe they’d luck out and he’d fall asleep in the middle of the story. It was moving toward bedtime for him.
Ivy pulled her parka from the closet, stuffed her feet into boots and went out into the cold night. This was not what she wanted to be doing after a long day at the shop. Of course there was no sign of Gizmo. “Gizmo, here, boy!” She heard an answering bark from what sounded like a million miles away. And then another bark. Great. Which one was Gizmo? She couldn’t tell. On she trudged.
Cars were cruising up and down the street, admiring her neighbors’ light displays. Oh, Gizmo, whatever yard you’re marauding, stay there until I can find you. She stopped and called him. No bark this time. Boy, this was it. He was never getting dog treats ever again. And this time she meant it.
Headlights shone from behind her, and she turned to see the now-familiar Jeep that belonged to her new neighbor. Tilda’s window slid down and she called out, “Everything okay?”
Nothing was okay these days. “My dog got loose.”
The Jeep pulled over to the curb and stopped. Super. She was going to get a lecture about the leash law and some sort of ticket. Could cops give you tickets when they were off duty?
Tilda got out. “I’ll take the other side of the street.”
What was this? Officer Meanie moonlighted as a good Samaritan? “You don’t have to help me.” That wasn’t how their relationship, such as it was, worked.
“I know. What’s his name again?”
“Gizmo.”
Tilda nodded and moved off. And then there were two of them calling out Gizmo’s name. It took fifteen more minutes before the runaway decided he’d had enough fun for the night. Tilda found him, and Ivy nearly burst into tears at the sight of her little dog happily riding along in the woman’s arms. He saw Ivy and barked and wriggled to get down.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Tilda said, and Gizmo whined. To Ivy she said, “I caught him peeing on the Donaldsons’ candy canes.”
“Oh, man, I’m glad Maddy didn’t see him. She’d have strung him up by his tail.”
“I figured as much,” Tilda said. “How’d he get out this time?” Surprisingly, her tone wasn’t judgmental.
“My daughter opened the door and let him out.”
From the expression on Tilda’s face, Ivy could tell that she’d changed her mind and put on her judge’s robes. Ivy Bohn, guilty of poor parenting.
“She’s not supposed to open the door,” Ivy hurried to explain in case she got a lecture on child safety. “But she saw Mrs. Walters out the window and...” The sentence trailed off. Ivy had been on the verge of saying something about her daughter thinking it was okay to break the rules, but she could envision Tilda replying, “Like mother, like daughter.” Okay, so she’d gotten stopped for speeding once in a while. So she’d slid through a stop sign or two. She wasn’t a serious rule breaker. She was a responsible adult. Extraresponsible these days, since she was the only adult in the house.
“Who’s with them now?”
“Mrs. Walters stayed to watch them.”
“Uh, she can hardly walk.”
Ivy realized she was gritting her teeth. “I left them on the couch with her reading them a story.”
Tilda shrugged as if to say, “Not sure that would hold up in court.”
What did she know about kids? Or single parenting?
Ivy reached over to take the dog and Tilda handed him to her. “It’s colder than a penguin’s butt out here. Come on. I’ll give you a lift back.”
It was only four blocks, but Tilda was right. It was freezing out and Ivy didn’t want to walk around in the cold anymore. “Thanks,” she said, both surprised and grateful, and followed her nemesis to the Jeep. It was a sporty thing, the kind of vehicle an adventurous woman would drive. Sometimes Ivy wished she owned a Jeep. But she wasn’t all that adventurous. And she had kids. She had a minivan.
Once inside the Jeep, she found herself at a loss for conversation. Tilda wasn’t helping. She sat there behind the wheel, exercising her right to remain silent. Finally Ivy asked, “So what would you have done if you were me?”
“Gotten an electric fence.”
Of course. Solutions were easy when it wasn’t your life. Ivy decided to shut up. At least it was a short ride to her place.
Tilda stopped at the curb. Ivy thanked her and then—out of gratitude, perhaps, or temporary insanity?—said, “Listen, we’ve never had a chance to get to know each other. I’m about to put the kids to bed and make some hot buttered rum for me and Mrs. Walters. Why don’t you join us?” What are you thinking? You want to hang out with Tilda the Terror?
Tilda hesitated. Of course she’d say no. She hated Ivy. Then she nodded. �
�Okay. Sure.”
Ivy blinked in shock. “Really?”
