The Christmas Cookie House
Christmas House Romances
Book 1
Jennifer Griffith
Leela
Leela Miller tugged at the hem of her shirt, rolling a loose thread between her fingers. The metal folding chair’s chill seeped through her pants into her legs. The library smelled like old books and too much perfume.
Sitting there, in the seat that had been Mom’s for a dozen years—up until life and fate had dictated otherwise—Leela was filling her vacancy but not the void. Leela could never do that. No one could.
But she at least had to try. Getting into the Ladies’ Auxiliary would be a perfect place to start.
Una Mae Coldicott had the floor, and something she said caused an uproar, jerking Leela from her thoughts. “And so, with Greta Green bowing out at the last minute”—she shot a deadly gaze at Greta, who sank in her folding chair—“I’m afraid several drastic changes will have to be made for this year’s major fundraiser.”
No chairwoman! How would the Cookie House fundraiser happen without someone to steer the ship? Poor Greta. It must have been something serious. Greta was looking at her shoes, her face redder than Santa’s coat. Who would step in and chair the event?
“In fact, we may have to cancel it and use what’s left in our coffers from years past to fund our service projects for next year.”
A gasp rang out, bouncing off the high ceiling of the old library and back again for another go-round the group. Double gasp.
No chairwoman was one thing, but no Cookie House?
“We can’t cancel it outright, Una Mae.”
“Well, unless one of you steps up …”
A glance played hot-potato around the group. No one wanted to bite off something that huge. Not this late in the game. Not this close to the holidays.
“It’s a shame, considering this is the first Christmas since Freesia Miller’s passing, but …”
Una Mae let out a dramatic sigh, and all the blood drained from the top half of Leela’s body.
The first Christmas without Mom, and now Mom’s big contribution to Massey Falls was getting the axe! Leela curled inward.
It’s like Mom is dying all over again.
“Canceling the Cookie House is too drastic, Una Mae.” Mrs. Imrich stood up. “If the Cookie House doesn’t happen, all our future service projects go into jeopardy.”
Leela looked around. Everyone was upset but no one was as jarred as Leela, who felt like a bomb had exploded right next to her, dulling her senses.
The room blurred, as did all the ladies’ voices. The back of Leela’s stomach rumbled, like an oncoming avalanche. Leela was going to do something rash—right in front of all the ladies of the Ladies’ Auxiliary meeting—right in front of Una Mae Coldicott, their queen.
“Excuse me?” Leela was on her feet, interrupting Una Mae who was running at the mouth. “I’d be willing to serve as chairwoman for the Cookie House.”
Every Aux lady in the room stared wide-eyed at Leela’s novice outburst.
Leela was tearing at the seams. “I’m up for it. I have lots of ideas.” Not true, but to keep this event alive, she’d get them.
“We could try again at Valentine’s Day.” Una Mae went on as though Leela hadn’t interrupted. “Greta, you’ll be in better shape for chairing by then, I assume.”
No. Leela couldn’t let that happen. “It’s a Christmas event. It’s tradition. I can do this.”
Una Mae’s eyes crinkled at the sides, and not in good-natured charm. “You?” Was it just Leela, or did the syllable drip with poisonous sap? “You haven’t even been admitted to full membership, Miss Miller, nor have you served your probationary year.”
“I practically grew up in the Ladies’ Auxiliary.” And Leela would have applied for membership before now, if she’d been living in Massey Falls. I should have been living here. “Maybe chairing the Cookie House could serve as my induction requirement.”
“Induction requirements are more along the lines of finding five local businesses to donate to the event,” Greta Green said, “or making ten batches of cookies for the fundraiser instead of five—not chairing the whole thing.”
Leela’s gaze darted to the faces of the board members. Some of them looked skeptical. Others looked at her like she was their savior. No one wanted to chair this monster at the last minute.
“Give her a chance, Una Mae,” said Mrs. Philbert insisted. “After all, her mother, God rest her soul, was the original founder of the Cookie House idea.”
