Christmas on Candy Cane Lane

by Sheila Roberts

  Ivy’s sister and another woman Tilda didn’t know both pointed at Ashley. “She did!”

  Tilda doubted they were unbiased witnesses. She looked around the little crowd of men gathered there listening as intently as they would to a Seahawks game on the radio. “Did anyone see anything?”

  Billy Williams, aka Bill Will, said, “Nah. We were playing pool. Next thing we know, it’s World War Z in here.”

  “Thanks, Bill Will. That was really helpful,” Tilda said, frowning at him.

  She went over to where Devon Black stood behind the bar, dressed casually in jeans and a black T-shirt stretched over an enticing set of pecs. “Can you tell me who started this?”

  “Bet you thought it was me when you took the call.”

  That was exactly what she’d thought.

  Fortunately, he didn’t wait for an answer because that might’ve been embarrassing. “I don’t know. I was busy pulling beer. One thing I can tell you, Ash has been taking potshots at the other chick all night long.”

  “Why?”

  Devon shrugged. “I get the impression Ash and her husband were seeing each other for a while.”

  That would do it.

  In the state of Washington, whoever threw the first punch was the one who got hauled away, but since nobody knew who threw the first punch... Aw, heck, she ought to haul ’em both off. Except she’d grown to like Ivy and she felt a little bit sorry for her. Bad enough to run into someone her man had been seeing, but then to make a fool of herself in public. Oh, boy. She was not going to be a happy camper come morning.

  Tilda returned to where Jamal stood, trying to talk to the two women. Ashley was standing with her hands on her hips, glaring at Ivy and informing her what a subpar female she was. Ivy was... Oh, no. “Jamal, move out of the way!”

  Too late. Ivy upchucked on him.

  “Shit!” He jumped back and looked at his chest in revulsion.

  Tilda took Ivy by the arm and hauled her aside. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m...having a life,” Ivy said, and burst into fresh tears.

  “This is not the kind of life you want to have,” Tilda said sternly. “Devon, come here.”

  Devon obliged, all business.

  “Since it’s unclear who threw the first punch...” Tilda began.

  “Let ’em both off,” Devon suggested, handing Jamal a bar towel.

  Tilda shook her head. “With no consequences? Uh-uh. I’m thinking you ladies need to pay for damages. And you need to eighty-six them,” she said to Devon.

  “That’s not fair!” Ashley protested.

  “Or we can haul your ass to jail,” Tilda went on.

  Ashley clamped her split lips shut, then winced.

  Devon shrugged. “How about we ban them for a month? I don’t think this one will ever be back,” he said, nodding at Ivy, who was crying and apologizing to Jamal. “But a month will just about kill poor Ash.”

  Apparently it was already killing her. “Why me? I didn’t start this.”

  Ivy jabbed a finger at her. “You started it when you stole my husband!”

  “He’d already dumped you, and I can see why.”

  Tilda held up a hand. “That’s enough.”

  Ashley crossed her arms and scowled, and Ivy hung her head.

  “Take her home,” Tilda ordered Deirdre, then said to Ivy, “I don’t want to see you in here again. Ever.”

  “I don’t want to be in here again. Ever,” Ivy said, all the fight drained out of her.

  “You need to arrest her,” Ashley demanded. “She attacked me.”

  “You have no witnesses,” Tilda informed her. “It’s your word against hers.”

  “I’m gonna sue!” Ashley roared.

  “You’re going to stop making an ass of yourself,” Tilda said firmly. “Now, I can either throw you both in the drunk tank, or you can agree to behave yourselves and not to press charges. Which is it going to be?”

  “I just want to forget this,” Ivy said miserably.

  Ashley was pouting now, but she nodded her agreement.

  “And you’d better not let me catch you driving,” Tilda added, pointing at her.

  Ashley flopped on the one remaining upright bar stool and grabbed her drink, still pouting.

