Holiday Magic

by Fern Michaels

  “Because I don’t want to talk to him.” What was I supposed to say? I can’t talk to him because he makes me sizzle in special secret spots?

  “That’s not a good reason, out you go. Everyone says he saved you at Barry Lynn’s, so go be nice. You know how to be nice, right?” Mary shooed me out. “Don’t be a chicken.”

  “He didn’t save me and I’m not a chicken and I can be nice sometimes.”

  The sisters made clucky chicken noises at me, then got louder and louder as I refused to go. I started worrying that Logan could hear them so, nonchalantly, as if I didn’t have a care in the world, I grabbed a glass pitcher, pushed through the swinging doors of the kitchen, and began to pour orange juice for my customers.

  Many had stayed overnight. They all gushed. About the house (“charming”), their rooms (“decorated beautifully, so authentic to the period”), the breakfast. (“These pancakes make me want to sing,” one woman told me. “Please don’t,” her companion said. “You’ll ruin breakfast.”) One man told me he felt like he was in a finely decorated nineteenth century brothel. “It almost feels…seductive in my room, I don’t know why.” I did not take offense.

  Others were from town. Three of the priests from the cathedral were discussing professional football teams at the same table as two professors from the local college. One professor taught Elizabethan literature; the other was a hard-core scientist. They had a visiting professor with them today, a man named Chinaza, from Nigeria.

  The Old Timers Still Kickin’ Band, a group of four older gentlemen, including Norm and Howard, the World War II vets, plus their two friends, Charlie and Davis, were playing two games of backgammon. I’d never heard their band, but I’d heard they were good. When they saw me I heard Davis count out, “One, two, three,” then they all yelled, “Merry Meredith!”

  The guests jumped; the people from town laughed. That’s my nickname, “Merry Meredith.” I get that nickname because I make people laugh with my food. On Davis’s seventy-fifth birthday, I put seventy-five candles on a huge stack of pancakes. On Charlie and Mabel’s anniversary I made them a white cake in the shape of a mountain and smothered it in whipped cream because they’d met at the top of a snowy mountain. Though I take my cooking seriously, I believe that food should also be served up with humor. Hence, Merry Meredith. They all think they’re hilarious.

  And then there was Logan.

  Leaning back in his chair, beige shirt, worn jeans, cowboy boots, smiling at me with those white teeth. His hair looked as if it had been lovingly ruffled by the wind, the sun had kissed his face, and the mountains around Telena had stamped him with a manly man look.

  I felt sizzly all over, and instantly nervous, the breath swooshing from my body, and then I did something particularly special.

  I dropped the pitcher. The noise was deafening, and glass splattered everywhere.

  “Please sit down with me, Meredith.”

  “No, and what are you doing here anyhow?” I stared up at Logan. He had gallantly leaped up, as had other customers, and Mary and Martha, to help me clean up the shattered mess.

  “I’m here because I wanted to eat the best breakfast Telena has to offer, and I want to apologize.”

  Why did his voice have to be so low and manly and velvety? Why couldn’t it be high and squeaky? I swear, each word rolled through my body like liquid chocolate. “What do you want to apologize for?” I snapped.

  “I want to apologize for the other night.”

  “For interfering? For making me look weak?”

  “I am not sorry for interfering, but I am sorry for how it made you feel. I really am.”

  “You’re not sorry for interfering?”

  He glanced away for a sec. “No, Meredith, I could no more sit back and watch that scene than I could tie my ankles up with a rope and hitch them to the saddle of a galloping horse, but I’m sorry how you ended up feeling about the whole thing. That, absolutely, was not my intention.”

  Men hardly ever apologize. No man I’d been with had apologized, even after saying such hurtful things, labeling me so harshly, I’d been left reeling. And here was Logan, apologizing because I had ended up feeling bad when he’d gallantly protected me.

  I sniffled. I felt warm. I felt my heart crack, and then these darn tears came out of nowhere and filled my eyes.

  “Enjoy your breakfast,” I choked out then turned to leave. He blocked my exit. It did not escape me that I was now the center of attention.

