Jordan looked warily at her, but complied.
Corrine kissed the top of her head. “We all make mistakes, darling. The important thing is to learn from them. I bet you’ve learned a lot, haven’t you?”
Jordan’s only answer to that was noisy sobs.
“There, now. You know we all love you. Everything’s going to be fine, so no more hiding in your room. Come down and have some ice cream and watch TV with your mommy and me.”
“I have to finish my letters, Grandma,” Jordan said, still crying.
“Of course you do. It’s important to make things right when you’ve done something wrong. You can come down when you’re done. Agreed?”
Jordan sniffled and nodded.
“All right, then. And we’ll say no more about this.”
More sniffling and nodding.
“Good,” Corrine said, and left the room. “There, now. It’s all handled.”
Corrine to the rescue. And to think they still had tomorrow to look forward to.
Chapter Twenty-One
Even the most carefully laid Christmas plans can experience a little hiccup.
—Muriel Sterling, Making the Holidays Bright: How to Have a Perfect Christmas
“You might want to read this,” Mutti said, handing the morning paper to Ivy when she came to drop off the kids. It was folded to a page in the Living section, dedicated to kids’ letters to Santa.
“We didn’t send a letter to Santa,” Ivy said, taking it.
“No, but someone you know did.”
“I want to write a letter to Santa,” Hannah piped up. “Can we ask him to bring my daddy back?”
“We’ll see,” said Mutti. “Take your brother and go see what Opa’s making in the kitchen.”
Meanwhile, Ivy was reading.
Dear Santa, I want a kitty for Christmas. I’m nine now and I’ll take good care of it. Carolyn.
She looked up at her mom. “That’s cute, but...”
“No, no, farther down.”
Dear Santa, Plees bring me a sooper soker so I kan hav water fits this sumer. Ned.
Somehow, she didn’t think Mom wanted her to read about Ned and his Super Soaker. She read on. The paper was full of requests and love and adoration.
Dear Santa, can you bring me a little sister for Christmas? I love you. Mandy.
“The one signed Rob,” Mutti said impatiently, poking the paper.
Rob? Ivy moved her gaze farther down the page.
Dear Santa,
Can you help out a big kid who was really bad and deserves nothing but lumps of coal for the rest of his life? What if that big kid is really sorry? Could you put in a good word for him with his wife?
I’m that big kid. I had a great wife and a great family and I threw it all away because I thought I wanted my freedom. I felt tied down. Now I realize I wasn’t tied down. I was anchored in a snug harbor. Yeah, sometimes I felt like all we did was work. So I left. Went out on my own to enjoy the good life. But without my wife it wasn’t good. It was lonely and useless.
Santa, I was a fool. Please help me. Ask my ex to give me a second chance. Tell her I’ll do whatever it takes to earn back her trust. Tell her I don’t want to drift anymore. I need my anchor. I need the woman I’ve always loved. Rob.
After reading it, part of her wanted to laugh with joy and run to the Sweet Dreams warehouse and find him, throw her arms around him and tell him to come home. Another part of her wanted to slap him for having the nerve to think he could do something like this and all would be instantly forgiven.
She glanced up at her mother. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Maybe you need to say you’ll give him another chance.”
“He left us, Mutti. Just walked out. He broke my heart.”
“Yes, he did,” her mother agreed. “And it was wrong of him, wrong of him not to stick around and try to fix things. But now it looks like he wants to try.”
Ivy crumpled the paper and tossed it on the hall table. “Well, good luck with that. I’ve got to get to the shop.”
Her mother caught her arm. “I know you love the shop. We all do. But there’s nothing in it that can keep you warm on a cold winter night.”
Ivy frowned. “I can’t believe you’d side with him after the way he hurt me.”
“I’m not siding with him, darling. I simply want you to be happy. Unforgivingness is a very destructive emotion.”
“I can forgive him,” Ivy lied. “But that doesn’t mean I have to take him back.” She kissed her mother and left for the shop. But on her way she stopped at the grocery store and picked up a copy of the paper.
Happily, nobody at work mentioned it. That didn’t keep Ivy from thinking about it. She’d be closing the shop at three so everyone, including her and Deirdre, could go to their various family functions. Christmas Eve dinner at her parents’ with extended family and a few old friends would start at four, followed by opening presents. Then at seven, everyone would go to the Christmas Eve service at church where they’d celebrate peace on earth, goodwill toward men. And the whole time she’d be thinking about one man in particular. How much goodwill was she willing to extend? Could they start over? Did she want to take that risk?
* * *
Christmas Eve was finally here. Which was more than Tilda could say for the heating element in her stove. Good thing she’d delegated all the casserole dishes. And the turkey was taken care of. Ha! So clever of her. Well, okay, clever of Devon Black.
She hadn’t seen him since their last encounter. Just as well, she’d told herself. It would be too easy to get embroiled with him. What was he doing for Christmas Eve, hanging out with his brother? Not that she was interested. Just a passing thought.
One that kept passing through her mind on and off all day as she cleaned her house and set the table with the fancy Christmas paper plates and napkins she’d bought earlier. He’d fit in well with her wisecracking family.
