The Christmas Piano Tree: What's Christmas without a tree? (A Kissing Creek novel Book 1) (2 page)

She looked forward to hearing the man’s story and giving him a piece of pie and a piece of home so he could forget the horrors of what he’d seen, if only for a little while. Scott always said she was a good listener and she’d found out he was right. Every soldier who stopped by here told her they enjoyed the conversation as much as her delicious homemade pie.

Kristen blinked back tears. In spite of all the doom and gloom she’d been through, she still believed in the spirit of Christmas. It was something her Aunt Gertrude had instilled in her since she was a little girl. That people were good and kind and if you gave them a chance, they’d come through for you. With that cheery thought settling in her heart, Kristen jammed through the back door, hoping to find the kitchen empty so she could hunt down some leftovers for the vet. She’d see if she had any cherry pie left. This soldier looked like the cherry pie type—

Her heart sank.

Miriam was waiting for her, arms crossed over her chest. If there was ever a poster child for the cold-hearted, animated snow queen, she fit the bill. Down to the arched black brows. Never married and known for her bad temperament, she ran the school with an iron fist tipped with red nails.

Kristen knew she was had. The first words out of the woman’s mouth confirmed that.

Scowling, Miriam said, “You’re late, Mrs. Delaney.”

Kristen hated it when the woman insisted on calling her by her married name, as if that kept her in her place.

“The roads are icy and especially bad down where Angel’s Way crosses over Kissing Creek,” she blurted out, juggling the cardboard box of frosted cupcakes. Miriam never listened to her excuses, so this was as good as any even if it wasn’t true. She didn’t realize she’d been daydreaming for the past fifteen minutes, her emotions split wide open, her heart wringing itself out with memories. Something she only did at night when she went to sleep and dreamed Scott held her in her arms.

She had the most ridiculous need to cry. Seeing the soldier outside had ripped apart her feelings, feelings she’d been so careful to keep hidden. From herself. From Rachel. And especially from Miriam. She would never understand.

Kristen couldn’t break down now.

To give herself a moment to catch her breath, she set the cupcakes down on the table and exhaled. If Miriam noticed the pain on her face, she gave no indication and hurried her up.

“That’s no excuse,” grumbled the woman, rushing her into the large Victorian drawing room set up with chairs and holiday decorations. Red and green and gold tinsel sparkled on the backs of the chairs and lush garlands of fresh forest greens tied with red satin ribbons hung from the ceiling.  

“You and Betty Ann outdid yourselves,” Kristen said, impressed. She breathed in the smell of pine mixed with lilac soap.

Miriam shrugged. “What’s more important is the Christmas program. I don’t have to remind you that your sweet treats open wallets when it comes time for donations.”

Kristen double blinked. That was the closest she ever came to giving her a compliment.

“Jingleberry to you, too,” she muttered under her breath, upset that Miriam thought of the holiday musical merely as a money-making event. Why should that surprise her? Here was a woman who would sell toys to Santa if she could.

And then before she could get herself into any more trouble, the heavy rustle of taffeta and crackling tinfoil filled her ears. Along with the sound of little girls giggling. Anticipation bubbled up in her. Every year since the school was founded by its namesake, the staff put on a holiday show starring the students as—

Angels.

Tripping over their long white costumes with their glitter-tipped wings flapping behind them. Giggling, texting, popping gum. Kristen craned her neck, looking for her little angel.
e
Cute and adorable, Rachel lagged behind the other girls. She was among the youngest attending the Mary Huber School for Girls, the only school in the county for young ladies six to twelve years old. They began grooming students back in the days of short white gloves and black patent leather handbags.

Poor little rich girls.

Except Rachel.

Kristen smiled when she saw her daughter trying to straighten her tinfoil halo. It kept falling down over her eyes, keeping her from catching up to the others. It got worse when she tripped on her long robe and fell to her knees.

Splat
.

Kristen’s heart jumped into her throat. She wanted to die.

Her motherly instinct had her halfway there to help her, but something stopped her. She heard Scott’s voice in her head, telling her to give the child a chance to pick herself up. That she was a fighter.

