A Knights Bridge Christmas (10 page)

“Are you saying I’m an Ebenezer Scrooge?”

“I’m making conversation.”

“It’s an intense conversation if we’re to be serious.” She thought a moment, the effects of her evening out easing. “All right. I think the Ghost of Christmas Past would remind me of a time when I was more adventurous and less fearful of bad things happening.”

Logan settled back in his chair, studying her. “What would a more adventurous Clare Morgan look like?”

“Well, I suppose sleeping in the nude on rough sheets for a start.”

He pushed back his chair. “Clare.”

“I did say that, didn’t I? Saying such things is adventurous, isn’t it?”

“Provocative depending on who you’re saying them to.”

Her eyelids suddenly felt heavy, but she didn’t feel sleepy. To the contrary. “And who would that be?” she asked finally.

“A man engaging in a late-night talk with a woman recovering from a bit too much wine.” He tapped the rim of his mug with one finger. “I’m also a man struggling not to picture said woman sleeping in the nude on rough sheets.”

“I see.”

“I’m not sure you do see.”

“I’ll think of something else adventurous.” She ignored the heat surging through her. “I’m not white-water kayaking or ocean kayaking. That’s
too
adventurous. Kayaking in a quiet lake would be adventurous enough for me. I could hike up Mount Washington. Brandon Sloan is getting into adventure travel with Dylan McCaffrey. Maggie said they want to do a trip to Newfoundland.
That
would be an adventure.”

“What about emotional adventures?”

“You mean like—what?”

“Opening yourself up to people. Allowing yourself to be vulnerable.” He spoke matter-of-factly, but his tone didn’t match his steady gaze. “Trusting someone with your deepest hopes and dreams. Falling in love. I’m speaking generally. I’m not saying any of those things would be adventures for you.”

“Easier to go white-water kayaking, maybe,” she said with a lightness she didn’t feel.

He smiled. “Maybe.”

“I’ll give it some thought, how’s that? And you, Logan? Would Scrooge’s ghosts want to stop you from becoming a self-absorbed jerk or reform you because you already are one?” She didn’t hear an edge in her voice—didn’t mean for there to be one—but saw him wince, as if she’d smacked him on the cheek. “Oh, no. I went too far. I was trying to be funny and it totally didn’t work. It’s hard when I’m...my head...” She yawned, covering her mouth with one hand, then slumped in her chair. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”

“I probably have a thinner skin than I should about people thinking I’m an arrogant, self-absorbed jerk,” he said, getting to his feet. “Maybe that’s because sometimes I am a self-absorbed, arrogant jerk. But that’s not what Scrooge’s ghosts would want me to get out of their visits. I don’t think so, anyway.”

“What would they want?”

“I think they’d want me to embrace the possibility of love—to believe and live as if it’s as important as work, duty, responsibility and all sorts of other positives.” He gazed down at her for a moment. “I think they’d want that for you, too. More so than white-water kayaking.”

Clare jumped up from the table. “Have you had wine, too?”

“A beer with Brandon Sloan.”

She tried to laugh. “There you go.”

“You’re not comfortable with the direction of this conversation, are you, Clare?”

“I facilitate deep conversations in book clubs. Being part of one—” She swept up her tea mug. “Most of the time I talk to Owen.”

“Owen’s deep for a six-year-old.” Logan smiled and picked up his own mug. “You’re done in. I’ll show you to your room.”

“You can just tell me—”

“It’s okay, Clare. I’m not going to seduce a woman who’s had wine and chamomile tea.”

“Oh.”

He laughed. “You sound disappointed. That’s the merlot talking.”

“I said ‘oh’ because I don’t know what else to say. I feel like I’m six steps behind what’s going on here.”

“I have you at a disadvantage.”

“Yes, you do. I’m lucky you’re—what did you say? Obedient and dutiful?”

He made a face. “Me and the family dog.”

“Responsible. Not obedient. Sorry. You’re also an achiever. Anything in particular you’re trying to achieve right now?”

“Other than getting you to bed, you mean?”

