A Heartwarming Christmas: A Boxed Set of Twelve Sweet Holiday Romances

by Melinda Curtis

  “You need a job.”

  Cass looked up in surprise when Esther offered the local newspaper’s classified ads along with a coffee refill. “A job?”

  “Yes. I can see it.” The innkeeper, who bore an uncanny resemblance to all the best renditions of Mrs. Claus, took the chair opposite Cass. “You’re trying not to be bored, but you are. You think you should get involved in decorating for Christmas, but you aren’t ready for full-scale socializing—and we all know Christmas Town’s holiday preparations are full-scale everything. You’ve read the newest books, seen all the movies you want to, and can’t bake because you don’t have a kitchen. Even more, you don’t know where you’re going to live.” Her eyes, the bright blue one would expect in Mrs. Claus, brimmed with empathy. “So yes, my dear, you need a job, and not one that includes caregiving.”

  A little guilt niggled at Cass, much as the feeling of relief did. She didn’t want to be a caregiver anymore. Even the thought of helping the girls with animals made her ache.

  A short ad in the newspaper had been circled with a red marker. “Personal assistant needed on a temporary basis. Must be computer savvy, willing to walk the dog, and discreet,” Cass read aloud. The address on Twelve Days Avenue was within walking distance of the B & B. Unless Cass was mistaken, it was one of the big Victorians that nestled in groves of pine trees behind wrought iron fences on the wide street two blocks away. “This one sounds like a gothic novel.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Esther looked delighted. “A new adventure, dear. You’re due, don’t you think?”

  Cass was computer savvy—it had been something she could learn and stay current with even when she was caring for Paul and her mother. She didn’t want a dog of her own, but she loved walking. She was still keeping secrets she and her high school girlfriends had shared, so discretion wasn’t a problem, either.

  The thought that for the first time in her life she really didn’t need money—the sale of the farm in Indiana had seen to that—gave her pause. Would she be taking a job away from someone who needed it more than she did?

  “The ad’s been in there a week or more,” Esther observed, addressing her qualms so instantly Cass wondered if the friendly hostess numbered mindreading among her skills. “Makes one think whoever it is doing the hiring is on the finicky side.”

  Cass knew finicky. Her mother, even when Alzheimer’s had changed her personality irrevocably, had been a life study in persnickety. “It wouldn’t hurt to apply, at least,” she allowed. “There’s no phone number to make an appointment, is there? I guess I’ll just go over.”

  It was full daylight by the time Cass put on her boots and lightweight insulated coat. The snow was still falling in huge fluffy flakes. “It’s a Christmas snow,” opined another guest in the dining room.

  Cass nodded agreement. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She smiled at Esther and whisked through the heavy front door of the inn, tucking her curly brown hair under a knitted hat.

  The house was where she thought it was, and the curved driveway delved deeply enough into the pine trees that she had a few misgivings as she climbed it. When she stepped into the clearing, however, the shutters and matching green front door on the big white house seemed cheerful and friendly. There was even a welcome sign on the white painted gate into the yard. She stomped the snow off her boots and pushed the doorbell before she could talk herself out of it.

  Sharp, indignant barking preceded the opening of the door. Recognition took the dimness out of her morning. Although snow still fell, Cass could have sworn sunshine was trying to work between the pine trees. The man was taller and leaner than she’d realized, dressed in faded jeans and yet another Bowdoin College sweatshirt. Maggie the dachshund leaned against his leg, still shouting territorially.

  “May I help you?” He recognized her, too. It showed in the lean planes of his face and in his smile.

  She’d been wrong when she’d considered Eli Welcome a pleasant-looking older man. He was in actuality wonderful-looking and, from the vantage point of fifty-five, in his prime. If Lia had been beside her, she would have muttered, “A little bit of Mark Harmon going on here.” Cass would have burst into laughter and all dignity would have been lost. As it was, she had to discipline her features into staying straight.