  “I would like to enjoy breakfast with you.”

  I couldn’t. I’d probably cry on the man. I shook my head.

  “Go ahead and sit down,” Mary called out, waving her chicken wings.

  “Yes, do, Meredith,” Martha said, making a soft clucking chicken sound. “We can handle everything in the kitchen.”

  “No—”

  “Sit, sit!” Chinaza called. One day I’d arranged blueberries in whipped cream cheese and made the outline of Nigeria for him. “You work hard too much. Please. I tired watching you.”

  “Yes, Meredith,” Davis intoned. He owns much of the downtown property in Telena. “I’ll control the boys here, and you have a seat. That man saved you at Barry Lynn’s, least you can do is have breakfast with him.”

  “He did not save me, I do not need saving, I can save myself,” I harrumphed. Sheesh! Knowing this banter was not going to cease, I grudgingly sat down at Logan’s table, next to the Christmas tree with the pink and white angels. Maybe the angels could save me from this torture, or at least divert my attention from how truly hot this man was.

  “They look pretty together,” Charlie mused. He recites poetry beautifully, but he is part-deaf. When he was in the military the guns blew out part of his hearing.

  “Yes, they are an attractive couple,” Howard boomed. “She needs to lay down her battle arms and get married.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” Davis croaked out. “If she does I can’t flirt with her anymore. I’m still holding out on that marriage proposal I offered her.”

  “She shouldn’t get married. It’ll lead to captivity,” Ranna May called out. She is a former opera singer. Her husband owns a fly fishing store here in Telena. “Captivity, Meredith. Think: captivity.”

  “Good morning,” Logan said to me.

  I glared and willed the tears back in my eyes.

  “How are you?”

  I glared again. Go back in, tears! Why was I crying anyhow? Because you’re attracted to him and know you can’t have him because of you know what.

  “I’m fine, too,” Logan said, with a smile, a handsome and kind smile. “Thank you.”

  Third time: glare.

  “In the morning I like to talk about the weather, what I’m going to do that day, what you’re going to do that day, news features…”

  “I am sure you have had plenty of experience talking to women at breakfast, Logan, but I don’t have that much experience talking to men. Please excuse me if my abilities at morning chit chat are not at your level.” For some truly blighted reason, his speaking to other women at breakfast ticked me off.

  He leaned back in his chair. “Actually, Meredith, I don’t have much experience at all talking to women at breakfast.”

  “No?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “No. I was talking about you and I.”

  “There is no you and I. I’m sitting with you until I can make an escape back to my kitchen.”

  “We did not meet under the best of circumstances, and I’m sorry about that, too.” We shared one of those long, heated glances until I looked away because my insides were way hotter than they should have been.

  “I would like to take you horseback riding on my ranch.”

  Of all the things I thought he’d say, that was at the end.

  “No, thank you.” I leaned back in my chair. “I’m busy.”

  “Please.”

  “No.”

  He glanced out the window, then those green eyes pinned me back down. I had a momentary flash of be
ing under that man’s body, being kissed by him, with maple syrup pancakes floating around our heads. See what I mean about an odd sense of humor with food?

  “You do ride?”

  I scoffed. “Of course I ride.” I’d spent years on horses growing up on our property outside Telena.

  “It’s a date then.”

  “No date.” I leaned forward. “Logan, may I be clear? I’m not looking to spend more time with you.”

  “Well I’m looking to spend more time with a woman who wears red cowboy hats. Know anyone?”

  “The woman who wears red cowgirl hats says no, she’s sorry, but you’re too much.” Oh, now darn it! Why did I have to say that!

  “Too much? What do you mean by that?”

  I envisioned whipping myself with a string of garlic. “You’re too much. Too much to handle. Too ferociously male, too take-controlly. I have enough…” I struggled with the wording here, “stuff going on in my life without adding a cowboy.”

  “That’s a shame.” He winked at me, but the rest of his serious expression didn’t change. Why did I have the feeling this man was playing me? It was at that moment that Jacob launched into the well known notes of a popular love song. I cleared my throat.