Her breath caught in her throat. He laughed again, nodding toward the hall. “You can sleep in my father’s old room. The other two bedrooms are in a state of disarray with the move, the book sorting and the decorating.”

“Where will you sleep?”

“On the couch. It’s not a problem. I’m used to sleeping when and where I can.” He stood back, letting her go ahead of him up the stairs. “I’ll catch you if you fall.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’d have been more prepared but I didn’t know I’d be going out with Maggie tonight.”

She mounted the stairs, steadier if also more tired. He slipped an arm around her waist and steered her down the hall to the bedroom. He kissed her on the cheek. “I hope no ghosts of any kind visit you tonight,” he whispered, a touch of humor in his voice.

Once the door shut, Clare let out a cathartic breath. She couldn’t expect herself to keep up with the dynamics between her and Logan tonight. She needed to get some sleep, wake up and pretend they hadn’t talked about ghosts and adventures and love and whatever else they’d talked about. Because she
couldn’t
let herself be attracted to him. She was the shiny object he couldn’t have. Once he had her, he would be on to the next shiny object. She had to think about protecting herself.

She stripped off her clothes and left them in a heap on the floor beside one of the twin beds.

“I put out a fresh toothbrush on the sink,” Logan said through the door. “Gran had a half-dozen brand-new toothbrushes in a drawer.”

“Thank you.” Clare grabbed a quilt off the end of the bed and wrapped it around her, as if he could see her through the door. “I could learn a few things from your grandmother.”

“We all could. Was I right about the sheets?”

“I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

She could almost see his smile. “Good night, Clare.”

She waited a full minute before she lowered the quilt and climbed into the bed. She was so tired, so giddy, that she laughed out loud when her skin touched the sheets. Logan hadn’t exaggerated. The sheets were pure sandpaper, and yet somehow perfect.

* * *

When she awoke, Clare had a dry mouth and a vague, troubling sense she’d made a fool out of herself last night. She sat up, yawning, realizing she remembered everything about tea with Logan. She hadn’t been drunk, and she didn’t have a hangover. She just was out of her comfort zone.

Sunlight streamed in through the bedroom window. She hadn’t thought to pull the shades.

She glanced at the bedside clock and moaned.
Nine
o’clock?

Nine?

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept this late. She wasn’t sure she ever
had
slept this late. Why hadn’t the sunshine awakened her?

Because it was winter, she supposed, and the sun rose later—and because she’d wormed her way deep under the covers in her sleep.

She’d forgotten she wasn’t wearing any clothes.

Time to make her excuses and get herself home. If Owen wasn’t ready to leave his friends, she’d come back for him.

She put on last night’s clothes, made the bed and went down the hall to the bathroom. Logan’s shaving gear was in a black case on a shelf next to the sink. It struck her as incredibly intimate, a tangible reminder that he was a real, live man and not some fantasy she’d created.

Her reflection showed a real, live woman with smeared mascara and bad hair.

After she washed up, she found a brush in a drawer and did her best with her hair, but it was a lost cause. She wasn’t being hard on herself. She was looking in the mirror and assessing the situation with clarity and objectivity. She dug around in more drawers and found a covered rubber band.

Perfect
.

She pulled her hair into a loose ponytail. It would have to do.

When she got downstairs, Logan had strings of lights untangled and neatly laid out on the living room floor. “These are the indoor lights,” he said. “We probably won’t need all of them.”

“All of them for what?”

He looked up from his work. “I thought we could collect Owen and go out to the farm and cut a Christmas tree.” He smiled. “After you’ve had coffee and breakfast.”

“Thank you. Good morning. I overslept.”

“Excellent. And good morning to you.”

She wasn’t used to waking up to a man in the house. “I can get breakfast at home.”

“As you wish, but I can manage coffee, cereal and banana here if that suits you.”

“It does, thanks. Sorry I missed the untangling of the lights.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear me cursing. Gran was organized about everything except putting away the Christmas lights, which makes me think someone else did it. Probably not my grandfather, since he was just as organized. I suspect my father had a hand in it.”

