“Not yet,” Sylvie said. “But if you do, I have a gold dealer in Switzerland who owes me a really big favor.”
“The holidays stir up the romantic in all of us.” Frannie’s red lips lifted in a smile. “I personally get three times more hits on my profile on SouthernSingles.com in December. Of course, I also get three times more rejections, but I don't really find that relevant.”
“It’s the season of wonder and miracles.” Sylvie widened her eyes for effect. “You might want to keep an eye out for things like that.”
“I’ll take that into consideration.” Will was desperate to steer this conversation back to a safer topic. “This is an impressive event. So all the kids get toys?”
“Ridiculous transition, but yes,” Sylvie said. “Toys and a new coat. Mitchell Crawford pours a lot into this community. Like Cordelia’s grant.”
“What grant?” Suddenly Will wasn’t itching to leave the company of the CIA sisters just yet.
“Two years ago Mitchell started a grant program for young entrepreneurs,” Sylvie said. “He awards it every November to an enterprising person under forty who’ll operate a business that benefits the town. Out of 500 applicants, Cordelia was last year’s winner.”
“For Daring Displays?”
Frannie’s hair swung as she nodded. “And she got it again just last month. That girl’s on fire.”
“Mitchell says she's yet to accept it.” Sylvie watched him with eagle eyes. “The deadline is the day after Christmas. If Cordelia doesn’t accept the grant, it goes to the runner-up. It’s quite a bit of money. But I guess being her sweetie, you knew all that.”
Blindfolded, these ladies could probably spot a liar from three counties away. “Actually I didn’t. Why wouldn’t Cordelia accept—”
“Why wouldn’t I accept what?” Cordelia asked as she rejoined the group, Isaiah strapped to her chest in his wearable sling and a box of food in her hand.
"The prize for the most handsome date.” Frannie slipped her arm through Will’s. “This fellow here was just telling me how beautiful he thinks you are.”
Cordelia laughed, sending a conspiratorial wink to Will. “Did he now? That’s big praise coming from the most sought-after bachelor in Sugar Creek.”
“But he’s all yours.” Sylvie grabbed the food. “Right, sweet potato?”
Will reached for Cordelia and pulled her close, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Anyone who knows Cordelia understands I’m the lucky one.”
Frannie watched him for a few intimidating beats before giving Will a simple nod. And a look that said she’d cut him in his sleep. “I do believe you are, Will Sinclair. Now let me have this baby and give you two love birds a break.”
After unhooking the complicated sling, Cordelia handed over Isaiah.
Frannie rained kisses all over his little face. “We’ll go in the barn and look for Santa. That’ll keep him warm.”
Will watched the ladies walk away, feeling like he’d just survived a tornado—hanging on by a finger. “They’re a little intense."
Cordelia snorted. “An undertow is intense. Those two are a tsunami.”
“Miss Frannie mentioned something about a grant you won last year?”
Her hand paused in a wave to someone across the way. “Yes. It allowed me to take my sabbatical to see if I could make a full-time go of Daring Displays.”
“Why haven’t you claimed your grant for this year?”
“Wow.” She crammed her hands in her coat pockets. “Sylvie and Frannie were full of information tonight.”
“What are you waiting for, Cordelia?”
“It’s not that easy. Just because I got it again doesn’t mean quitting my accounting job and pursuing Daring Displays is the right thing to do. Not all of us were born wealthy.”
His parents had been rich, but they’d made sure their kids weren’t raised with enabling privilege. Will let that go for now. “You love staging and decorating. I saw your New Year’s window display in the city library, and it looked like something out of an elite Manhattan store.”
“Thank you. I love giving people a setting for their magical moments. Like this month, showing them what Christmas can look like, smell like, and feel like. It's about texture and color and lights.” Her cheeks glowed and her animated hands moved with each word. “I want everyone to make memories with loved ones against a pretty backdrop. Instead of a lonely three-foot plastic tree that sits on your dining room table.”
“Is that what you had growing up?”