  “Pastor Welcome. I didn’t know this was your house.” She held up the newspaper she’d stuffed into the side pocket of her bag. “Or your ad. Is it? Your ad, I mean?” Then she started laughing anyway, the nervous kind that would have qualified as a giggle if she’d been younger and less embarrassed.

  “Cass, isn’t it?”

  He extended his hand again, as he had that day at Reindeer Meadow, and she shook it, experiencing the same peculiar warmth she had the first time even though a black brace covered much of his hand. She drew free and bent to extend the same courtesy to the anxious dachshund. “Yes. Cass Logan. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I thought—”

  “You’re not bothering me. It is my ad. Please come in.”

  Inside, he took her coat and hat. “If you want to take off your boots, the draining tray is there by the door, but if you’d rather not, that’s all right, too. You never can tell when you might need to make an expeditious escape.”

  Cass didn’t think she’d ever heard anyone use the word “expeditious” in conversation, but it made her comfortable enough that she took off her boots before following him through the house to a large kitchen.

  She could really bake in here.

  “Please call me Eli. I’m not a pastor anymore.” His smile was on the edge of apologetic. “We can have coffee while we discuss the job.” He gestured toward the table and chairs in the breakfast nook. “The office is through that hall, but there’s no neat way to drink coffee there—I know because I’ve tried. I have some scones from The Tea Pot here, too, that Gina just baked this morning.”

  Cass hadn’t had one of Gina Banning’s scones since before Paul died; she hadn’t made them for herself in even longer. Her mouth watered at the thought. “Orange-currant ones?”

  “Well, there were orange-currant ones, but now there aren’t. They were delicious, too.” He set a plate of the pastries on the table and she noticed the brace on his right hand again. “Have a seat.”

  “You’re really not a minister anymore?” she blurted when he sat across from her. “Isn’t that a lot like stopping being a mother?”

  So much for discretion.

  He sighed. “Have you ever read any Cyrus Wisdom mysteries?”

  “Yes. I listened to the latest one on the way back here.” The ending of the book was still waiting for her. After stopping at Reindeer Meadow, she hadn’t listened to the rest.

  “Did you like it?”

  He sounded eager, and she relaxed even more. She loved talking about books. “I did. I think it’s my favorite so far, though my mind was so scattered on the drive out here that I’m going to have to listen to it again to catch all the nuances. Have you read it yet?”

  His lean cheeks, already so bronzed she assumed he was a skier, reddened. “I wrote it.”

  She shook her head. “E. W. Doherty wrote it.” Or maybe not. Maybe the stories were like the books she’d read when she was a kid—written by a publisher’s stable of different people using the same name. But the voice that brought Cyrus Wisdom to life was so distinctive she couldn’t imagine it belonging to more than one writer.

  He smeared butter unashamedly on his scone. “My full name is Elijah Doherty Welcome—the Doherty is my mother’s family name. I was already a minister when I started writing the books, so using a pen name seemed like the sensible thing to do. I asked my grandfather how he felt about me switching my name around and using Doherty. He liked the idea and named Cyrus while he was at it.”

  “You mean no one ever knew you were both people?” Cass didn’t know why she was so surprised. She’d lived in Christmas County almost her entire married life and read all E. W. Doherty’s books and she hadn’t known.

  “
A few people knew, but not many. I didn’t have pictures on my book jackets and even though I did book-signings and author talks occasionally, I did it away from here. If the appearance was in a newspaper or online, no one ever saw it, at least no one who cared enough to pass the information on.” He hesitated, leaning back in his chair and steepling his hands under his chin. The black brace stood out against the white of his sweatshirt. “But then someone did and a few people were offended by what they felt was my duplicity. The board at St. Matthew’s agreed there was nothing in the books that fell outside the views of the church—other than the occasional curse word—but they were uncomfortable with their pastor leading a double life.”

  Cass shook her head. “That must have been difficult.”