“When was the last Christmas you spent here?”

“Long time.”

It wasn’t a question he wanted to answer, obviously. One of those can-of-worms questions that Clare knew better than to stumble into and yet often did. She felt guilty for asking, but he changed the subject as they went into the kitchen, chatting amiably about the sunshine and perfect conditions to cut a Christmas tree.

“Are you up for cutting a tree?” he asked as he made coffee.

She got out the cereal and banana. “Absolutely.”

Nine

... There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humour.

—Charles Dickens,
A Christmas Carol

THE FARRELL FAMILY
farm bordered the Quabbin watershed on the outskirts of Knights Bridge. Logan hadn’t been out here in several years. The old stone walls and sugar maples made him think of bygone times. His life in Boston seemed not only far away but in a different century. He could see generations of Farrells here, working the land, eking a subsistence existence out of the rocky soil and tough conditions. They hadn’t run a commercial farm. They’d farmed to live. They’d had pigs, chickens, a cow, a garden.

Logan didn’t romanticize that life. His grandfather had inherited the farm upon his father’s death but by then he had a home in town and was content as the fire chief. He hadn’t wanted to sell the place. Eventually he and Daisy had decided to adopt a sustainable forestry plan to cut down on property taxes. Upon Tom Farrell’s death, the farm had gone to Logan’s father. No one had been more surprised than Logan when his parents had announced their plans to renovate the house and retire here.

White pine, red oak and black walnut dominated the trees that were technically part of the forestry plan for the property, but his grandparents had also planted a field of balsam firs intended for Christmas trees. They were in a field above the old farmhouse, which was now empty as Logan’s parents prepared for their retirement.

Logan unlocked the shed and got a bow saw off the nail where it had hung for decades. No chain saw for him. He didn’t have a lot of experience with chain saws, but he also wanted to create an old-fashioned experience for Clare and her son.

“I’ve never cut down a Christmas tree before,” Owen said excitedly as Logan fell in next to him and his mother.

“You can help pick it out, too,” Logan said. “Have you and your mother put up your tree yet?”

The boy shook his head. “We don’t have room for a tree where we live.”

Logan was familiar with the apartment Clare was renting at the old sawmill, and it
was
small. Fitting a tree in there would take ingenuity, creativity and determination—not to mention hard work given the steep, narrow stairs up from the ground floor.

“We could always do a tabletop tree,” Clare said.

Owen contemplated that option with the seriousness of a six-year-old. “Will Santa know a kid lives there? Grandma and Grandpa had a little tree on their table last year. Santa didn’t come to their house.”

Logan noticed Clare bite back a smile but he was sure Owen didn’t know. “Santa will know. He knew Grandma and Grandpa were older, didn’t he?” She hung back with Logan as Owen shot ahead of them, navigating the shoveled walk from the shed with ease. “We have fun with the notion of Santa Claus.”

“I do, too,” Logan said. “Santa doesn’t have creepy ghosts who drag your ass out of bed in the middle of the night.”

Clare laughed. “I didn’t encounter any ghosts last night.”

It was going to kill him, that laugh of hers, Logan thought. It was a window to her heart, no question—the place where she wasn’t fretting, planning or remembering, just enjoying the moment. He was glad being here with him was bringing that out in her, even if cutting a Christmas tree was going to involve getting snow in his face. He saw that now, as they approached a row of six-foot-tall spruce trees, their branches drooping with snow.

“I don’t remember snow on the branches when I cut trees with my grandfather,” he said.

Clare looked amused. “The wind probably blew it off.”

“Or my grandfather did some prep work. I didn’t think of it. You up to this, Clare?”

“The ultimate challenge,” she said. “Shaking snow off a Christmas tree.”

“I want
this
tree,” Owen said, standing in front of a tall fir that had to have the most snow on it of any in the field.

Logan tucked the saw into the snow next to another tree. He pointed at it. “Do not touch the saw, Owen. Understood?”

He nodded solemnly. “But I want to help,” he said.

“You can help, but you have to do what I say. The saw has a very sharp blade. We don’t want to get cut.”