  “I’ll take her home,” Bill Will offered, probably hoping to get lucky, but as far as Tilda was concerned, Ashley was no prize.

  “I need to get cleaned up,” Jamal said as they walked back to the patrol car.

  “I tried to warn you.”

  He shook his head. “Gotta say, that’s the first fight I’ve ever broken up between women.” He grinned. “Kinda sexy.”

  “You are a cretin,” Tilda said in disgust.

  The rest of the night was relatively quiet. A few speeding tickets and a DUI—good, old Ashley, the man stealer. Tilda smiled as they put her in the back of the squad car. She loved her job.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Think of drop-in company as a holiday bonus rather than an inconvenience.

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

  Something horrible was assaulting Ivy’s brain. It sounded like a jackhammer. She pulled her pillow over her head to make it stop. Ow. The pillow felt like it was made out of lead. And the jackhammer kept drilling. She fumbled for the alarm clock, found it and gave it a good slap and the jackhammer subsided. But that didn’t stop her head from hurting. And now someone was spinning the bed. All I want for Christmas is to make this stop, to make this stop, to make this...oooh, please God. I’ll never drink again.

  She lay in bed, stared at the ceiling and willed herself to feel better. She didn’t have time for this. She had to get to the shop. Where she would throttle her sister for talking her into drinking that killer stuff. What a mistake.

  No, the mistake had been going out in the first place. She should’ve stayed home and eaten pizza. She might have weighed a pound more this morning, but at least she wouldn’t have had a hangover.

  She eventually managed to get up, stagger to the bathroom and down a glass of water and some aspirin. The physical fallout from her girls’ night out could be dealt with easily enough. Not the emotional fallout, though. She was now the fool of Icicle Falls and the idea of having to see anyone today made her want to throw up. Except she’d already done that last night, all over a cop.

  She looked at herself in the mirror. Smeared makeup, tangled hair, dark circles under her eyes. Ugh. Would you buy a snow globe from this woman? With a groan, she turned on the shower. The hot water streaming over her skin felt good. If only she could wash away her humiliation.

  She dressed and put on makeup, made herself some toast and peppermint tea, and went out to face the world. The one bonus was that she wouldn’t see any of the occupants of the Man Cave in her Christmas shop. If she went straight home from work, maybe she could avoid seeing anyone who’d witnessed her abysmal behavior the night before.

  She got in late, but thankfully Deirdre had already opened the shop. Clad in her favorite blue dirndl, she was waiting on an early-bird shopper who’d stocked up on glass ornaments. The shop was aglow with lit trees and bright ornaments. Brightness everywhere. Ugh. Ivy was tempted to leave her sunglasses on. Walking carefully, so as not to disturb the little gremlins playing baseball with that aspirin inside her brain, she went to the back room and stowed away her purse and coat.

  She was barely out when a woman with two noisy children assaulted her, wanting to know where the nutcrackers were. “Right up the stairs, at the far end of the room,” Ivy said, and breathed a sigh of relief as they moved away.

  “How are you doing?” Deirdre greeted her.

  “Just great. The whole world knows about Rob and Ashley now.” But the whole w
orld had known all along.

  “They already did,” Deirdre said, voicing her thought.

  And last night she’d provided the gossips of Icicle Falls with another juicy tidbit. Ivy rested her elbows on the display counter and let her heavy, hurting head drop into her hands. “My life is a joke.”

  “It could be worse. You could have gotten in a fight at Zelda’s and everybody goes there.”

  “Except Ashley, who was at the Man Cave.” Ivy shook her head. Oh, don’t do that. “I should’ve stayed home last night.”

  Deirdre put an arm around her. “I’m sorry, sis. I had no idea that skank would be there.”

  “It’s not your fault I’m a loser.”

  “You are not a loser,” Deirdre said.

  “Public brawling.” Ivy groaned. “Who does that?”

  Now Nicole had joined them and was ringing up a purchase. “Someone who’s provoked beyond reason,” she said. “Anyway, Ashley’s the loser. I’m glad she’s been banned from the Man Cave.”

