Christmas Coins

by Kristy Tate

  “You’re going to share this with me, right?” Ethan’s voice shook her out of her thoughts.

  She shrugged. “Up to you.” Did he think it strange she’d invited herself to dinner? But he didn’t have to see it that way. She didn’t have to stay for dinner. She could let him think she’d just brought the food as a gift. “I didn’t... I don’t...There’s really just enough for two.”

  “Huh.” He glanced at the brimming crockpot and the loaf of bread in her arms. “I’m not sure I believe that. But even if I did, there are only two of us.”

  Zoe’s heart accelerated. “Where’s Hannah?”

  He grinned as if he knew what he was doing to her. “At a friend’s house.” After setting the pot on the table, he went to the cupboard to pull out bowls. He kept his dishes in the same cupboard her grandmother had.

  Oh dear. What had she done? Sitting alone and eating with just him seemed much too intimate. What had made her bring the soup and bread? Soup was tricky. It spilled so easily. And tomatoes stained. If she had been asked what food to bring to a first date, she would have suggested fish. It flaked easily and didn’t stain if it happened to fall off your fork. Better yet, don’t include food on a first date. Save the food for later dates.

  But this wasn’t a date. It was just two neighbors sharing a meal. Maybe she’d dribble some tomato soup just to show how casual this situation was for her.

  No, she wouldn’t.

  He asked, “Do you know Mrs. Lickel?”

  “Yes. Quite well, actually.”

  “What’s she like?”

  Zoe’s grandmother was a spitfire with a snarky wit, but Zoe didn’t need to tell Ethan that. “She’s lovely.”

  “Have you lived here a long time?”

  “I used to live here before I moved to the attic.”

  “Here?” He pointed at the floor.

  She nodded.

  “You didn’t move because of me, did you?”

  Of course she had, but she didn’t need to tell him that either. “The attic is perfect for me. It’s got a great skylight.”

  “Really? I’d like to see it.”

  Zoe glanced around. Her grandmother had always kept an easy-to-reach jar of utensils on the counter, but Ethan must keep his hidden in a drawer. “Should I get a ladle?”

  “I’ll get it—or something like it, since I don’t think I own a ladle. Here, just use this.” He handed her a mug with a picture of a bulldog wearing a sombrero.

  She took it from him and chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” He put two ceramic bowls and a couple of spoons on the table across from each other so he and Zoe would be seated facing each other. Zoe typically ate her dinner in front of the TV with her plate balanced on her lap.

  “Nothing,” she said, fighting her smile.

  “Are you seriously mocking my mug?” He went to the cupboard to get glasses.

  “It’s just such a man tool.”

  He stopped in the center of the kitchen, glasses held midair. “I suppose you have lots of ladles.”

  She settled into a chair at the table. “Two. A big one and a small one, but I’m not a good person to compare yourself to.”

  “And why not?” He took the chair across from her and spread a napkin in his lap.

  “This isn’t a contest,” she told him. “It’s just that I’m a sucker for kitchen utensils.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means my favorite section of any department store is the kitchen appliances. It means when the Williams Sonoma catalog comes in the mail, I stop what I’m doing so I can sit down and read it. It means I love Sweet and Spicy Sous-chef parties.”

  He used his bulldog mug to ladle soup into her bowl. “What about Tupperware?”

  She wrinkled her nose and used the serrated knife to cut the rosemary bread. A puff of heavenly smelling steam lifted into the air. She felt it settling around them like a cloak of friendship. What would it be like to meet at the end of every day like this, to share a meal and discuss the day’s events? Was this what he’d had with his wife?

  She felt his eyes on her and she had to fish around to remember his question. “I don’t do Tupperware.”

  “Why not? Are you opposed to plastic?”

  “Not adamantly, but maybe. I haven’t really ever thought about it, but I do like things that last. I still have my grandmother’s wooden rolling pin and cast-iron pans.”

  He held up his mug like it was a trophy he’d won. “This will last.”

  She grinned. “That’s a pity.”

  “Hey, it’s a fine mug.”

  “If you say so.” She watched his expression change as he sipped his soup.

  “Hmm. The mug may last but this soup won’t. It was made to be eaten.”

  Pleased, she smiled as she slathered butter on the bread and handed him a slice. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I’m bringing nothing to this party,” he complained.

  “You’re hosting. Plus, I sort of invited myself. I didn’t mean to do that. This was to be for you and Hannah.” Her gaze landed on a ceramic statue of an apple-shaped apron-wearing woman. “Did you make that?” She pointed at the figurine.

  “No, my wife did.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize she was an artist as well.”

  “She liked quirky things. She used to say that everything and everyone should have a sense of humor.”

  “I wish I could have met her.”

  He lowered his head as if he found something interesting at the bottom of his bowl. “Me too, because then she’d be here.”

  Probably not, Zoe thought. If Allison had lived, Ethan might still be painting and he and Hannah would be living in a mansion at the top of the hill instead of in her mom’s house trying to pay off Allison’s medical bills.

  “Do you mind talking about her?” Zoe asked.