No argument from Owen. Clare looked noticeably paler, but she was naturally pale and they were surrounded by white snow. She’d rallied after her evening with the Knights Bridge women. A good night’s sleep, All-Bran and banana, coffee and a shower had returned her to normal. Sawing down a Christmas tree with her son might set her back, but Logan wasn’t worried.

“Have you ever cut your own Christmas tree?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “No, never. It’ll be fun.”

“Except for the snow in our faces,” Logan said, grinning.

“That I can handle.”

“We can have hot chocolate afterward to warm up.”

Owen turned around, knee-deep in snow, and waved to them. He was obviously eager to get started. “Can I use the saw?”

Clare gulped in a breath. “No, Owen, you’re too young.”

“I can let him hold it, take a few swipes,” Logan said. “I’ll do the real sawing.”

“You’ve done this before?” she asked him.

“I have, indeed.”

“Alone?”

“You mean without a local guy helping? No, I’ve never cut down a tree on my own. I always had my grandfather with me. I don’t blame you if you’d be more comfortable if I called Brandon Sloan to supervise, but I think we can handle the job.”

“We don’t need to call Brandon,” she said.

“Good, because if I screw this up, I don’t want a Sloan as a witness.”

She gave a small laugh. “You don’t want to be the city-slicker doctor who’s all thumbs with a saw.”

She had her game face on, but Logan could see she was concerned about her son getting into a mess. Logan wasn’t as experienced with saws as locals like the Sloans, but he wasn’t entirely all thumbs. He suspected she knew it—but he also had nothing to prove. Cutting down a six-foot Christmas balsam fir didn’t exceed his limits, whether he was using a handsaw or a chain saw.

Owen dived into his chosen tree, shaking the snow off, giggling when it blew in his face and then in his mother’s and Logan’s faces. Logan got snow down his back, too. Into the fun, Owen made a snowball and threw it at his mother, hitting her in the stomach. She laughed and made a show of going after him with a snowball of her own.

“Logan, help me,” Owen yelled, squealing with delight. “Help me, Logan! Save me from Mom!”

Logan caught Clare around the middle, but she was fast and nailed him in the chest with the snowball. It went down his front. Her eyes widened. “Uh-oh. I meant to get your jacket.”

“Ah, that’s cold.” He held on to her. “Really cold.”

“Good one, Mom,” Owen said. “It’s only snow, Logan.”

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked in a low voice.

“I’ll save my revenge for when you least expect it.”

Logan winked, then released her.

Their little snowball fight, combined with getting as much snow as possible off the tree branches, kept them moving and therefore warm. He got the saw and explained its function to Owen. In short order, they had the tree cut. It was a good size and a classic shape that was perfect for his grandparents’ house. He, Owen and Clare pitched in together to drag it through the snow to the driveway. He’d thrown rope and bungee cords into his car before leaving the house. By the time they got the tree tied onto the roof rack, Owen was bored and starting to shiver.

“What do you say we go back to my grandmother’s house for lunch?”

The boy clapped his mitten-covered hands together. “Yay!”

“Are you sure?” Clare asked. “We don’t want to overstay our welcome.”

“Not possible. And who’s to say I’m not bribing you with food so you’ll help set up the tree? It’ll have to dry out before we can string lights and decorate.” Logan nodded back toward the Christmas-tree fields. “We’ll come back for your tabletop tree.”

“Does this mean you’ve put aside your zest for revenge?”

He grinned. “Not a chance.”

* * *

When they arrived in the village, Logan parked on the street because a car was already in the driveway. Logan didn’t recognize it. “Do you know whose car it is?” he asked Clare.

“I think it’s Audrey Frost’s car.”

“Gran’s yoga partner,” he said. “Randy’s mother.”

“She still has her own car. Why would she be here? I hope nothing’s happened.”

“Let’s find out.”

Clare’s mind had obviously gone to negative possibilities, but Logan had learned in his work to take one thing at a time. Owen hopped out of the car, and he and Clare followed him onto the porch and in through the front door.