Her eyes dimmed. “It was just an example.”
Will doubted that. “Now tell me what you love about being an accountant?”
He could've sang the first stanza of “Jingle Bells” in the pause that followed.
“I like that my accounting job offers me a paycheck twice a month with benefits,” she finally said as the wind whipped the tassel of her hat. “I suppose I enjoy how numbers are either right or wrong, and there's no gray area. I like fixing things for clients who can't see the problem.”
"That sounds really good on paper, but when you talk about it, you’re as shut down as a Christmas tree in January.”
“In many traditions keeping the tree up past December is actually—”
“Is security what you want most out of life?” Will asked. She had too much talent to throw it all away.
"You don't know what it's like to be a single woman on your own. To be responsible for every aspect of your life. I value my independence, but it's hard. And I don't like lying awake at night wondering what I'm going to do if the washing machine goes out or if I need to buy new tires."
"And that's been your situation this year?”
“It’s been successful, but—”
“But what? If you hadn't been successful, you wouldn't have gotten the grant again, right? Mr. Crawford doesn’t just hand out money to any applicant with big dreams. He clearly thinks you have a solid plan and a good head on your shoulders. He saw enough profit and potential in your business. The question is, do you see it?”
His holiday enthusiast was shutting down quickly. “I appreciate your guidance counseling, but I feel very comfortable with my decisions. I haven't completely made up my mind to turn down the money and return to my old job, and I still have some time. I think about it every day. But it's my decision to make, and I'm tired of people butting in and telling me what to do." She turned and walked ahead of him. “I thought you of all people would understand.”
Chapter 13
Will Sinclair apparently got desperate when he didn’t want to write.
For the third day since the event at Mitchell Crawford’s, Will dropped by Cordelia’s with no more notice than a text before leaving his house. Once, she’d had to madly grab newly washed bras hanging to dry and throw them in her dark closet. Another time, she’d missed his text, and he’d found her outside, tweaking her own light display and doing an impromptu dance to “All I Want For Christmas.” All Cordelia wanted for Christmas was to get through a day with Will without embarrassing herself. She didn’t have a lot of faith Santa could make that happen.
Cordelia snapped Isaiah into his car seat and watched Will’s sedan ease into her drive. The baby babbled and kicked his little feet as if he knew.
“Yes, your favorite person is here.” She handed Isaiah his new giraffe rattle. “But just remember who gets up with you in the middle of the night. I’d like to start seeing a little more loyalty out of you.”
Will looked tired as he swung his long legs from the car and joined them. “No big projects today?”
The temperature had dropped ten degrees in the two hours since lunch, and Cordelia wished she’d put on a coat. “I worked downtown this morning, then I’ve got a house staging later this afternoon.”
“Where are you headed now?” he asked.
Cordelia noticed he wore the red scarf she’d given him yesterday, and it made her smile. She’d get him in a holiday sweater yet. “Dropping Isaiah off for a couple h
ours of daycare, then a quick stop by my mom’s.”
“Your mom’s, huh? Need me to go and pose as your manny?”
“My last manny was a Latin bodybuilder, so I’m not sure she’d believe I’ve downgraded.”
“Downgraded?” Will ran his hand over the duct tape holding Cordelia’s bumper in place. “So maybe your last guy had six pack abs and pecs for days, but did Isaiah laugh at his barnyard impressions? I don’t think so.” Standing impossibly close to Cordelia, he peeked into the backseat to greet the baby. “Come on, let me go with you. I’m bored.”
“How much have you written today?” she asked.
“I wrote a grocery list for the online delivery service.”
“And?” He never wanted to talk about the book.
“And. . .that’s all.” Will straightened. “The muse is a fickle lady with punctuality issues. You should grab a coat. Storm’s moving in.”
There were already lots of jet stream currents right where Cordelia stood. She shut the door and took a step back, needing some space. “You don’t want to visit my mom. She makes your muse look sweet and generous.”