Murmurs erupted. Discussion skittered across the surface of the room.
Una Mae slammed her gavel on the wooden block. “Order!”
All talking hushed. Una Mae leveled a gaze at Leela that could have stopped a freight train.
“I may be a novice”—Leela pressed away the quaver from her voice—“but so much is already in place from years of tradition. The date, the third Tuesday in December, is set in stone. The bakers, the logo for all the advertising, the relationships with the community. Greta Green did a great job bringing us to the top of the ninth inning.” Leela gave Mrs. Green an apologetic smile. “The venue is set and lovely.”
This last phrase’s flattery might be transparent as a window to Una Mae Coldicott. This year she was slated to again host the Cookie House at her historic mansion on Society Row.
“All the engines of the ship are fired up. Don’t we just need someone at the helm to steer it into a successful harbor?” Please say yes, and please let me into the group.
“I move we vote,” Mrs. Imrich said. “As we have no other candidates, and Leela Miller is willing to put in the time, I think we should approve her.”
Una Mae Coldicott’s voice would have curdled milk. “I’m sorry. It turns out my home will no longer be available to host the event.”
Of all the cruel, last-minute switches!
“Why not, Una Mae?” Mrs. Philbert put both her palms on the table. “It’s been at your house for the past five years.”
“That was one of the contingencies I stipulated when I announced that Greta Green had bowed out.”
“But the ads have been designed with your address.”
“I’m sorry. I trust Greta implicitly to keep my home and its possessions secure during the event. This volunteer”—she said the word like it was covered with barbed wire—“hasn’t exactly put in the time required to earn such trust. I’m sure all of us feel the same about the sanctity of our homes.”
More murmurs erupted, while the rug that had been beneath Leela’s feet ripped the rest of the way out, and she fell back into her folding chair with a metallic clunk.
No. No, no, nope.
Leela needed this assignment too much to let a location change stall her.
“I’ll secure a venue.”
“Like your home?” Una Mae lifted a sneering eyebrow. Could eyebrows sneer? Una Mae’s could.
“My house isn’t large enough.” Nor was it on Society Row. Nor was Daddy in any state to have his familiar world rearranged. That wouldn’t be fair to him. “But I have an idea.” Leela didn’t. “Trust me, please? I’m sure you’ll all agree it’s very important to keep the Cookie House tradition alive.”
Una Mae hadn’t completed her decimation, however. “There’s another factor to consider. I’ve just come from a meeting with the Winterfords. They’ll not be available to host the Holiday Ball, either.”
No venue for the Holiday Ball! The sister event to the Cookie House always happened the same night, and was also h
osted at the home of an Aux member.
“Hey, now, Una Mae. That wouldn’t fall under the responsibility of the chairwoman of the Cookie House.” Mrs Imrich had a grumble that was contagious. “And what’s wrong with Eileen Winterford? Why would she back out now? And why isn’t she here?”
“Ed’s decided to drag her off to Sun City,” someone whispered in a gossipy tone. “He’s forcing her to be a snowbird.”
“The event is a whole day affair. We can’t deliver either day or night at this point. Our only choice is to cancel.”
Leela gulped. Maybe she’d bitten off too much. “This is the chairwoman’s problem to solve,” she heard herself say. Una Mae didn’t blink. “I can do it, if you’ll let me.”
Mrs. Imrich wedged her way into the showdown. “Let’s say she solves it.” She turned a kind face to Leela. “Do so, and you’ll be inducted—with no probationary year. It’s a big deal, as you know.”
“Yes.” Una Mae’s voice could have clotted cream. “Fail, and you disgrace the Auxiliary and leave us penniless.”
Leela grinned the way a cartoon character did when faced with a dragon, sweat beading on her brow. “I’ll make it happen. I’ll get a venue that will be perfect for both events.”
Una Mae sniffed. Mrs. Imrich called for a vote.