Tilda nodded again, as if confirming to herself that yes, she’d just committed herself to something she didn’t actually want to do. “Yeah. I don’t have anything planned.”
They had nothing in common. What a dumb idea. What Ivy had really wanted to do that evening was curl up in front of the TV and turn into a zombie. Instead, she was going to be stuck with Tilda, who was probably regretting her rash decision to accept Ivy’s invitation.
Except Mrs. Walters would be there to act as a buffer. They’d all drink a hot buttered rum and then Tilda could give Mrs. Walters a police escort back to her house and they’d resume hostilities in the morning.
“Okay,” Ivy said, trying to sound happy about the whole thing. “Come over in half an hour.”
Tilda nodded, and Ivy and Gizmo got out of the Jeep.
“Look what you got us into,” Ivy said to him as they went up the walk.
Gizmo whined and licked her face.
“It’s a good thing you’re so cute.”
He barked to show his agreement.
Once inside the house the four-legged troublemaker trotted into the living room as if nothing had happened. “Gizmo!” Hannah cried, and jumped from the couch to hug him.
“I’m so happy you found him,” Mrs. Walters said. Robbie was leaning against her, fast asleep.
“Thanks so much for staying with the kids.” Everyone was still in one piece. CPS would not have to be called tonight.
“I was delighted to help,” Mrs. Walters said. “It’s a treat to spend time with little ones again.”
A treat. Was that what you called it? “Okay,” Ivy said to Hannah. “Go get your jammies on.”
“I’m not sleepy,” Hannah told her, and yawned.
“You will be when we get you tucked in. Say good-night to Mrs. Walters.”
Hannah said good-night, then started for the stairs, Gizmo trotting alongside, and Ivy picked up her sleeping son.
“Well, dear, I should get home,” said Mrs. Walters.
“Stay a while,” Ivy urged. “I’m going to make some hot buttered rum and I’ve invited our new neighbor to join us.” And I need you to be a buffer.
“My, it’s been years since I’ve had hot buttered rum.”
“I made the mix myself.”
“All right, thank you.”
“Good,” Ivy said, relieved. “I’ll be back down in a few minutes.”
By the time she had the kids in bed, the water heated for their drinks and cookies on a plate, Tilda was knocking at the door. She came bearing a bag of potato chips. “Thought we might want something to snack on.” Then she entered the living room and saw the plate with the cookies Ivy had made with the kids. “I should’ve known you’d have that covered.”
“Hey, I like potato chips.”
“Me, too,” Mrs. Walters said from her seat on the couch. “How are you, my dear?”
“Fine.” Tilda smiled and sat next to her.
“I see that nice Devon Black got your lights up for you.”
Tilda’s cheeks suddenly looked a little on the pink side. What was going on there? “So you had help?” Ivy asked.
Tilda frowned. “Yeah, although I was going to do it myself.”
Ivy shook her head. “I tried that. Fell off the ladder.”
Both of Tilda’s eyebrows went up.
“My ex came over and finished the job,” Ivy said with a shrug. “He’s still got his uses.”
“Oh, men are very useful,” Mrs. Walters said cheerfully.
“Mrs. Walters, you got a good one,” Ivy told her.
“Most of them are good,” Mrs. Walters insisted. “You just have to find the one who’s right for you.”
Tilda’s eyes widened, as though Mrs. Walters had just told her she could easily fly to the moon. Ivy knew how she felt. She’d thought Rob was the right man for her and look how that turned out.
“I’ll get our drinks,” she said, and went into the kitchen, hoping that when she returned, Tilda would have escorted Mrs. Walters down a new conversational path.
Mrs. Walters must have refused to go because when Ivy came back with their drinks, she was still on the subject of men. “Of course, none of them are perfect.”
Ivy frowned as she handed over a steaming mug. “You can say that again.”
“But most of them try their best,” Mrs. Walters continued, taking the mug.
“Mine didn’t,” Ivy said.
“It’s a crapshoot,” said Tilda. She tried her drink. “This is good.”
“Yes, it is,” agreed Mrs. Walters.
“Thanks,” Ivy said.
“Where’d you buy it?” Tilda asked.
“I didn’t buy it. I made it.”
Tilda looked at her as if she’d confessed to inventing the formula for calorie-free cookies.
“It’s not hard,” Ivy said.
“If you’re good at doing stuff in the kitchen.”
“Even if you’re not,” Ivy assured her.