For a long moment, Kristen watched, her cheeks burning, her pulsing racing.
Rachel struggled to get up, but she couldn’t get her robe free from under her white dress shoes with snappy bows. New shoes courtesy of Betty Ann who wouldn’t hear of it when she tried to pay for them. She insisted the child needed them for the Christmas program and then winked at her. Rachel loved those shoes and she was doing her very best not to get them dirty while she tried to free herself.

C’mon, Rachel, you can do it.

Tears sprang to her eyes. She hated knowing that her little girl wouldn’t have much of a Christmas this year. She missed her daddy something awful. How could Kristen forget the day when she saw the white van pull up and the two men in uniform walk up to her front door? She’d tried to shield her child from the truth, but Rachel knew. She’d acted so brave, telling the two soldiers her daddy was waiting in heaven for his next deployment. How she’d learned such a big word, Kristen would never know, but she swore she saw the military men dab their eyes.

It was the same kind of grit her little girl showed now.

With one big
whoosh,
Rachel pulled herself up in her slippery new shoes and smoothed down her robe. Then she looked for her mom and gave her a great big smile.

Kristen smiled back.

You were right, Scott. She’s your daughter.

umnH
Humming to herself, Kristen returned to the kitchen to arrange her cupcakes on a silver platter. She had to keep strong for Rachel. Not let her find out how much trouble they were in. So far, she’d done a good job hiding her overwhelming feeling of emptiness. How she checked her email for a message from Scott or a letter in the mail that she knew wouldn’t come. Or hugged his pillow tight when she lay her head down at night. It was impossible to explain to a child.

So she didn’t try. It was her job to keep his memory alive for her daughter. Rachel prayed to her daddy every night, making Kristen’s heart break. Someday, she’d realize he was never coming back. Someday she’d tell her, but not now. She was still so young, her blue eyes so vivid with hope, Kristen didn’t have the courage to take away her dream. She was so fervent in her desire to keep her child’s spirit from breaking, she’d tried to keep things as they were, but that was impossible. The military had rules. Rules that said she must go. Kristen hated leaving the family housing at the base, but they’d already stayed longer than allowed.

More devastating news followed. Kristen had to admit Scott was never good with paperwork, but she had no idea he’d run up a big credit card debt. Buying things for Rachel and her she thought were paid for with his combat pay. They weren’t. Did he have a gut feeling he was never coming back? If so, was he trying to do what he could for them? Most likely, he figured if anything happened to him, she’d receive enough money from the Army to cover it. It didn’t happen. The military had no record of any insurance and her benefits were tied up in red tape.

If it hadn’t been for her Aunt Gertrude, God bless her, they’d still be living in a shelter. She’d passed away right before Scott was killed. Kristen had no way of knowing if he’d received her letter telling him the news before he left on his last mission. Sadly, it wasn’t among his belongings returned to her.

Then, just when Kristen thought her luck had run out, word reached her that her aunt had left her the cottage in her will along with her personal effects. She never forgot the moment when the social worker found Rachel and her shivering in a woman’s shelter. Her little girl had a bad cold and was running a fever. Kristen was frantic and exhausted from spending all day trying to get the child looked at in the free clinic, praying they’d give her the meds she needed, and asking God for a miracle. Promising Him she’d never again get angry with a system that left a soldier’s wife and his child homeless. Yes, she knew it wasn’t on purpose and yes, she would eventually get her benefits, but for the time in-between, she was as helpless as a mother duck caught in a storm drain with her duckling.

God must have heard her prayer because she was back in Kissing Creek in her aunt’s old country cottage. Kristen swore she smelled cookies baking in the kitchen when she turned the key, half expecting to see her aunt’s spirit welcoming her home. In a funny way, she had. Everything was as she’d left it, the dishes sparkling clean on the counter, the scent of lavender wafting up from the clean pillow cases, even her vintage pans and molds hanging on the wall.

And that old upright piano. Begging for someone to sit down and bring its rickety, old yellowed keys back to life.

Kristen didn’t have time to think about anything but moving in and getting Rachel settled in school. Her little girl loved the cottage and poked her nose into every nook and cranny. She’d never forget the day the child found an old sock in a sewing basket stuffed with a five dollar bill. It wasn’t the last. Seemed her aunt had fallen into the habit of hiding socks with one dollar or five dollar bills in the oddest places. Behind the clock on the mantel, in a cake pan, under the sofa cushion.