Stop that, she scolded herself. What is your problem?
You know what your problem is, said her hormones. It’s us! We want attention.
You’ll get it in the New Year, she told them. We’ll go find ourselves a sheriff from Wenatchee. Or a firefighter from Yakima. Or...something. But not a construction worker who tended bar in his spare time.
And came over with cupcake liners and saved kids from being squashed by cars.
They had nothing in common.
He likes to cook, whispered Team Estrogen.
Lots of men like to cook.
He probably likes to play video games.
We don’t know that.
We could find out.
We could also concentrate on getting ready for company. And that’s what we’re going to do.
The hormones went away to pout and Tilda, resplendent in her black leggings, high black boots and the blue chambray blouse her cousins had talked her into getting at Gilded Lily’s, went to Mort’s to pick up her turkey. The turkey was ready as promised, all golden and gorgeous in its foil roasting pan. A work of art. Her family would be dazzled. Not to mention surprised.
Well, this would prove once and for all to them (and her) that she could be a domestic goddess when the occasion called for it. Tough cookies could have a soft center when they wanted. Maybe she’d host again next year. Maybe next year she’d even buy some china Christmas dishes. And that fancy platter.
She’d barely set the turkey on the counter when her mom arrived, toting a shopping bag filled with presents. “Hey, kidlet, smells good in here,” Mom said as Tilda took her coat.
The last time Mom had seen the place, it hadn’t exactly smelled like a rose garden. In fact, it still had a faint hint of wonky, which Tilda was covering up with a scented candle Georgie had given her last year when t
hey’d had their gift exchange.
Mom looked around, taking in the furniture, Georgie’s quilted wall hanging and Tilda’s holiday decorations. Her fake tree sat in the corner, decorated with various collectible ornaments her mom had bought her over the years. The scented candle was on the kitchen counter, working hard to make the house smell like peppermint. The mistletoe was hanging over the entryway, still unused but pretty. Her table was crowded with its matching four chairs, along with some folding chairs she’d borrowed from the chief. She’d covered it with Mom’s Christmas tablecloth, a vintage white cotton cloth decorated with green boughs and candy canes. In the center sat a glass bowl she’d found at Timeless Treasures and filled with red and silver foil-wrapped chocolates.
“Looks good.” Mom set her shopping bag next to the tree, then pushed up the sleeves of her red sweatshirt that proclaimed I Put Out for Santa. “So, what do you want me to do?”
Was she serious? “I want you to sit on the couch,” Tilda said firmly.
“I’m all well now,” Mom insisted.
“And we’d like you to stay that way. Anyhow, there’s not much left to do. I’ve got the spuds cooking on the stove and it’ll only take a few minutes to do the stuffing.”
“Stove Top?”
“Yep.”
Mom nodded and smiled, then fell onto the couch with a deep sigh. “Put some Christmas music on that fancy equipment of yours.”
Tilda obliged and in a minute Darius Rucker and Sheryl Crow were crooning, “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.”
A knock on the door signaled fresh arrivals, and Tilda went to let in Georgie and her husband, Jay, loaded down with food and presents. “Hey, it looks great in here.” She gazed around approvingly. “Aww, and you hung up my quilt.”
“Of course I did,” Tilda said, taking the food. “I love it.”
“I can teach you how to quilt,” she offered.
“That’s okay.” One quilter in the family was enough. “I’ll go put this in the kitchen. You know where the coat closet is.”
“Presents under the tree?” asked Jay.
“Yep.”
“I’ll come with you.” Georgie started to follow Tilda into the kitchen.
“No need. Everything’s under control.”
“You’re going to need help when it’s time to serve,” Mom called from the couch.
“Not from you,” Tilda called back. “You’re not moving.”
She’d just set a bowl of chips and some salsa on the coffee table when Caitlin arrived with Aunt Joyce and Uncle Horace. Both women also wanted to help, but Tilda assured them, too, that everything was under control. She took their food offerings to the kitchen and lined everything up on the counter. There it all was, everything they needed for an impressive dinner—green-bean casserole, rolls, candied yams and cranberry sauce, cookies and red velvet cake (not made by her, sadly, but there was always next year). Oh, yeah. Lookin’ good. The potatoes would be done in a minute, then she’d pour off the water, add some milk and butter and beat the heck out of them with her new electric mixer. (“Don’t forget to pour off the water,” Mom had cautioned. Gee, thanks, Mom, I wouldn’t have thought of that.) And there, on the stove top sat the crowning piece of the meal...the turkey.
It was calling her. Come try me.
Well, she did need to carve it and get it on the platter (borrowed from Mom). And while she was cutting, she’d just take a little taste. She loved turkey. Think of the leftovers. Turkey sandwiches, turkey stew...hmm. How did you make turkey stew? Well, she’d figure it out.
She got a carving knife from the knife block she’d found at a garage sale a couple of years back and started to saw into the bird. What was with this thing? She sawed harder. The knife was hardly moving. Were they making turkeys out of cement these days? What the... She bent over and examined the bird.
Wait a minute. How could this be? Oh, for crying out loud. Underneath its golden-brown crust the damn thing wasn’t cooked.