  “Do you mind listening?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Have you ever lost anyone close to you?”

  “My father, but I’m not sure he counts since I never really knew him. Still, I mourned for him and all those unrealized dreams.”

  He nodded. “Losing Allison was hard, but the death of all our hopes and plans was almost as bad. The children we were going to have, the trips we were going to take, the house we were going to build—those dreams all died when she did.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, putting her hand over his.

  His gaze met hers. “They say everything happens for a reason, but I can’t think of one good reason for Allison’s death.”

  She nodded, not because she understood, but because she wanted to. “What happened?”

  “It was just a cold—or so we thought. It happened really fast. They discovered the lung cancer too late.” He stirred his soup and didn’t meet her gaze.

  Was he crying? Her heart twisted.

  “Lung cancer?”

  “She didn’t even smoke...never had.” His lips tightened. “But her parents had. I’m trying to forgive them, for Hannah’s sake.”

  “They lost a daughter,” Zoe said softly.

  “I know.” He looked up. His eyes were dry but wounded. “How about you? Have you ever been married?”

  She shook her head.

  “Engaged?”

  “Engaged in growing my business.”

  “Ah, I don’t really see you as a businesswoman.”

  “But I am.” She took a sip of soup. “I’ve been so busy—the bakery isn’t conducive to a social life. Besides, I have Laurel and Courtney to keep me company.”

  “Did you always want to be a baker?” He seemed to relax now that the conversation had steered away from Allison.

  “Goodness, no. I went to law school.”

  “What happened?”

  She let out a sigh. “I dropped out when Courtney had Laurel. My mom thought she could take care of Laurel so Courtney could finish high school, but then...” She shrugged. “I didn’t really like law school, anyway. I had worked at the
bakery all through high school, so Mrs. Knotts let me come back, and she didn’t mind if Laurel came, too. When Mrs. Knotts retired, she put together a payment plan that allowed me to buy the bakery from her.”

  “So, what made you go into law?”

  She grinned. “Greed. What made you go into art?”

  He returned her grin. “Same thing.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that.”

  “Art was my thing. It always was; even as a little kid I was always doodling in class. I’m the middle kid in a really large family, so getting my art displayed on the refrigerator was a big deal. I worked really hard on my drawings and paintings so my pictures would take center stage on the fridge.”

  “Sounds competitive.”

  “It was. Meals were a dog-eat-dog affair. My sister Ruth would always take a bite out of the biggest piece of watermelon before serving it so everyone would know she’d tap-tapped it.”

  “Tap-tapped?”

  “It’s our word for dibs.”

  “Why not just say dibs?”

  “Tap-tap is stronger.”

  “If you say so.”

  “It’s not just watermelon. It happens with corn on the cob, pieces of fried chicken.”

  “Happens?”

  He gave her a blank look.

  “Like in present tense?”

  He stirred his soup and looked thoughtful. “It’s an ongoing battle.” He raised his eyes and met her gaze. “My family would love you and your bakery.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  “Originally seven siblings. But now, they’re all married and they’ve multiplied. It’s sort of a zoo when we’re all together.”

  A wave of jealousy swept through her. She tried to tamp it down. “Does that happen often?”

  “Not as often as my mom would like. It kills her that Hannah and I live here.”

  “Why don’t you move back?”

  He scraped out the last spoonful of soup and took the last swallow. “At first, I stayed because I didn’t want Hannah to lose not just her mom, but her whole world.”

  “Is that why you kept her at Canterbury?”

  He nodded. “That’s why I work there.”

  She wanted to ask about his painting but didn’t know how. He must have sensed this, because he pushed his now-empty bowl of soup away from him and set down his spoon. “Let’s go and pick out some paintings for your bakery.”

  “Okay,” she said, gathering up the dirty dishes.

  “Leave those,” he said. “I’ll take care of them later.”

  “Are you sure? It’ll just take a minute.” She carried the dishes to the sink, rinsed them off and placed them in the dishwasher.

  “It’s like this is your home.”

  “It was once, remember?”

  And it could be again, whispered a voice inside of her.

  CHAPTER 4

  Ethan pushed open the door to the room he used as his studio. It had large windows shaded by a giant maple tree. The view was gorgeous now with autumn colors, but in a few months, it would be bleak and barren. He didn’t know if he could do another winter without Allison.

  The holidays were the worst. He loved his family, but two weeks in their boisterous company wore him out. Of course, they could not go, but staying home, or so he imagined, would be worse. Last year, he and Hannah had taken a Caribbean cruise, and while it had been lovely, it hadn’t felt like Christmas.

  Christmas had always been a special time for his family. The chaos, the cousins, the—

  “Oh, I love this one!” Zoe’s voice shook him out of his thoughts. She pointed at a pastoral landscape of a barn at the base of foothills.

  “Great,” he told her. “It’s actually part of a series. There’s one for each season. Although I cheated and created one with snow.” He winked. “We don’t have snow here.”

  “This is from around here?”

  “It’s a farm in the Santa Ynez hills.” He went to find the others in the series. He kept his canvases stacked along the wall, organized by...well, they really weren’t organized. As long as the paintings were dry, he didn’t care where they landed.