  “It was and it wasn’t.” He sounded surprised by his own words. “I became a minister because I was called to do so and I loved being one. I left it because I was called to do that, too. I’m still the same person I’ve always been.” He grinned, reaching to pour more coffee. “I just don’t get good parking places anymore.”

  They were finishing their third cups, had cleared the plate of Gina’s pastries, and were in the middle of discussing the town’s pageant that took place on the green on Christmas Eve when Cass realized they hadn’t so much as mentioned the reason for the ad.

  She looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was a cat one with a swinging tail. Her mother had had one of those when Cass was a child. The memory was a sweet one, taking away the last vestige of edginess she’d felt about this morning’s steps into a new life. “I’ve taken up so much of your time. Is the position still open? If it is, can you tell me more about it?”

  His glance followed hers to the clock, his brows rising when he saw that lunchtime was closer than breakfast. He laughed. “It’s the nicest morning I’ve had in a while, so I’d have to say the interview was successful.” He held up his hand. “I’m having carpal tunnel release surgery the Monday after Thanksgiving, and I won’t be able to type for a while. Well, I think I would, but the surgeon says I shouldn’t. Since I’m also technologically inept—my website hasn’t been updated for the last book and the next one will be out in January—I need help in that area, too. I have voice recognition software that I’ve never mastered, but I’d really rather just dictate to a real person for a few weeks. Are you up for that?”

  “I am. Would you like to try it out for a few days, though? If it doesn’t work out, no harm.” Before he could reply, she added, “I’m discreet and won’t mind walking the dog, either.”

  Maggie must have heard the word “walk,” because she was beside Cass’s chair in a heartbeat, her shiny dark eyes soulful and one paw raised in a plea so eloquent it might as well have been spoken.

  They walked the dog together, Eli showing Cass the grounds of the big old house. There were informal gardens in the back, with a path meandering between them deeper into the pine woods. “I bought this place from a parishioner’s estate five years ago. It was more than I wanted, certainly more than I needed, but since I figure on spending the rest of my life in Christmas Town, it seemed like a worthwhile investment.”

  “It’s beautiful.” She stopped, enchanted, when a cottage appeared. “Oh, my goodness, all it needs is a thatched roof and a trail of bread crumbs and you have Hansel and Gretel going on here.”

  “It’s the guest house. Actually, I considered living in it and renting out the big house or turning it into a bed and breakfast—Esther’s is the only one in town—but I’ve gotten lazier in my old age. I wasn’t up for that big of a lifestyle change. Going into business has never been on my list of things I wanted to do.”

  It had been on Cass’s once upon a time. She’d coveted Esther’s House, longed to jump in and offer partnership when Gina bought The Tea Pot, and given serious thought to opening a quilt shop every time a storefront opened up on the square. But caregiving had worn the initiative out of her. Maybe her age didn’t dictate that it was “too late,” but she felt it nonetheless.

  “May I see it?”

  He entered the numbers into the keypad on the lock and pushed the cottage’s front door open.

  Inside the tiny house with its cozy furniture, warped wood floors, and mullioned windows, Cass felt comfort and ease slip over her soul. More than on the farm in Indiana where she and Paul had begun their married life, even more than on the one here that now belonged to the girls, she felt at home. “Will you rent this to me?”

  What was she thinking? Little houses in the woods were for fairy-tale witches and eccentric characters in books, not middle-aged women in search of themselves. There was no garage—not even a real driveway. She’d have to park her car at the main house and tote her groceries through the gardens on a sled.

  But there was electricity. A thermostat on the wall assured her of central heating. The miniscule second bedroom was set up as an office complete with bookcases, a beautiful old desk, and an overstuffed wing chair.

  She could find herself here. Whoever she had been before the wearing years of taking care of Paul and her mother—maybe she was still there somewhere.

  “Yes.” Eli’s voice brought her back to her surroundings. “If you’re sure you want to live in the woods, I’d be glad to rent it to you. Would you like to discuss it over lunch?”

