The Christmas Cookie House: A Sweet Holiday Romance (Christmas House Romances)

by Jennifer Griffith

  Something whispered from the dimness of her room. You should let everyone else into his life more. He needs people. And so do you.

  Leela blinked, wishing that the voice had come from Mom. But more likely, it came from her own mind.

  “I would. But how can I ask people to do it?” And she didn’t really want to share him. “People have responsibilities.”

  People love him. He makes them happier. You should share him.

  Leela turned on her side and looked at the wallpaper, little flower clusters among vines. The same wallpaper as she’d looked at every night as a girl growing up in this house.

  It was late, but she texted her cousin Pippa. What are your plans for tomorrow?

  ∞∞∞

  Next morning, Jay texted to tell her he was bringing breakfast and to leave it to him. And he’d buy lunch, too. She’d brought a sack lunch for each of them yesterday. Boring, but time was of the essence, and Robintino’s, for all its deliciousness on every level, had eaten up a lot of time.

  “I’m expecting a breakthrough today.” She walked up the porch, avoiding a snow pile and three icicles. “Three stacks per hour is my prediction.” She wanted that for him. He needed to be able to sell it, clearly. It was the least she could do, considering he was making the Cookie House possible. “Maybe four stacks per hour!” She flexed her bicep.

  “Cockeyed optimist.” He grinned, some morning stubble still on his chin, and offered her a fast food breakfast sandwich. “I hope you like sausage.”

  “Love it.”

  Inside, he’d already lit the fire, and they stood near it to eat. “How’s your Cookie House stuff going? Do you even have time for it?”

  “It’s getting there.” In fits and starts. Oh, and shoot. How could she forget? “At five, I’m meeting with the Ladies’ Auxiliary for a progress report.”

  “Sounds official.”

  He had no idea. They were going to want a definite yes on the Layton Mansion, but the attic was still a long way from empty. I haven’t fulfilled my end of the bargain yet. “We should get to work.”

  No four-stacks-per-hour progress ensued, but they made a dent. Like someone eating a ten-gallon vat of ice cream with a teeny spoon. They did lunch at a shop that made panini sandwiches that tasted like olive oil and love—but they didn’t linger there. They just ate, talked, and got back to the attic.

  The sun was setting, and Leela needed to get to the library for the Ladies’ Auxiliary meeting soon. I wish I could just stay here.

  “When are you going to teach me to make those cookies of your mom’s?” Jay asked.

  “Name the time.”

  “Tonight?”

  Okay. But wasn’t he getting tired of her? I’m not getting tired of him. No, she was getting almost surgically conjoined. “That will probably work. I have to make sure Dad gets dinner first.”

  “Who’s taking care of him today?”

  “My cousin Pippa. Emily’s mom offered to help tomorrow, so I’m scheduled to be your attic slave again.”

  “Is that so?”

  Heat rushed through her. “That didn’t come out like I intended.”

  Jay looked at her like he wished the other meaning had been her intent.

  “What I mean, is I’ve got a few days open now. Everyone likes to do service around the holidays.”

  “Normally I’d say it makes them feel less guilty about so much consumerism, but I suspect they actually love your dad, considering all the stories you’ve told me about him.”

  Jay. Jay Wilson. A thousand insights into her life. “If you actually want to make cookies, I’d love the help. I need to make three double batches before I hit the hay tonight or I’ll never have enough in the freezer in time for the Cookie House. It’s coming right up.”

  Jay’s gaze shot around at the piles, and he definitely looked hopeless for a second. After a moment, he turned back to her. “Let’s bake. How’s seven?”

  “Sounds fine.” It sounded dreamy to spend the evening with him, and with nothing to do but wait for the timer to ding on the oven. Maybe they could sit together on the sofa, put their feet up on the coffee table together, and …

  Wait. This was her house they were talking about. Her house looked like it had been trashed by a whole raucous gang of naughty-listers. “Hey, so I’ll need to check out a little early today.” To hire or transform herself into a maid brigade. It was four o’clock already.

  “Yeah, Ladies’ Auxiliary meeting,” he said. “How soon do you need to go?”