She pictured her aunt hiding the socks, giggling about her secret, knowing Kristen would find them someday. Unfortunately, her aunt’s good deeds weren’t enough to keep them going.

She had to work.

So she turned her passion for baking into a job at the school. Ever since Kristen could stand on a footstool and crack eggs into a mixing bowl, she couldn’t get enough of baking. She must have been about five then, her Aunt Gertrude leaning over her shoulder and showing her how to whip the butter, sugar, and flour. Not too slow, not fast, but just right. Then they’d pour the cake batter into the pan and slide it into the oven.

Kristen would clap her hands and peer through the glass window on the oven, waiting for the cake to be done. Aunt Gertrude would nod, telling her she must tiptoe around the cottage, whispering instead of talking loud so the cake didn’t fall.

Years later, she was convinced her aunt taught her to bake to keep her occupied so she wouldn’t run wild. She’d been a scared little girl when the kindly woman took her in after her parents died. Hiding in closets in the foster homes. Refusing to speak. But not with Aunt Gertrude. The smells of cinnamon and vanilla and anise set the child on a new path. As she grew into her teens, Kristen found she had a knack for creating confectionary treats. No one could whip up fluffier croissants and flakier biscuits that melted in your mouth. Or creamier peanut butter bars and oatmeal cookies with plump juicy raisins.

So it was no surprise the Oakes sisters, Miriam and Betty Ann, took her on to improve the menu at the snooty girls’ school. Where the students thought gourmet meant popping frozen tarts into the toaster and calling it breakfast.

Kristen curled her fingers, still stiff from whipping up a
heapin’ pile of butter cake batter
, as her aunt would say. She rearranged her cupcakes on the platter, their icing peaks tempting her to take a taste, when she saw Betty Ann fly into the kitchen all in a dither.

Something was up.

Her chestnut sausage curls bounced up and down on her head, her bifocals hanging on a chain swinging around her neck.

“Santa passed out in his sleigh,” she gushed, and then helped herself to a cupcake. She wet her lips, her eyes wide with anticipation as she ogled the yummy icing.  

“Wake him up,” Miriam ordered. “Throw cold water on him. Do
something.
” She nudged her younger sister in the ribs. Pouting, Betty Ann put the cupcake back.

“
Nothing
will get him up, Miriam,” Betty Ann emphasized. She kept eyeing the cupcake she’d put back.

“You know the girls expect to receive their presents from Santa after the program. What do you want me to do?” Miriam barked. “Drag him in here?”

Kristen panicked. Oh, God, if Miriam went out to the stable and found the homeless vet, she was had. Worse yet, what if he’d knocked out their Santa and stole the presents? Zeke was no pushover, but what if he took him by surprise?

It would be her fault.

Christmas ruined.

She wanted to sink into a hole.

“I’ll help you get Zeke on his feet, Betty Ann,” Kristen said, careful with her words. She had no idea if Betty Ann had seen the homeless vet.

“Zeke needs more than an extra pair of hands to get him into his Santa suit, Kristen,” said Betty Ann, laughing. “He’s as tipsy as a groundhog without a shadow.”

Kristen let out the breath she’d been holding, relieved. She was happier than she should have been to find out the soldier wasn’t to blame for Zeke’s predicament.

He reminds me of Scott, no other reason
.

“I knew we should have fired that handyman, sister, when you found him sneaking the cooking sherry,” said Miriam, looking smug.

“The poor man needed a job.” Betty Ann winked twice at Kristen.

What was up? she wondered.

“
And a hot meal,”
she finished, giving her their secret signal that a homeless vet had shown up. So she had seen him.

Kristen nodded. The handsome soldier must have set Betty Ann’s heart racing. She looked positively radiant. Not surprising. The man’s good looks and arrogance had knocked her off her orbit, she admitted, but it stopped right there.

“So what do we do now, dear
sister?
” Miriam emphasized. She was totally oblivious to the anxious looks passing between the two women, making Kristen grateful she had a one-track mind when it came to the school’s business. “We’ll be out of a job if we don’t impress our donors with a great Christmas program.”

Kristen’s ears perked up. What was this? She’d heard rumblings about the Oakes sisters’ cash flow problems, but she’d dismissed it as gossip. Until now.

“We need a Santa for the girls,” continued Miriam, grabbing her cell. “I’ll call Sheriff Hogan.”