“Yeah?” Tilda sounded dubious.
“I used to love baking,” Mrs. Walters said wistfully. “I don’t do it anymore. I can’t stand for long periods of time. Oh, to be young again,” she concluded with a sigh.
“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Tilda said, and took another drink.
“Tilda, dear, you shouldn’t talk like that. You have your whole life ahead of you. You’ll find a nice man, fall in love.”
“Get divorced,” Ivy muttered. Whoa, let’s add some bitters to that hot buttered rum. “Sorry, sometimes I have a very bad attitude.”
“But you make good hot buttered rum,” Tilda said, and downed the rest of hers.
“Want some more?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“I’ll have a little more, too, dear,” said Mrs. Walters, holding out her empty mug. Wow, she’d polished that off fast.
Ivy freshened their drinks and Mrs. Walters waxed poetic on love and marriage, then apparently decided to pry. First she turned to Tilda. “Are you seeing that young man?”
“I’m not seeing anyone right now, Mrs. W.,” Tilda replied.
“Oh, I thought you were when I saw him hanging your lights,” Mrs. Walters said.
“I didn’t ask him to come. He just showed up,” Tilda said irritably.
“How sweet! He’s obviously interested in you.”
“Well, I’m not interested in him.”
“Why on earth not? If I was younger...”
“Mrs. Walters, he’s not my type,” Tilda said.
“You young girls.” Mrs. Walters shook her head. Now she turned her attention to Ivy. “I saw your husband over here the other day.”
Mrs. Walters didn’t miss a thing. “He’s not my husband anymore,” Ivy reminded her.
“You two are such a sweet couple.”
Tilda shot Ivy a sympathetic look. Bonding over embarrassment. Who said she and Tilda didn’t have anything in common?
“Some things weren’t meant to be, Mrs. Walters,” Ivy said.
“No, I suppose not. Still, it seems a shame.” She glanced from Ivy to Tilda. “Two lovely young women all alone.”
“It’s getting late,” Tilda said. “I should get going.”
Ivy hadn’t been excited about being left alone with Tilda, but now she wasn’t feeling that enthusiastic about spending any more time with Mrs. Walters in her current matchmaking frame of mind. “Would you mind walking Mrs. Walters home?” she asked Tilda.
Tilda’s expression said, “Thanks a lot,” but she answered, “Not a problem. You ready to go, Mrs. W.?”
Mrs. Walters seemed surprised that the party was ending just when she had the
ir party theme all picked out. “Oh? Yes, of course.” She pushed off from the couch and, after a wobbly moment that had Ivy holding her breath and poised to catch her, managed to get to a standing position. “I sit too long and I stiffen up,” she explained.
Ivy could practically hear Tilda thinking, And this is who you left your kids with? “Thanks for not giving me a ticket tonight,” she said.
“Hey, I was off duty.”
“Or a lecture.”
As Mrs. Walters was fiddling with her coat, Tilda said in a low voice, “When I was around three, my mom and dad separated for a while. I remember my mom left me to go find our cat. She took a scarf and tied me to a front porch rail. I wouldn’t want to be a single mom.”
Maybe Tilda Morrison wasn’t so bad, after all. “I’ll give you that recipe for hot buttered rum if you want it.”
“Yeah. Thanks. I might make some for Christmas presents.”
“What a lovely idea,” said Mrs. Walters, and hiccupped.
Ivy watched them go, Mrs. Walters weaving slightly, Tilda steadying her with a firm hand. Okay, Tilda Morrison definitely wasn’t so bad.
* * *
It was three in the afternoon on Friday, and the Spice Rack was having a temporary lull. Maddy was taking advantage of it, filling glass jars with spices, when her daughter called.
“I got a B on my math test,” Jordan announced.
This was definitely an improvement over the last test, which she’d barely passed. “Great job! I’m proud of you.”
“So can we go shopping? Gilded Lily’s is open till six tonight.”
“Oh, honey, that wouldn’t leave us much time. And I have to pick up some more candy canes to give out this weekend.”
“You promised,” Jordan reminded her.
“We’ll go tomorrow. Gilded Lily’s is open all day. I’ll take a long lunch break and we can shop and get hamburgers at Herman’s. How does that sound?”
“Okay,” Jordan said reluctantly. “But for sure?”
“For sure.”
“Can I spend the night at Afton’s?”
Christmas on Candy Cane Lane Page 15