Mort. She was going to kill him. She pulled her cell phone out of her jeans back pocket and dialed the meat market.
“We’re closed for Christmas,” said a pleasant voice. “We’ll be open again December 26. Happy holidays.”
Happy holidays? Were they kidding? They’d given her an uncooked bird. What was happy about that? The vision of her perfect first Christmas dinner in her new home flew away, leaving her to grind her teeth.
Okay, work the problem. What could she do? The microwave, of course. She’d stick the bird in the microwave, right on that rotating glass and...
It didn’t fit.
Okay, don’t panic. She set it back on the stove. What to do now? Try again and see if she could cut off enough pieces to put in the microwave and cook. She didn’t go to the gym for nothing. She had muscles. She could do this.
She tried once more to saw into the bird. She got off one skinny little piece. Shit. Shit, shit, shit!
Meanwhile, music and laughter drifted in from the living room. Everyone was having fun. Eating chips. Pretty soon the chips would be gone and they’d want dinner. And turkey.
She started sawing for all she was worth. Come on. Please! She threw herself into the task. Her final vigorous effort sent the bird scooting right off the stove top. It hopped out of its aluminum pan and landed on the floor with a thud.
She stared at it. Her Christmas turkey. Her perfect Christmas turkey. With a growl, she kicked the stupid thing, sending it across the floor and crashing into the cabinet. It bounced off and skidded into the middle of the kitchen. So, of course, she did what had to be done. She kicked it again. Then, when it came back for more, she jumped on it, determined to stomp it to death.
Mr. Greasy Turkey Dude slid out from under her foot, and her foot slid out from under her. “Ack!” Down she went, landing on her backside. The turkey sat there on the opposite end of the kitchen floor. Laughing at her.
“You...frozen giblet piece of shit.” Teeth bared, she crawled toward it.
“What on earth...?”
She looked up over her shoulder to see Georgie standing in the kitchen doorway, gaping.
Okay, this was not cool. She’d just been caught talking to her turkey.
“Have you gone insane?” Georgie demanded.
Tilda scrambled to her feet and hauled her into the kitchen. “Don’t say anything to anybody.”
Georgie pried Tilda’s greasy hand off her sleeve. “You’re having a psychotic break in the kitchen, stalking our turkey and you don’t want me to say anything?”
“It’s not cooked,” Tilda said through gritted teeth.
“What?”
“It’s not cooked on the inside. Mort gave me an uncooked turkey.”
“Oh, no! Well, we’ll get it in the stove.”
“The stove doesn’t work. Remember?” Tilda turned her around. “Go back out there and stall.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to go get...something.”
Except her car keys were hanging by the front door and her coat was in the hall. “Bring me my keys, and don’t let anyone see you.”
“Why don’t we just tell them what happened?”
“No! I can handle this. Just get my keys.”
“Okay,” Georgie said dubiously.
While she fetched Tilda’s keys, Tilda paced the kitchen. She gave the turkey another kick, just to make herself feel better.
Georgie was back. “Here they are.” She looked at the bruised bird. “What are we going to do with that?”
“Leave it.” Tilda was going to save it until the twenty-sixth. Then she’d go in to Mort’s and throw it at him.
She took her keys and snuck out the back and around the house, coatless, getting into her car. It was cold outside, but she was so steamed she barely felt i
t. Off she barreled down the street.
Two of her neighbors were loading presents into their car trunk. “Slow down,” cried the woman, probably the same one she’d almost run over the other day in her mad dash to the hospital.
“Police emergency,” Tilda muttered, and roared on past, sending newly fallen snow flying in all directions.
She got to the store in record time and ran to the deli.
“I need a turkey,” she said to Mindy, the deli manager.
“Did you order one? I don’t remember taking an order.”
Okay, this was embarrassing. Tilda got a lot of stuff at the deli—sandwiches, Asian rice bowls, potato salads, you name it. She should have ordered her turkey there. They would’ve given her one that was cooked. But, oh, no. She’d had to be clever and save a buck.
“No,” she admitted.
Mindy shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“You’re out?”
“Sorry. We did up some extras but I sold the last one an hour ago.”
“Do you have anything?” Tilda begged.
“Problems?” said a male voice at her elbow.
Of all the grocery stores in all the world... Tilda could feel her cheeks heating. “Shouldn’t you be someplace?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact. I was on my way over to my bro’s when you passed me like a bat out of blazes. What’s the emergency?”
“My turkey isn’t cooked.”
“Put it back in the ove...oh. I bet your heating element didn’t come yet.”
“You win,” Tilda said miserably. To Mindy she said, “Got any chicken?” Surely they had some Southern-fried kicking around.
Mindy shook her head. “Someone just bought all of it. Said their turkey didn’t get done.”
“Probably ordered it from Mort,” Tilda muttered.
“You might try the frozen food aisle,” Mindy suggested. “Get some microwave chicken.”
Oh, great idea. Tilda hurried there, Devon keeping her company.
“Where’s the bird now?” he asked.
“On the floor.” Okay, that was a little embarrassing.
“The floor,” he repeated.
Christmas on Candy Cane Lane Page 30