Leela was approved. She exhaled, but then the breath caught. How on earth was she going to do this?
I may have just sealed both my membership rejection letter and the death notice for Mom’s legacy.
Unless …
There was exactly one house in Massey Falls that might work. Not that it was owned by a member of the Ladies’ Auxiliary, so that lengthened the shot even more. But it was gorgeous and spacious and, as far as rumors went, currently unoccupied since Jingo Layton had passed away.
The meeting broke up. Leela charged out into the snowy day, texting Emily.
Want to do some window-peeking?
Which was how she found herself and Emily both peeking through the side window of Society Row’s newly vacant Layton Mansion … and breaking it.
Jay
Jay Wilson slid the key into the lock of the old Victorian mansion. The door creaked open, and turpentine fumes wafted from all the stripping of finishes Jay had done since inheriting the house from Uncle Jingo.
Also—sawdust, new paint, and drywall patch scents floated from the thousand other projects to bring it back to life.
“Looks worlds better,” Burt Basingstoke’s voice boomed. “Best real estate flip of the decade. That is, if you decide to list it.”
Oh, Jay was listing it, all right.
With the winter sunlight coming through the windows, the Layton Mansion looked good, if he did say so himself. Looked like a pro had done it, and not a mere recent-veterinary-school-grad.
Not bad at all.
“You sure? Now that you’ve officially brought it out of decrepitude”—Burt slapped his hands against his thighs, and snow scattered onto the hardwoods—“you could at least enjoy it for Christmas. You’re invested in the place.”
Truly invested: blood, sweat—and a lot more sweat.
“No, I have definite plans for the proceeds.” Jay wiped a line of dust off the top of the chair rail above the deep mahogany wainscoting of the historic Layton Mansion. “I’ve been offered a partnership buy-in at a small-animal veterinary clinic, Precious Companion.”
Doctors Foster and Cody were taking a big risk on him, new grad, and Jay wasn’t going to let the chance slip by—not if he could secure the funding.
“Precious Companion. Over in Reedsville, eh?” Basingstoke didn’t sound impressed. But he should have. A partnership at a practice straight out of vet school was a big deal. “Small animal vet though, right?” Burt smirked.
Jay never should have mentioned to Burt his preference for large animal veterinary medicine. “Are there any comps for this house to know how much we should set as a list price?”
Jay needed his sweat equity to pay off. He’d put in as many hours a day on the house as he had studying for his veterinary boards these past few months.
“Let me show you some numbers.” Basingstoke punched a calculator on his phone, then flashed the screen at Jay. There floated a range of possible sales prices, all of which covered the buy-in at the clinic. The higher end would even pay off a huge chunk of his student loans, too.
Jay gave a low whistle. “Nice.”
Uncle Jingo Layton had given him the best graduation gift of all time—he’d potentially set up Jay’s finances for life.
“Sure, sure. But why not set up shop here in Massey Falls? Dr. Harrison, the local vet, only works on horses. All of Massey Falls has to lug sick cats a two-hour drive each way, over the hills, and on slick roads this time of year.”
“I’d like to stay.” Sort of. Well, not really, but how to put it tactfully? “There’s just not enough business in a town this size.” A town with more horses than dogs. Certainly not enough population to provide him the income to pay back all the money he’d borrowed for veterinary school. Not and set up a practice.
“When do you find out about your boards?”
“Actually, the email came this morning—I passed!” Not to brag, but passing veterinary boards was a serious accomplishment.
“Officially licensed!” Burt high-fived him. “Way to go, son.”
“Thank you.” Years of work were finally, finally paying off. His career goals were so close now he could almost smell the cat food. His post-student life could officially start. Maybe he could even find someone—and quit being a lonely fool with his nose in the books all day long.
“But Reedsville? Are you sure? I mean, think about it, Jay, before you commit. You do already have a house here, free and clear. Could you commute?”
Too far.