  “She ought to be banned from Icicle Falls,” said Deirdre.

  Nicole finished the sale. The customer left with a smile, and no wonder. She’d not only gotten some beautiful hand-blown glass ornaments, she’d also gotten a nice little serving of gossip.

  “I thought she was with Bill Will,” said Nicole.

  “He must have come to his senses,” Deirdre said. “Just like Rob did.”

  “No, he didn’t. If he had he would’ve gone to Ivy and begged her to take him back,” Nicole said, her tone wrathful.

  Now here was another customer, listening eagerly. “Guys, can we talk about this later?” Ivy whispered. Or not at all. Ivy pulled herself together. “Did you find everything you were looking for?” she asked the woman.

  “Oh, yes.” And then some.

  “We’re better than the soaps,” Ivy said as the customer walked out. “I need another aspirin.”

  Two more aspirin, a quart of water and another couple of hours had Ivy feeling almost normal again. Maybe she was going to live, after all. Tonight she’d have some more pizza. Oh, no. Not that! protested her stomach. Okay, make that cheese and crackers. So, tonight she’d have some cheese and crackers, bring out the yarn, turn on the TV and stay put. Not very exciting, but it sure beat getting drunk and getting her hair pulled.

  * * *

  Tilda’s stove arrived. It was a regular holiday miracle.

  “There you go,” said Arvid’s son, Mike. “All hooked up and ready to roll.”

  Oh, yeah. It was a thing of beauty, with gleaming stainless steel and a glass cooktop, and it was begging her to break it in. You can learn to use me. Come on, give it a try. Walk on the wild side.

  Well, why not? She got Mike out the door, promising not to give his dad a ticket—unless he was speeding—then put on her coat and drove to Safeway. On her way she called her mom. “I’m going to the store. Do you need anything?”

  “A new body,” Mom croaked.

  She sounded awful. “Are you getting any better?”

  “I don’t know,” Mom said, sounding both phlegmy and grumpy. “This thing’s gonna be with me until the Fourth of July.”

  “Well, you don’t have until the Fourth of July to get well. We want you well for Christmas.”

  “I will be,” Mom promised. “I’m not missing out on Christmas Eve in your new house. Did the stove come yet?”

  “Just got here. I’m about to break it in.”

  “Don’t break it,” Mom teased, and then started coughing up a lung or two.

  “You need to go to the doctor.”

  “I do not. What’s he going to do? They can’t treat a virus.”

  “You’ve probably got bronchitis by now,” said Dr. Tilda. “If you don’t go in, you’ll end up with pneumonia.”

  “You worry too much.”

  “Let’s see. You smoke, you work too hard. You stay up till all hours watching those dumb TV cop shows. Why would I worry?”

  “They aren’t dumb. Gives me a good sense of what you’re doing.”

  Oh, yeah. The cops on those shows always had interesting cases or were in the middle of shoot-outs. Tilda chased deaf horses and broke up catfights. “Look. I really think you should see the doctor. I’ll come and get you right now.” The stove could wait.

  “You will not,” Mom snapped. “Go play with your stove.”

  “How about if I get you some more soup?”

  “And some Oreos. Oreos will make me feel better.”

  “And some Oreos,” Tilda repeated. Did getting her mom Oreos when she was sick make them codependent?

  “Or better yet, bake me some cookies in that new oven of yours,” said Mom. “Hey, and you could make some soup while you’re at it,” she added, then fell into a barking cough.

  It’d be easier to pick up Oreos. “You never taught me to make soup. Remember?”

  “That’s what the internet’s for.” More coughing.

  This was ridiculous. “You’ve got until tomorrow to get better. If you’re not, I’m taking you to the emergency room.”

  Mom turned testy. “I don’t need people telling me what to do. I’m not in my dotage yet.”

  “Maybe not, but I think all that coughing has unhinged your brain.”

