Making Christmas

by Patricia McLinn

Kiernan half rose to lean across the corner of the table and plant one finger at the last firm point of the braid, pinning it to the table, so she didn’t lose more of her work.

  “Go to bed, Bexley. You’re beat.”

  “Everybody’s been up as long as I have.”

  “Nobody’s worked harder or made up more stuff. That takes energy. Get some rest. You have more to do tomorrow.”

  “I’ll finish this and—”

  “I’ll finish it.”

  She looked up in surprise at the intensity in his voice and encountered a bigger surprise.

  Kiernan had leaned close, his head just above hers. She looked up directly into his eyes, his mouth a small downward swoop from hers. … Or a small upward swoop if she weren’t so incredibly tired. And if she didn’t feel another yawn rising around her throat, controlling her jaw muscles, bending her mouth to its will. Just in time, she slid her hand over her mouth as it gaped open again.

  As soon as it was past, she said the first thing that occurred to her. “You can braid? That last part needs to be rebraided.”

  “Cahill taught me. Twisted rope — well, it twists. We mostly bought rope for sailing and such, but Cahill insisted I know how to make it, too. Now, go on with you. You’ve worked yourself too hard. Go to bed, Bexley.”

  And the raspy way he said it had her thinking the words could so easily have been Come to bed, Bexley. Come to bed with me. Now.

  Oh, yeah, she was beyond tired if she was thinking that.

  “I just want to make it fun for those kids. Losing their mother…” She stopped to swallow down abrupt tears. “Those poor kids.”

  “And their father. My mother’s heartbreak penetrated even my child’s brain … eventually. When—”

  He broke off, as if belatedly realizing he’d spoken the words aloud.

  He glanced toward her. She’d been looking at him, but ducked her head before their eyes met. “Yes,” she said softly, “and their father.”

  “Better not to open to such sorrow.” When she didn’t respond to his harsh words, he added the challenge, “Isn’t it?”

  “Closing off any possibility of sorrow would mean having no love at all. Would you give up the love of your nephew, of all the next generation of the Slash-C crew in case something ever happened to them?”

  She looked up at him now and saw two things.

  He’d recognized her shift from discussing one kind of love to another.

  His inability to imagine not loving the kids she’d seen him with at the ranch.

  “I’ll die before them. I’m that much older.”

  “If everything follows a neat pattern. But life doesn’t always, does it?” Not awaiting an answer, she jerked back her chair. “I will take you up on your offer to finish up. Thank you. Good night.”

  At the doorway, she turned back and softly said, “Merry Christmas, Kiernan.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Three months and six days ago

  Kiernan’s finger lingered over the button on the computer that would open Bexley Farber’s new website. The portal to her new venture. To the photos. The videos.

  He’d known when it went live more than a month ago. He hadn’t looked at any of it.

  But, surely, that was being overly cautious. It wasn’t like the flesh and blood woman would appear in front of him. There could be no repeat of… No repeat.

  It was natural to be curious about what she’d made of the plans she’d been working on.

  The movie in her head that Cahill had hypothesized? No, that he’d never know.

  But this? This was simply curiosity.

  He clicked the button.

  “Hi. I’m Bexley Farber.”

  Bexley smiled at him from the screen. Into him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  December 25

  Bexley heard the girls and Bobby stirring.

  Why did Christmas morning always come so fast for adults and so slow for children?

  She’d been exhausted when she fell into bed. But she could almost swear she’d heard sounds from the bar room, like the guys were moving furniture. That lasted a few seconds until she’d fallen asleep.

  Which seemed about sixteen seconds ago.

  Though when she opened one eye a slit, the room had a faint lessening of the darkness, despite the storm still reigning outside.

  Her phone made a low sound. A text. Her family, hoping to get through with a Christmas wish? With her back to the girls, she surreptitiously slid the phone off the bedside table and under the sheet she had pulled up high. If they didn’t know she was awake, maybe they’d give her a few more minutes of rest.

  The text was from Kiernan. Give us as much time as you can. Will text when ready.

  From the wide recliner, childish whispering resolved into snatches of words revolving around wondering if the adults were awake yet.

  Bobby took care of that issue by sliding out of the chair, padding across to Pauline on the near side of the bed and thunking her on the shoulder. “Wake now? Wake? Wake?”

  She groaned. Bexley might have, too.

  But she sat up in bed, which brought Bobby running around to her side, joyously yelping, “Wake! Wake! Wake!”

  “Yes, I am awake.” She slid her phone toward Pauline, tapping the screen to bring her attention to the text.

  Molly exulted, “Yay! We can go out and see if Santa—”

  “No,” she said quickly to the girls. “We’re all going to look nice for Christmas before any of us leave the room.”

  Groans.

  Pauline cut them short. “Of course we all want to look nice for Christmas Day. First, you girls decide what you’re going to wear while I get ready in the bathroom and clean up Bobby.”

  Relegated to one of the “girls,” Bexley put on her robe, feeling gratitude to skip Bobby cleanup duty.

  Until the debate began on what Molly and Lizzie were going to wear.