  “Why are all these here?” Zoe waved at his art.

  “What do you mean?”

  She stood in the center of the room, her arms held out wide. “I thought you were no longer painting.” He had told her that when he’d moved in.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m not.”

  “Then where did these all come from?”

  He dipped his head. “Oh, these aren’t for sale. These don’t count.”

  She stared at him as if he had horns growing from his head. “Why not?”

  “No one will want these.”

  “Again, why not? They’re gorgeous.”

  “I love you for saying that, but—”

  “But what?”

  “These aren’t... I mean, they’re okay for your bakery...”

  She snorted. “You’re a perfectionist.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  He waved at the room—the lone easel in the center, the rickety table bearing his collection of twisted paint tubes and the glass jars containing his army of brushes. “Look at this place. How can you call me a perfectionist?”

  “Being one myself, I know one when I see one. You think because these don’t meet some sort of gold standard you created for yourself that they have to hide, but you’re wrong. You need to share these.”

  He searched his mind, trying to find something that would make light of her comment, but she wasn’t paying attention to him. She was flicking through the canvases, her eyes wide with excitement.

  Having her in his studio made him feel naked and exposed. Why had he invited her in here? He should have selected the paintings before she arrived, then he could have just handed them to her and they wouldn’t be here, alone. She needed to leave. Maybe it would help if Hannah returned.

  “You need a larger gallery,” she said, looking at him over her shoulder.

  He tightened his lips. “These aren’t for public consumption.”

  “You’re being selfish,” she told him. “You’re stuck in a donut hole.”

  “Donut hole? What are you talking about?”

  “Donut holes,” she repeated. “They’re delicious, even though they’re the byproduct of something larger. For some people, the donut hole is exactly what they need.”

  He laughed to show her that what she’d said didn’t rankle, even though it had. “I think these paintings are exactly what you need.” He held up the ones she’d selected and motioned for the door, anxious to get her out of his studio.

  “You’re right,” she said, shuffling her feet after him. “But I really like these ones, too.” She pointed at a pair of seascapes.

  He held the door open for her to pass through. “You can always switch them out.”

  “Why are you being so nice?” She stood beside him in the hall, and the walls seemed to close in around them, making him feel trapped.

  “I’m a nice guy.” He locked the studio door behind them.

  He couldn’t be attracted to her, could he? She looked different without her apron on. Because she left so early for work, he typically only saw her at the end of the day—her hair frizzy, curling and damp from humidity, her skin dusted with flour and carrying the smell of yeasty fresh-baked bread.

  Nothing like Allison, who had been long, lean, and wiry. Allie had reminded him of a hog-bristle pouncer paintbrush—a tall, slim body topped with a mass of black hair, while Zoe was soft and curvy with yellow-white hair and pink cheeks.

  “Well, you’re certainly being nice to allow me to hang your paintings in the bakery.”

  Nice. He wasn’t sure that was the word he wanted her to use to describe him.

  THE NEXT DAY, DURING his lunch break, Ethan headed out to take the gold coins to an appraiser. Something Zoe had said had stuck with him. He did need a larger gallery. Not that he wanted to sel
l his earlier work, but if he did, a larger gallery was mandatory. If Desmond would sell the gallery to him, he could easily expand. The back-parking area served no one and it had a magnificent view of the canyon and seasonal creek. If he knocked out the back wall, added on to the gallery, and put in some windows, it could be a great place to showcase his art.

  Not that he could use the coins. They had to belong to someone. He didn’t believe Hannah’s story. Sure, he had faith. He believed in miracles. But faith and miracles hadn’t saved Allison, and he didn’t expect them to fund his purchase of the gallery.

  He met Officer Mack on the street corner. Mack carried Bonnie’s Bakery’s signature pink and white sack.

  “Hey,” Officer Mac said, “I wanted to let you know we haven’t forgotten about your Harold Facer.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that. Any leads?”

  Officer Mack shook his head. “I don’t know what to make of it. It’s almost like...”

  “Like what?”

  Officer Mack tapped his forehead with his index finger. “Things just don’t add up. Yet. But I’ll let you know when we’ve found something.”

  Ethan wasn’t going to hold his breath for that to happen. “So my daughter found these coins.” He had found one of Allison’s old beaded clutch bags to hold them. “I’m wondering if anyone reported a theft.” Opening the clutch, he poured the coins into the palm of his hand. They glistened in the daylight.

  Officer Mack whistled. “Those are some beauties.”

  “They could be valuable, right?”

  “Could be.” He gave Ethan a critical eye. “Any idea where she got them?”

  “She thinks they were a gift from God. I hate to diminish her faith, but...coins don’t just materialize. They had to come from somewhere.”

  “What does she say?”

  “That God meant for her to find them.”

  Officer Mack looked at him with a worried wrinkle on his forehead.

  “She won’t tell me any more than that.” Ethan curled his fingers around the coins and put them back in the clutch. “I’m going to talk to Pastor Mills about this.”

  “I think that’s a very good idea,” Officer Mack said.