  Twelve hours ago? The floor hasn’t been vacuumed in a week. Everyone caring for Dad had been taking him on outings or bringing them to their homes for the day. Dishes piled, and dust had gathered.

  “Pretty soon. Or”—she checked her phone’s clock, trying to act casual—“now, I guess.”

  Leela could tell him no, take the pressure off herself.

  Okay, no she couldn’t. If Jay Wilson wanted to bake with her, why would she resist?

  There was one good solution. She sent a text.

  Emily! House cleaning SOS!

  I’m on my way.

  At home, Leela first checked in with Dad, who was still at Pippa’s but would be back about six thirty.

  The doorbell rang. “Emily! Thanks! We are at DEFCON one. Jay is coming over to bake with me.”

  Emily stamped in. “Whoa, girl. It looks like a pack of she-wolves has been through here.” Emily cringed. “I mean, I know taking care of Uncle Frank is taxing, but, who is making this mess? Not him, surely.”

  Nope. “All me.” She offered a broom. “You sweep, I’ll vacuum?”

  “On it.” Good thing, too. If Jay were to come in and see the house in this state, Mom would swoop back from the Other Side and ream Leela.

  Emily cornered Leela in the bathroom by brandishing a mop in one hand and a toilet brush in the other. “So, how are things going with Mansion Hottie Jay?” She held out the vowel in his name. “If he’s coming by, there must be something more going on than home improvement.”

  “We’re baking. He said he’d help me since I’m helping him.” Not exactly true.

  Emily sighed. “He’s seriously hot enough to melt all the snow in Massey Falls.”

  “Does your dad know how boy crazy you are?”

  “Hello, pot. My name is kettle.”

  “I’m not boy crazy.”

  “Seriously? After being within arm’s reach of Dr. Jay all day? You’re barking mad.”

  Please. “He’s selling the house and moving to Reedsville.” Leaving. “As soon as we finish the project. I’ll probably never see him again.”

  The bomb left a crater. Emily stared into it. Then, after a minute she said, “Not everybody will leave you, Leela. The right one will stay.”

  Sure. Whatever. “Let’s just finish, okay?”

  ∞∞∞

  Leela barely had time to shower and dress in something that hadn’t been in an attic before rushing to meet with Una Mae, Mrs. Imrich, Mrs. Harrison, and all the other ladies.

  In the large conference room of the Massey Falls Public Library, Una Mae called the meeting to order. She wore her festive sweater, the red angora one she told everyone she’d bought in Prague, and pounded her tiny gavel.

  “Thank you all for coming to this emergency session to finalize details of the Cookie House and Holiday Ball. Let’s keep this short.” She shot a wicked glance at Mrs. Harrison, the idle-tangent-talker of the group. “Leela Miller, our chairwoman.”

  Leela stood. “All the subcommittee chairwomen are on track.”

  Una Mae cleared her throat like an accusation. “What about the venue?”

  Leela’s winter boots shrank, pinching her toes. Could she actually report? Sure, she and Jay were moving things along in the Layton Mansion’s attic, but the boxes were cloning themselves, and hadn’t he said they needed to complete the attic before Leela could use it?

  “What is your update, Leela?” Una Mae’s eyes tightened at the edges, her frown deepening. �
�This is the eleventh hour.”

  It was as if Una Mae didn’t know she was the reason for the emergency, by her refusing to let the event happen at her own house as planned.

  “Leela Miller. All print fliers and advertising must be finalized. We need to list a location and address. Have you even found a place for the Cookie House? What about the Holiday Ball? Just give us something, please. People are already baking cookies, I believe.”

  Nods went around the table.

  Leela should not be bullied into committing. She hadn’t completed her part of the deal with Jay. They were closer, but the attic wasn’t done.

  Her brain and her mouth were not connected, however.

  “I am in negotiations with the new owner of the Layton Mansion to hold both the Cookie House and the Holiday Ball there.”

  “The Layton Mansion!” Mrs. Harrison blurted, and the two dozen other women hiss-whispered it as well. “Why, that’s marvelous, my dear. You are a miracle worker. Everyone will come just to see it. We’ll have our best turnout ever! Genius!”