  Both wanted to wear the same star-studded pair of leggings that were in Lizzie’s bag but Molly insisted were hers. Neither wanted to wear any of the tops in either bag. Both lamented they didn’t have with them what they really wanted to wear, which included three tutus, a robe, a cape, two crowns, a parasol, and a favorite pair of plaid shorts.

  To distract them — or perhaps herself — Bexley took out her planned outfit for the day. A shimmery red tunic over a black tank and a pair of flowy pants. She looked at them lying on the bed and reconsidered. They’d do great for her parents’ home, but perhaps weren’t the best choice for this place and time.

  “That’s beautiful.” Lizzie’s gaze lasered on the shimmery tunic.

  Molly dismissed the solid colors. “Kind of boring.”

  “What’s that?” Lizzie pointed to something in a similar tone to the tunic.

  “That’s—” Bexley broke off from explaining it was a simple t-shirt. “Would you like to wear it, Lizzie? With your black leggings and your red boots—”

  “I’d look like you,” the little girl said in awe. “Oh, yes, please.”

  Bexley hugged her. “Some of the time I’ll be dressed as well as you are. Not all the time. I was thinking with the cooking I need to do, I might wear a sweatshirt and jeans part of the time.” She refolded the flowy pants and tucked them back into her bag. “These will wait for another time.”

  She drew out the t-shirt, which would fit Lizzie fine as a dress.

  “I can wear jeans and a sweatshirt,” Molly said.

  Lizzie offered, “You can wear the star pants.” Unspoken but still communicated was the added, Since I’m wearing a special outfit.

  “You know what would go great with the star pants? This black t-shirt with a scarf we could use as a belt.”

  She’d barely begun the hunt for the scarf she had in mind when Pauline came out with a still-damp Bobby.

  Bexley shepherded the girls into the bathroom to oversee them as they washed their faces and brushed their teeth, even slipping in those ablutions for herself.

 
; Then she captivated the girls’ attention by putting on mascara and what amounted to lip gloss. You’d think from their reactions she was putting on the glam for the Oscars.

  When they came out, Pauline was dressed in a dark green top with a Christmas broach on the lapel over black slacks. Bobby had on a clean shirt and pants. No one expected that to last, but he’d start the day in high fashion.

  A knock on the bedroom door lifted Bexley’s hopes that Kiernan had opted for that signal rather than texting. But it was Gramps, calling out his demand that he be allowed use of his own bathroom.

  They let him in. He gathered a few clothing essentials from the dresser and closet, then repaired to the bathroom, the clicking sound leaving no doubt he’d locked the door.

  The girls dressed — all too quickly for Bexley’s taste, because a peek at the phone showed no follow-up message from Kiernan.

  Bexley stood them side by side. “Let me look at you two… Hmm. You both look good, but could you look better?”

  “No,” Lizzie said.

  “Yes,” Molly said. “It’s boring.”

  “Okay, let’s re-think this.” She crossed her arms and considered them, as if they were sculptures in an art museum. Though few art museums made art lovers squeeze past the corner of a bed or dodge sideways to avoid a staggering toddler.

  Lizzie giggled.

  Molly remained solemn, clearly counting on Bexley to fix boring.

  “You need more pattern, Molly. Something Christmassy.” She went to her bag. She blocked their view with her body, despite Molly craning her neck, then spun around with her family tradition pajama top. “How about this as a jacket.”

  “Yes.”

  Good thing she hadn’t followed the family tradition last night. The PJs were pristine.

  Satisfaction didn’t last long.

  “That jacket will look better with the black leggings and—”

  “I get the star pants,” Lizzie exulted. “They’ll look good with this solid color.”

  “They looked good with this. Two patterns are better than one.” Did Molly get that gene from her grandfather? “Look. There’re are stars in the jacket, too.”

  They glared at each other. This did not bode well for their teen years.

  “It’s Christmas,” Pauline quietly reminded them.

  Bexley swooped into their temporarily chastised state. “Let’s do this — star pants to Lizzie. Christmas jacket to Molly. And each of you has a scarf for a belt.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Molly said, “I get to pick the scarf.”

  She drove a hard bargain, especially when she determined none of Bexley’s were “interesting” enough. Pauline finally pleased her with a shimmery silver scarf. “New Year’s Eve,” she said to Bexley.

  “It might get creased or—”

  “It’s fine.”

  She put it on Molly herself. They smiled at each other.

  “Ready.” Molly headed for the door.

  “Wait.” Bexley looked to Pauline for inspiration, but received a shrug. Bexley put her hand to her head, wishing she could drag an idea out of it. “Hair! We have to fix our hair.”

  First, she brushed each girl’s hair with deliberate absorption. She tried the same with Bobby, but he wiggled away across the bed.

  She combed her own hair, then twisted it up. Decided the first and second time wouldn’t do, and took a third try.

  “Can we wear our hair like yours?” Lizzie asked.

  With that promise of using up more time, Bexley decided her most recent version of her hairdo was fine.

  “Of course.”