  Chapter 3

  Cass Logan was scarily efficient. She typed faster than Eli could talk, updated his website to where it was both inviting and user-friendly, and made firm friends with Maggie. She rearranged the decorating nightmare that was his office, made splendid coffee, and solved the conundrum in Chapter Five he’d been fighting with since he’d first started the book in progress.

  And that was just the first day.

  Her daughters weren’t thrilled with her move into the cottage in the woods, but they helped her anyway, using his garden tractor and trailer to move her belongings from her car to the little house. Wanting to be a good neighbor, Eli supplied some of Gina’s scones and a pot of soup for Cass’s dinner on moving day and accepted her invitation to join her so quickly he almost embarrassed himself.

  He sat across the miniature table from her, eating soup with crusty bread and thinking how beautiful she was. Her hair was wildly curly, no matter how she tried to contain it in a clip, with lovely red highlights she’d assured him were entirely unnatural. Her eyes were light brown most of the time, but occasionally if the light was right, they were a shade of green he found himself unable to look away from.

  If he were describing her in a book, he’d have to admit she wasn’t beautiful at all, he supposed. Only what one of his favorite British authors would have referred to as “pretty enough.”

  She reminded him of his wife. Elnora had been beautiful, but she hadn’t cared. She’d like laughing and painting and gardening. And being with him. He’d liked women since Elnora died and had even come close to loving at least one. But he’d never lost track of the time he spent with anyone or wanted to extend it. There had always been a subliminal sense of relief when he was alone again.

  However, he and Cass talked all the way through dinner and an entire pot of coffee after it. They’d looked up in surprise to discover it had gotten dark with neither of them noticing.

  Walking home through the woods, he caught himself singing one of the Christmas carols that had been playing quietly while they had dinner. Just as it had been a long time since he’d lost track of time spent with a woman, it had been a while since he’d sung Christmas carols.

  “A good day, wasn’t it, Maggie?”

  She barked happy agreement.

  ~*~

  Amy and Lia had brought groceries when they came to help move her stuff in, so Cass wasn’t surprised to find baking ingredients and two new cookie sheets in the cottage’s tiny kitchen. The girls were serious about their mother’s gingerbread cookies, vying shamelessly for the first batch. The oven worked, although it was old enough that she would have to clean it herself when the time came.

  As tired as she most def
initely was after Eli and Maggie left, she was also too keyed up to sleep—especially in a strange new bed—so she gave up trying. She pushed aside the log cabin quilt that had been the first one she ever made, turned the music up, and got out the mixing bowl she’d been using since her mother first taught her to bake.

  Before the bowl had come to Maine with her and Paul thirty years ago in the trunk of the family car, it had been in her kitchen on the farm in Indiana. They’d lived there the first few years of their marriage, buying the acreage on contract from her parents. Then Paul had gone to Maine with a friend to bring back a load of Christmas trees. He’d come home with an envelope of pictures of the property that eventually became Two Sticks Farm, so named because for all the years they made payments on both farms, they hadn’t had two sticks to rub together.

  As much as Cass had loved Maine from that first scared day at Bowdoin, she’d always been homesick for Indiana—until she went back. She’d been glad they’d kept the farm there, because her mother had lived and been comfortable there her entire life, but selling the acreage and later the house to the family down the road had been a relief. When she’d loaded the car to come back to Maine, she knew she was going home for good. While it was true her loneliness bordered on debilitating, she was happy to be back in Christmas Town. She thought she was happy with her new boss, too.

  The table, the abbreviated counter space, and the top of the stove were covered with gingerbread men by the time she finally felt herself grow sleepy. The fragrant ornaments would have to lie in the open air for three or four days before she sprayed all their surfaces with clear varnish and ran hanging ribbons through the holes she’d positioned at their tops.

  As she walked past the table on the way out of the kitchen, she brushed against its edge and knocked one of the cookies to the floor. It was probably still warm, but it shattered anyway, pieces and crumbs skittering across the polished wood surface.