  With every phrase of praise from Mrs. Harrison, Una Mae Coldicott’s face contorted another degree. Finally, the hubbub died down, and Una Mae harrumphed.

  “Well. Yes. But you said you’re in negotiations. Is nothing set?”

  Leela kept her face a stone.

  “Miss Miller, you do appreciate the time sensitivity here.”

  Oh, she did. The ticking of the clock practically deafened her. “I should know very soon.” If she asked Jay, he might agree to it, despite the unfinished attic. Right?

  I don’t know. I don’t want to be one of those people who doesn’t keep her side of the bargain. Dad would be ashamed. So would Mom, for that matter. It wasn’t classy.

  “Very soon is not soon enough.” The breath went out of the room. All eyes flitted between Leela and Una Mae’s showdown. “You either commit, or you remove yourself from the chairwomanship.”

  But—on the other hand, Mom would have been so proud of her for chairing the event. I have to show her I can do this.

  “Leela? Can you guarantee the Layton Mansion, or do we cancel the event?”

  Gasps rose, and upper lips curled in derision. Mrs. Imrich might have gagged.

  Una Mae ignored all the histrionics. “Can you, Leela?”

  She couldn’t. “I can.”

  Oh, no. Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no.

  “That’s done, then.” Una Mae Coldicott pounded her gavel, much harder than necessary. It was almost like Leela’s promise burned her up. “Mrs. Philbert, print the fliers with the correct address. Mrs. Harrison, contact the radio station to pay for the advertising. Mrs. Young, you’ll do our social media blast. Leela?” Una Mae turned a cold eye on her. “You had better not disappoint us. A failure will deplete our coffers, and we won’t have a way to replenish, since we’ll have to cancel at the last minute and lose all of our investment.”

  “I’ll make sure it happens.” Somehow.

  Was it possible that the snow was deeper on her walk home? Or did her whole body just sink into it more into it than usual? In her house, she kicked the winter off her boots and shut the door.

  This was not ideal.

  Before she’d even had a chance to take off her scarf and hat, let alone start making Dad’s soup for dinner, Leela’s doorbell rang.

  Oh, shoot. Jay was here already to make cookies.

  Leela had to tell Jay what she’d promised the ladies at Auxiliary. Leela leaned her head against the door for a second. Then she took a deep breath, pasted on a smile and threw the door wide to let Jay in from the cold. “You’re early.”

  “Hey. Yeah. Sorry, but I thought you might not have time to make dinner.” Jay stood on the doorstep, a couple of bags in his hands. “I brought take-out. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Come in.” She stepped aside for him, and the scent of cumin and garlic wafted in with him.

  Well, look at him. He sure cleaned up nicely. In a button-up shirt and dark-wash jeans, he had a whole off-duty doctor vibe going on.

  She pointed him toward the kitchen, and Leela trailed after him like one of those cartoon mice drawn by the visible, steamy, curling scent of cheese. “Smells amazing. You didn’t have to do that.”

  But bless him for it.

  “I hope you like Mexican.” He set the bags on the counter.

  “Totally.” She peeked in a bag. “El Toro?” No way. “El Toro is Dad’s favorite.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?” How could he? She glanced between the takeout boxes and Jay’s face.

  “You told me.”

  “I did?” Oh, right. When he was asking about Mom and Dad. “Thank you for remembering him.” Leela’s hip hit the countertop, stopping her bowled-overness.

  “Plus, no dishes to do.” He grinned—almost as if he knew about all the cleaning she’d done today already.

  Jay removed the cardstock-covered tinfoil bowls from the bags. “You said he’s got mobility issues, but can he eat with us? I brought him enchiladas with beans and rice on the side.”

  “Of course. Wow. He is so going to love this.” Leela set forks and glasses on the table in a flash. “I haven’t made him anything spicy in a while.”

  The door rattled, and Dad came in with help from Pippa, who hugged them both before leaving. Maybe it was the Mexican spices in the air giving him buoyancy, but Dad leaned on Leela’s arm a little less than usual.

  “Dad, this is Jay Wilson.” She helped him to the table. “He inherited the Layton Mansion.”