They found his grandmother and Audrey Frost in the kitchen, baking. “Daisy had an urge for molasses cookies,” Audrey said. “Olivia and Jess stopped in for a visit and mentioned Maggie brought molasses cookies to their little soiree last night. You know how it is, especially this time of year. Once you start thinking about molasses cookies, you can’t stop until you have a couple of them warm out of the oven—with a tall glass of cold milk.”

Daisy had a worn-looking recipe card on the counter next to her mixing bowl. “Molasses cookies were Tom’s favorite.”

“It’s okay for us to be here,” Audrey said. “Rivendell isn’t a prison. We have to sign out so they know where we are. We lost Grace Webster last spring and had to launch a search party. Quote-unquote lost her. She borrowed my car and went off on her own. All’s well that ends well, right, Daisy?”

Her older friend sniffed. “Grace scared the daylights out of half the town, but she had her reasons.”

“A secret lover from the past,” Audrey whispered to Clare.

Daisy waved a hand. “It’s not a secret anymore. Oh, my. Smell those molasses cookies.”

“Gran,” Logan said, “how long has that jar of molasses been on that shelf?”

“I don’t know. Molasses doesn’t go bad.”

He examined the jar. No mold, no bad smell. The “use by” date was blocked by dried molasses. As far as he knew, his grandmother only used it for baked beans and cookies. At least it was a small jar. She couldn’t do much baking without replacing it. It was too late, anyway—a batch of cookies was already in the oven.

By his mother’s wise decree, Owen was allowed only one sweet. He chose warm cookies out of the oven and decided to save hot chocolate for another day. When Audrey pulled a tray of plump, ginger-colored cookies out of the oven, Logan knew he wouldn’t resist, either. She unloaded the cookies onto a cooling rack and set the tray on top of the stove for Daisy to spoon on the next batch.

Clare picked up a steaming cookie. It was clearly hotter than she’d expected. It broke in half, but she caught it before it could fall to the floor. “This is so good,” she said, popping a chunk of cookie in her mouth. “Hot but good.”

Her fight with the hot cookie nearly undid Logan. Tongue, lips, long, graceful fingers, the way her breasts moved when she jumped. He breathed slowly, but when he reached for a cookie, he noticed Audrey Frost giving him the evil eye. Damned if she didn’t look like her son. He grinned at her. “Can’t resist Christmas sweets,” he said, all innocence.

She pointed a bony finger at him. “I know what you’re up to, Logan Farrell.”

“You’re sharp as a tack,” he said.

He noticed his grandmother leaning into the counter, her breathing steady but raspy as she spooned the last of the cookie dough onto the tray. He edged over to her. “Let me put the tray in the oven and get the dishes,” he said.

“I made a big mess. I’ve never been a neat cook.”

“Have a seat, Gran. Do you want milk or tea with your cookies?”

She beamed. “Tea would be wonderful.”

“Allow me,” Clare said.

She grabbed the kettle and made tea while Audrey sat at the table opposite her friend. Logan knew both women were more tired after their cookie-baking adventure than they wanted to admit. He felt a bruise on his knee from his tree-cutting, but it was worth it to have a fresh, healthy balsam fir to put up in the front room one last time. He’d also enjoyed spending time with Clare and little Owen.

The boy regaled the two older women with his version of their morning, including the snowball fight. “Mom got snow down Logan’s front,” he said.

Both women raised their eyebrows, almost simultaneously. “Did she?” Audrey said. “Well, good for her.”

“If I’d been aiming, I never would have managed,” Clare said with a laugh.

“Nice to come back from romping in the snow to cookies fresh out of the oven.” Logan grabbed one off the rack. “Gran, when’s the last time you made these?”

“It’s been several years. I used to make them every Christmas when you and your sister were little. Then your grandfather and I cut back on sweets.” She shrugged expansively. “Things change.”

“I hate to cook,” Audrey said. “I’ve always hated it, but we had to eat. My late husband helped with meals, but he didn’t like cooking, either. That’s one of the best things about moving into assisted living. I don’t have to cook.”