  “I don’t know how I ended up with such a smart mouth for a daughter,” Dot grumbled.

  “Heredity. I mean it, Mom. You really need to get some help.”

  “I will,” Mom promised with a sigh—and another cough.

  Tilda reiterated her threat to haul the stubborn woman to the doctor and then said goodbye before she could protest any further.

  Once at the store, the first thing she did was buy more soup. Homemade soup? What was Mom thinking, anyway?

  Making soup was out of the question, but she could do cookies. She picked up some red and green M&M’s, then moved on to the baking aisle and got brown sugar. Oh, man, look at all those cake mixes. And there was one for red velvet cake. She could make cupcakes for Christmas Eve.

  She’d just picked up the box and was studying the directions when a voice behind her said, “Well, hey, if it isn’t the cooking cop.”

  Devon Black. Why wasn’t he home, sleeping or hammering or...something? Why was he here, smelling like woodsy aftershave and looking all solid and manly and tempting? “What are you doing here?”

  He held up a shopping basket filled with lettuce and tomatoes, cheese and flour tortillas. And was that a can of black beans she saw? Her basket seemed woefully undernourished in comparison, with her store-made soup and her M&M’s. And brown sugar. Can’t forget the brown sugar.

  “Gonna do some baking?” he asked.

  “My mom’s sick. She wants cookies.”

  “And red velvet cake.” He motioned to the cake mix.

  “That’s for Christmas Eve. I’m making cupcakes.” As if he needed to know that. As if she needed to even tell anyone she was making cupcakes. One new stove and she was turning into Miss Food Network.

  He nodded and faked looking impressed. “You’re a regular Barefoot Contessa.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. You might want to do a trial run on those cupcakes.”

  “I think I can handle it.”

  “Uh-huh.” Devon moved farther down the baking aisle and she dropped the cake mix into her shopping basket, then started for the checkout at a good clip, intent on ditching him.

  Ditching was one thing. Settling down her stirred-up hormones quite another. Cut it out, she told them. We’re not interested.

  Oh, yes, we are! they chorused.

  Devon followed her to the checkout like a lost puppy. Lost puppy? Yeah, right. More like a wolf.

  “You’re not very good at losing a tail, are you?” he taunted.<
br />
  “It’s a free country. You can stand in line anywhere you want.”

  “Good, ’cause I want to stand behind you. The view’s great.”

  She frowned at him. “You’re...”

  “Charming?” he supplied.

  “That wasn’t the word I was thinking of. More like obnoxious.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “But not by women,” he added smugly.

  “Oh, brother.”

  “You know, I’m a lot of fun when you get to know me.”

  Let’s find out, suggested her hormones.

  Let’s not. “Yep, fun just follows you everywhere you go. And then we get called to clean up the mess.”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot. You’re prejudiced. I’ll bet you were real disappointed to get to the Man Cave last night and find you couldn’t arrest me.”

  She pulled out her snottiest smile for him. “It was a disappointment.”

  “What can I say? I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

  That sent the hormones into a frenzy, dancing around and singing, “You’re So Cute I Want to Wear You Like a Suit.”

  Tilda told them and Devon to knock it off.

  He lifted both hands, palms up. “What? I’m stating a fact. Just the facts, ma’am,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

  Damn, but he was cute when he did that. Tilda turned her back on him. Enough already.

  “Hi, Til,” Carol the checker greeted her. “Looks like you’re getting ready to do some Christmas baking.”

  “That should be interesting,” Devon said under his breath.

  She decided to ignore him.

  “I’m going to get all my baking done this afternoon,” Carol said. “Just in case. You heard we’re supposed to get hit with a big storm tonight or tomorrow?”

  “No.” That would make life interesting. Downed power lines, people skidding off the road. It would be a busy work night.

  “Power outage?” Devon said. “Candlelight, fire in the fireplace.”

  “You don’t have a fireplace,” Tilda reminded him.

  “No, but you do,” he said with a grin.