When a groaning gale of wind nearly pushed Cordelia over, Will reached into his coat pocket, then pulled out a navy stocking cap. “It doesn’t have glitter or high voltage flashy things, but this hat will help keep you warm.” He eased it over her head, then let a hand slowly slide down her hair. His eyes held hers. “Better?”
Cordelia nodded, though she was anything but better. Nothing like getting turned on by men’s outerwear. “Thanks. I’ll return it when I get back.”
“Come on, Cordelia.” He braced a hand on the car and leaned toward her. “You’ve met my parents. Now it’s time for me to meet yours. I promise not to tell your mom that you rarely eat vegetables and sometimes go outside with a wet head.”
“You’d do anything to avoid working on that book, wouldn’t you?”
“Days of Our Lives was a rerun, so you and my future mother-in-law are all I’ve got.”
Oh, so now they were on their way to the fictional altar? Things sure moved fast in fake relationship world. “Fine. But I’m warning you—my mom’s . . .eccentric.”
“I like eccentric.”
Will had no idea what he was in for. “Probably not her brand of it. She’s grouchy, suspicious of everyone, and always thinks the sky’s not only falling, but filled with toxic gasses planted by the government as part of their greater plan of mind control and world domination.”
“She’ll love me.”
“I doubt it. But you hang on to that optimism.”
Chapter 14
This had been a very bad idea.
After dropping the baby off at daycare, Cordelia reluctantly steered the car toward her mother’s house while Will made entertaining chit-chat, none of which she heard. She was too busy running nightmare scenarios in her mind of the many ways her mother could humiliate her upon their arrival. It wasn’t so much that her mother was mentally ill, but more that life had thrown Jane Daring a curveball long ago, and she’d spent every day since watering her bitterness like seeds in a victory garden.
As she turned down Persimmon Lane, Cordelia spotted the third house on the right, the one she grew up in, where her mother still lived. But now she assessed it as if seeing it for the first time. The home sat in a part of town dominated by 1970s Tudor ranch houses that had once worn their European Sunday best, but now appeared to favor the thrift shop discard pile. The lot did possess a few stately oak trees that stood tall and regal from decades of growth, stretching over the rooftops as if to see better things.
A one-eyed black cat hissed and scurried away as they walked to the door, arms laden with bags.
“Your brother?” Will asked as the cat hid in a nearby shrub and growled.
“One of the strays my mom feeds. While she often forgets to eat, she never fails to provide for her coven of homeless animals.” Cordelia set her fist to the door and knocked. Most kids probably just walked into their parents’ homes. But no, not her. She practically needed a TSA scan to make it past the mailbox. She knocked again. “Mom, it’s me. Open up. It’s freezing out here.”
Click, click, click.
Cordelia set her teeth as she endured the familiar symphony of deadbolts and chains being set free.
Jane Daring finally opened the door, looking as if she’d lost a battle with a wind tunnel. Her chin-length gray hair was an unintentional salute to Albert Einstein, and her Bob Marley t-shirt hung wrinkled above paint-splattered jeans.
“Mom”—she took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of a bottled-up life —“ this is Will.”
“Good to meet you, Mrs. Daring.” Will shook her hand, ever the gentleman.
“You look familiar.” Her mother squinted. “You’re that reporter that was kidnapped?”
“I am.”
“Come back from the dead, did ya?”
“Okay.” Cordelia was already done with this. “Just let us in before critical body parts go numb.”
“I did come back from the dead,” Will said behind her. “Some of our country’s finest saved my life.”
Her mother was easily ten inches shorter than Will, but still managed to look down her nose. “And so you naturally come to Sugar Creek, Arkansas. Who does that?”
“I heard it was the new hot spot,” Will said with a gentle smile. “Between the double scoops at Dixie Dairy and Marv’s Holstein Petting Zoo, it’s easy to see why.”
Her mom rolled her eyes, but finally allowed them admittance.
“Here’s your dinner for this week.” Cordelia set three shopping bags on her cluttered kitchen table. “We’ve got roast, chicken spaghetti, and tacos.”