  I could tell that Logan was working hard not to laugh.

  “So, I’ll pick you up Monday at 1:00. We’ll go out to my ranch, I’ll have lunch ready for us, and we’ll ride horses. How does that sound?”

  “No.” I loved riding horses, hadn’t ridden in years. I imagined Logan on a horse. For some reason the horse had sausages for legs and a peppermint saddle.

  “I have to get going, I have some work to do, but I’ll look forward to seeing you.”

  “I said no. Aren’t you listening?”

  “I have the perfect horse for you. She’s strong and fast.”

  “Hello?”

  He picked up my hand, no kidding, and kissed it. My hand. Like a prince or something. “It’s been a pleasure, thank you,” he said, then he got up and left as I watched, stunned. Perplexed. Confused. Sizzling. A vision of lying on top of Logan while pink cookie hearts swirled around our heads entered my mind….

  Jacob’s love song crescendoed. Logan laughed, deep and growly.

  As soon as the door shut, my customers, Martha, and Mary applauded.

  “Merry Meredith has a date!” one of the priests said, grinning. He gave me a thumbs up.

  “Merry Meredith, don’t be lured into captivity!” the ex-opera singer insisted.

  “It doesn’t mean she won’t marry me!” Davis yelled, to laughter.

  I buried my head in my arms.

  I cannot handle my own life, that I know for sure.

  Chapter 4

  As I made my way back to the kitchen I stopped at Simon’s table.

  Simon comes in every morning. He is a small, fluttery man who always wears a worried expression on his face. His hands tremble; he’s pale. Simon is polite, but he likes his routines to be exact. He sits at the same table, at the back of the dining room, near the window, every day. We reserve his table for him. His decaffeinated coffee is to be served with two squares of sugar, no more, and cream in a silver pitcher on the side. He has three pieces of toast, cut in triangles, lightly buttered, scrambled eggs, no cheese, and five apple slices. None of his food can touch other food on his plate. There is to be no pepper or hot sauce on the table; both make him nauseous. I am to serve him, no one else, no offense, please.

  “Good morning, Simon, how are you?”

  “I’m well, Meredith. I was so relieved to see that you weren’t hurt when you dropped the pitcher.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “But the whole thing, the noise, the confusion, worrying about you, it was upsetting for me.”

  “I’m sorry, Simon.” And, I was. I didn’t know what had happened to Simon in his life to make him so nervous, so compulsive about things, but I had a lot of compassion for the guy. “I’ll be more careful in the future.”

  “Please, Meredith. Please do. It was upsetting.”

  “Have a nice day, Simon.”

  “I don’t think I can do that anymore. That was a loud noise. Upsetting.” His hands trembled. “I think I will go and lie down so I can decompress.”

  Over the weekend, Jacob, Sarah, and I spent hours decorating the bed and breakfast with garlands, wreaths, and outdoor lights. I’d bought five Christmas trees. One each for the entry, dining room, parlor, the landing on the second floor, and one for our living quarters.

  Each tree had a theme. The pink angel tree was already decorated for the dining room. The entry tree’s theme was an old-fashioned Christmas, in keeping with the house, so we popped popcorn and strung it, strung cranberries, candy canes, old toys, strings of lights that looked like candles, and raffia. The parlor tree was Jacob’s idea: it was a music tree. We wrapped it in colored lights, and attached a lady’s violin, a flute, a few small drums, and sheet music tied in ribbon. The ornaments were all musical instruments.

  The tree on the landing was the “Shiny Ornament Tree,” dubbed so by Sarah. Only huge, shiny, colorful ornaments and white lights.

  It was decorating the tree in our living space on the third floor, a winter sun peeking through the French doors, that brought on the tears.

  “Let’s get out the ornaments we brought from the other house,” Sarah said, angry. “Then we can remember that our mother dumped us in favor of her boyfriend.”

  Jacob slumped on the couch.

  “Or, hey,” Sarah said. “Maybe we can remember all the Christmases where Mom either wasn’t there or had another boyfriend lying around.”