Besides, Reedsville was a much better place for a single guy his age. In a town the size of Massey Falls, fat chance finding anyone to date.
Basingstoke wasn’t dropping his suit, though. “This house would be a good place to raise kids.” Basingstoke knocked on the wood. “The banisters would be fun to slide down, anyway.”
“Yeah.” But not enough to give up the chance of a partnership at a thriving clinic.
Pity, since with the sun streaming in, the floorboards gleamed. And Jay would miss out on ever lighting a fire in the grate of that master bedroom’s adjoining parlor. Refinishing in there had been a labor of love to see it go from gaggy to gorgeous.
“The client is always right.” Burt clapped loudly. “So! That means we’d better get this house on the market right away. Chop-chop!” He did an air-karate-chop.
“Chop-chop.” Exactly. “I agree because—what if I told you I have a New Year’s Eve deadline?” Foster and Cody weren’t keeping the partnership offer open indefinitely. They had a slot to fill.
“I’d tell you no problemo. Rumors have leaked about the Layton Mansion possibly coming on the market. Buzz is buzzing.” Burt grinned the grin that said I’m the source of those leaks and the cause of that buzz. Smart business. “Several buyers have expressed interest.”
“Several?”
“It’s the Layton Mansion. It’s on Society Row, the toniest street in Massey Falls. Even though it’s been shut up for years by Jingo, public interest in its mysterious inner workings has never faded.”
Public curiosity, eh? That could work in Jay’s favor. Frankly, the inside had been nothing but a hoarder’s paradise when he took over his mom’s childhood home. With all the junk wedged in every crevice, it’d been hard to believe there was ever room for his mother to be raised in this place. Uncle Jingo couldn’t have even fit a pet in here.
“That’s encouraging.”
Burt lowered his voice, leaning in. “It’s still in the works, but I may even have a few cash offers lining up.” Burt straightened his spine like he’d just delivered game-point at Wimbledon. Then he curled his fingers, blew on them and rubbed them against his lapel.
“Cash means fast transaction, r
ight?” Jay knew book-loads about osteopathic surgery on pets but little about buying or selling property.
“You betcha. Cash is king. These buyers really got excited when I hinted that a cash sale would mean they could occupy before Christmas. Roaring fire, stockings on the mantel, all of that.”
Hee-haw! “What’s holding us up? Let’s list it today.” The first week of December cut it close already, considering how long he’d heard it could take to close. Of course, with a cash offer, that could go quicker, and Jay could be out of here and treating canine ringworm before Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen’s takeoff time.
“Good. Good! Okay, then. Let’s just double check you’ve finished all the stipulations from Jingo Layton’s will.”
Again? But Jay had already nearly worn out the knees on three pairs of jeans refinishing floors in the sprawling three-floor brick mansion. “I’ve done everything on the requirement list, plus the back parlor’s hearth.” And the gaggy-to-gorgeous project hadn’t even been on the list. He’d refinished that out of respect for the meticulous woodwork.
“Ah, no. Not quite.” Burt snapped the latches on his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers.
“Seriously? There’s more?” Besides that hearth, in addition to rewiring all the electrical and replacing all the lead and clay pipes with modern plumbing, he’d gone over every inch of the place with sandpaper and wood stain.
He’d removed wallpaper.
He’d ripped out old carpet and restored the original hardwood floors.
By sheer force of will, he’d ripped out the cabinets, appliances, and plumbing.
He’d upgraded kitchen and baths to a beautiful, modern standard.
This place was finished. D.O.N.E. Finished. In the process, he’d grown to love and hate it at the same time.
“I need to list it, Burt. The clock is ticking.”
Burt looked up from a document. “Great. So, you just need to accomplish the final requirement, and I’ll line up a buyer.”
Jay bit back a growl. “The last requirement being …?”
“The attic. I thought we’d been over this. You have to clear out the attic.”
The Christmas Cookie House: A Sweet Holiday Romance (Christmas House Romances) Page 1