“You don’t need to bring me food.” Her mom followed her like an angry hen.
“I like you better when you’re fed. Plus, the doctor seemed to think eating on a regular basis was a good idea.”
“What do doctors know?”
Cordelia ignored that, no longer willing to argue with her mom’s delusions of trust-busting grandeur. Instead, she grabbed a few of the dusty, dated magazines stacked on the table and shoved them under her sweater to throw away later.
Will sat down in a dining chair. All he needed was popcorn for the show.
“Did you go back to work yet?” her mother asked.
“I work every day.” Cordelia stacked three plates in the sink with a little too much gusto.
“You know what I mean.”
“Geez, Mom. Have you done the dishes at all this week?”
“Quit changing the topic.”
“I got you enough paper plates to last a year. Why aren’t you using those?”
“They’re wasteful.” Her mom hovered near her and frowned. “When do you go back to work full time?”
“After the holiday.”
“So it’s official?” Will asked.
“No.” Why did she bring him again? “Not yet.”
Jane grabbed a tea towel before it fell to the floor. “Get your head out of the clouds, Cordelia. So you had a good year with your frou-frou hobby. You honestly think you can continue making a living decorating Christmas trees and shop windows?”
“I now work with two of the top real estate agencies in the county.” She felt heat climb up her neck. “Last week I got paid more for decorating a mansion on the golf course than I earned in a month at the firm.”
“Because you don’t ask for raises.” Her mother shooed Cordelia away from the sink. “You need to let that boss know what you’re worth. You’re a numbers person. Throw him some numbers.”
“Maybe I don’t want to work with numbers anymore. I’m good at what I do.”
Will smiled at Cordelia. “She really is.”
“Nobody asked you,” Jane swiveled her glare back to her daughter. “You saw what chasing lofty dreams did for our family.”
Yes, there was truth to that. But her mom had lived with her enabling father and never had a head for business or the burden of respon
sibility until it was too late. “Just drop it. My job is my business.”
Jane picked up a coffee cup and inspected the contents. “I’m a cautionary tale.”
“You’re a crabby woman who can’t have a civil conversation anymore.”
“I know what I’m talking about.” Her mom slammed the mug on the table, stale coffee sloshing into a faint puddle. “You want to chase the wind, you go right ahead. But don’t come crying to me when the money’s gone, and you’ve lost it all.” Her voice softened in the painful silence. “I know what that’s like and . . . I don’t want to see you go through what I did.”
“I don’t intend to.” Cordelia pulled one final thing out of the bag, a red and green wrapped box and handed it to her mom. “I made you some cookies. They’re your favorite.” She kissed her mom’s pale cheek. “I hope you have a good day—whether you want to or not. Let’s go, Will.”
Grabbing Will’s coat sleeve, Cordelia stepped over a tower of newspapers and guided them out the front door, letting go as they hit the steps because the man simply wasn’t moving fast enough. Not that there was any danger of her mom coming back after them like an angry pit bull. She would never bother to apologize or take back anything she ever said. It was always the same with her, and the holidays magnified it to an unbearable degree.
“Cordelia, wait.” Will’s long legs made quick work of catching up to her. He took her hand in his, unclenched her fingers, and extracted the car keys. “I’ll drive.”
She didn’t even argue. Stomping to the passenger side, she got in and shut the door with a bang. Drawing on the five whole yoga classes she’d ever attended, Cordelia inhaled and held her breath for a count, then released in a whoosh.
It did nothing for her temper.
Will adjusted the seat, watching her with that reporter’s scrutiny. “You okay over there?”
“I’m great. Wonderful. Who wouldn’t be okay with such a loving, supportive mother?” She reached for her seatbelt, clicked it, then finally faced Will. “I told you it was going to be crazy. She’s always needling, but I haven’t let her get to me in a long time.” Something she’d worked hard at overcoming. A silly source of pride.
His Mistletoe Miracle Page 8