  Jacob scrunched his shoulders in.

  “She’s not coming to visit us, is she, Aunt Meredith?” he asked.

  My heart ached for the kids; my stomach burned with anger toward my sister. “I haven’t heard from her.”

  Jacob buried his head. Sarah kicked the couch, three times. “I don’t even like her, and I’m glad she’s not coming, but I’m so mad at her!” She kicked the couch again. I hugged her, she tried to struggle away, I held her close, she struggled more, then gave up the fight and hugged me back. We both hugged Jacob. “I love you two so much,” I said. And I want to string your mother up by her toes on a tree deep, deep in the forest.

  We did not use the ornaments from the other house. We went and bought entirely new ornaments: bears in canoes, Santas on skis, Mrs. Claus in a tutu, upside-down elves, a confused Rudolph, singing reindeer, a snowman sunning himself on a chaise lounge, and two crosses. When we finished decorating the tree, we were actually laughing.

  I dreamed of the accident again.

  The clanging noise, the burning, acrid smells, the pitch darkness, my sister’s giggle, that wrenching pain. I saw him running toward me; he was blurry. I saw his hands reach for me. The blackness enveloped me, sucked me in. The last thing I saw was his eyes.

  “I wrote in my Grateful Journal that I’m glad I didn’t have to do the twister last night with my husband.” Katie blew her bangs out of her eyes. No wonder she was so thin. Four kids and a husband who chased her around the house. “We settled for the hurricane. So much easier, and I could wear my trench coat. How popular do you think weather games in bed are with other women?”

  “I hardly know what to say, Katie,” I said. The hurricane? The twister? Dare I ask?

  “I wouldn’t know, Katie,” Hannah said. Her T-shirt said, “E=MC squared.” “For some reason, members of the opposite sex do not find me attractive. I do think I would be good at the hurricane and the twister, as long as there was some sort of mathematical equation I could attach to it.” She pushed her glasses further up her nose. “There are no solid mathematical equations for human emotions, though. It’s so perplexing.”

  Vicki flicked her brown and gray ponytail back and said, “I wrote in my Grateful Journal that I’m glad I have the horses I have. Fast and afraid of nothing. Plus I got another ranch hand. The man’s gorgeous. If all he does all day is walk back and forth in front of my window
s, he’ll earn his salary.”

  “I wrote in my Grateful Journal that I am so thrilled I’ve memorized another twenty-five prime numbers,” Hannah said. “And, I’ve decided to attend a mathematics convention in Sacramento. All day, every day, math. It’ll be the trip of a lifetime.”

  There was another silence.

  “Sometimes I don’t understand you, Hannah,” Katie said, dumbfounded.

  We were interrupted by Barry Lynn, who stood on top of a chair and pointed at her Christmas tree in the corner. It was decorated with white lights and beer and wine glass ornaments. Already, there were loads of gifts and bikes. “Folks, only a few more weeks for my toy drive. Kids are in need. We need to give them a Christmas. Bring those gifts and bikes in or you’ll get suspended from my bar.”

  We raised our beer glasses. The Three Wise Women and I had already dropped off four bikes and a pile of toys.

  “So how is it being the director of the Telena Christmas Concert Series?” Vicki asked.

  “I might lose my mind over it. It’ll probably fall out of my head, land in my eggs. I’ll whip it right up, and I won’t even notice. We need people who can sing and dance and play instruments and be in skits. I’m signing you three up for a skit.”

  “Us? I haven’t been in a skit since fourth grade,” Vicki said. “I played a sheriff, and at the end of my solo I shot off my gun into the ceiling. My teacher, Mrs. Phillips, had told me, ‘Remember, Vicki, end your solo with a bang.’ I thought she meant for me to shoot off my gun. It got the audience’s attention.”

  “Well, you’re going onstage again,” I said. “But no shooting of guns.”

  “What will our skit be about?” Hannah asked.

  “You’ll figure it out. I have faith in the Three Wise Women.”

  They gaped at me and then, slowly, Hannah nodded. “Are there any rules? Any formulas?”