  Throughout dinner, Dad didn’t really look Jay in the eye or acknowledge him, but he did seem to enjoy the enchiladas. Jay acted like it was no big deal.

  Bless him.

  Leela wiped Dad’s face with the napkin. “We haven’t had El Toro since … forever.”

  Dad groaned something. He blinked a few times.

  “What’s that, Dad?” Leela leaned to catch his gaze. Their eyes met, and Dad groaned again—something almost intelligible. “I think you said, Since Freeze left. Is that right, Dad?” Leela’s voice shook as she repeated him. “Because I think you’re right. We haven’t had it since Mom …”

  She couldn’t say died. Or passed. Or any of those terrible syllables.

  Dad mumbled something else. It sounded a lot like, I miss my Freeze.

  “I miss her too, Dad.” Leela bit her lower lip to kink off the watering hose gushing toward her eyes. “I wish she hadn’t needed to leave us.”

  Jay set his fork down for a moment, watching them almost reverently.

  It took a couple of steadying breaths, but Leela composed herself and turned to Jay. “Sometimes it’s still pretty raw.”

  Jay reached over and put a hand on Dad’s shoulder. Dad turned to him. Jay gave a curt man-nod. Dad blinked, paused, and then gave one back.

  Leela could have kissed Jay right then and there. Communication—with Dad—spurred by a nostalgic meal and genuine kindness.

  Brilliant. Thank you, Jay Wilson. He might be a healer of more than cats and dogs.

  Dinner wrapped up. Leela put the forks in the dishwasher and got out the stuff for baking gingersnaps, while Jay helped Dad to a chair in the living room and talked to him, telling him stuff about the Layton Mansion, about an exotic animal—a liger—he’d treated during his clinicals, about a horse he’d ridden in a race once. Dad didn’t respond verbally, of course. However, when Leela peeked in, she saw a light dancing in Dad’s blue eyes. They were a lot brighter than usual.

  Jay had reignited a long-dim spark.

  Jay. Jay Wilson.

  But he was leaving Massey Falls at the first possible moment. A tiny knife twisted in her heart.

  Dad got settled in front of the TV for his favorite police mystery show, and Jay came into the kitchen, where Leela had stuff all set.

  “Ready to make cookies?” She tossed Jay an apron and steeled her gut. “I have a confession to make.”

  She had to tell him about promising the Layton Mansion this afternoo
n.

  “A confession?” Jay’s eyebrow shot upward as he finished tying his apron strings. His shoulders looked so broad by contrast beneath the red fabric. “Is this like truth or dare? ’Cause I’m game. Truth.”

  She lost her nerve. “These are the only good cookies I can make.” She was a rotten, terrible, deceitful chicken!

  “You told me that before, but I must say, I don’t believe you.”

  “You should.” She listed her failures on her fingers. “First there were the english lemon tea cakes, and then the danish wedding cookies, and then the norwegian krumkaker, and then the chinese fortune cookies. Disasters, every one of them.”

  “Maybe you should have stayed in America. Gingersnaps are American.”

  But she was still ranting, fueled by her shame at not telling him the real confession on her conscience. “With all the flour I dumped in the trash, I could be sanctioned by the U.N. for waste of finite resources that could have been used to feed a starving nation.”

  “Please. It’s probably just your recipes. Were they smudged? Did you misread them?”

  Come to think of it, most of the failed attempts had involved smudges. “The results were too consistently bad to blame the recipes themselves. It has to be operator error. Thus, we’re sticking with gingersnaps.”

  “Fine by me.” Jay pulled some glasses from his pocket and put them on. “Where do we start?”

  Four cups of flour, two cups of sugar, a bottle of molasses, so much butter, and an array of spices and leavening agents later, a mixing bowl of dark batter beckoned on the counter.

  “Truth or dare again.” Leela wiped her hands on a towel. “Are you ready?”

  “Always.” Jay leaned against the counter. “Okay, truth.”

  “Do you eat the raw cookie dough, or not?”

  “Why do I feel like this is a make-or-break moment?” He looked good without glasses, but even better with them. Brilliant, scholarly, in charge.

  Speaking of charge, one was surging through Leela right now at the sight of him. “I’m not saying it’s make-or-break. Not necessarily.”