  She added commentary as she put up each girl’s hair, telling them they could do this for each other.

  And then they were done.

  She had to think of something else. “Molly, I think I should re-do yours. It might fall—”

  The faint trill of her phone receiving a text sent her diving for it.

  Ready.

  Watching her face, Pauline said, “I think Molly’s hair looks perfect. Does it feel secure?”

  “Sure.” The girl nodded vigorously. “See?”

  “I guess it does look secure.” Bexley confirmed Pauline’s speculation that the text released them from their stalling duty with a slight nod.

  Pauline rapped on the bathroom door. “Are you done primping in there?”

  In retrospect, Bexley recognized quite a bit of time had elapsed since the shower had turned off.

  “Hold your horses, woman!”

  Unfazed, Pauline informed him through the door. “You’d best hurry up. We’re all going out now to greet Christmas.”

  *

  Kiernan, Eric, and Dan were in a clump by the doorway to the bar room, covered by the closed curtain panels. Along with a haze of dust that Bexley would bet came from the curtains.

  “Merry Christmas!” the girls trilled in harmony. Bobby added a “Mare Chri’ma” counterpoint.

  “Merry Christmas to you. Wait—” Kiernan stopped them when they would have pushed aside the curtain and gone into the bar area. “We need to tell you. Something happened during the night.”

  “What? What happened?” Molly hopped from one foot to the other, while Lizzie kept Bobby from falling over when he tried to emulate her.

  “We woke up and— No, we need to wait for everybody and we’ll all go in together. All I can say is whoever did this must have been fast and very quiet, because it didn’t wake any of us up. Unless… Did you wake up and see anything, Dan?”

  “Nope. Not a thing.”

  “He can sleep through anything,” Molly scoffed.

  “Daddy says it’s like trying to pry up a rusted nail without a hammer to get him out of bed,” Lizzie added.

  “Didn’t wake me up, either.” Eric’s declaration redirected the girls’ attention to the covered door.

  “But what is it? What happened in there?” Molly asked.

  “What? What?” Bobby echoed.

  They looked from Eric to Kiernan, even to Dan, then back.

  Those three all shook their heads.

  Bexley hoped they weren’t building it up so much that the kids would be disappointed.

  “You’ll have to wait until your grandfather joins us,” Pauline declared.

  The girls sent their visual appeal first to Bexley, who shrugged, then to Kiernan, who crossed his arms over his chest, enhancing his bouncer-guarding-the-door pose.

  “But he’s taking forever,” complained Molly.

  Dan made a sound that had them all turning toward him, then redirecting their attention to where he was looking, the door to the bedroom.

  All the females and Bobby turned around to see what was behind them.

  “Gramps,” the girls said together, then appeared to have nothing to add to that.

  Bobby came to the rescue of all his tongue-tied elders.

  “Santa.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Santa applied to Gramps with only the loosest, most generous of interpretations.

  On the other hand, it was that kind of Christmas.

  So the portly figure with the white collar of a dress shirt showing above a bright red sweater molded to a bowl-full-of-jelly belly could stretch to stand in for the real thing.

  Especially since he’d trimmed his beard to a neat oval that would do any Father — or Grandfather — Christmas proud. No more unshorn-hedge sides, no more straggly points, no more bushiness obscuring his mouth.

  Nor did his hair stick out in odd directions. Both hair and beard were significantly whiter, a fact that Bexley pushed to the back of her mind with the determination to enjoy the improvement and not think about the baseline.

  Bobby ran to Gramps, reaching up to take his hand, with no apparent concern that such a gesture might be spurned.

  He was right.

  The little boy then led his grandfather to the closed curtains.

  “ ’Prise,” he informed his companion.

  “May I?” Gramps asked of Kierna
n, Eric, and Dan. They all nodded.

  With his free hand, Gramps took hold of one side of the curtain and drew it back, as if he’d been a showman all his life.

  “After you,” he said with a slight bow to Pauline.

  She took Eric’s offered arm — keeping a straight face when he grinned at her — and advanced majestically into the darkened room.

  The girls looked at Dan. “Go on. Go in,” he said.

  Each girl took one of his hands, whether from sibling fondness, a bit of nervousness over what came next, or a sense of the momentousness of the moment.

  Dan cemented the momentousness by limiting himself to a single martyred sigh of the teenager indulging younger siblings as he escorted them over the threshold.

  Gesturing Bexley to follow the others and keeping his eyes on her all the while, Kiernan slid his hand in along the wall and flipped the light switch.

  Gasps — delighted and appreciative — came from Bobby and all the females.

  In a spotlight that left the rest of the room in flattering softness, the hubcap tree stood noble and festive. The decorations glowed in the bright light, winking and sparkling with what looked like happiness.

  “It’s… It’s beautiful.” Molly’s words broke the frozen moment.

  She, Lizzie, and Bobby surged forward.

  Kiernan’s hand at her back urged Bexley forward, too.

  “What did you—? How did you…?” she asked in half questions.

  He grinned at her, as delighted as the littles. “Had an idea. Eric and Dan and I pulled it off.”

  “I thought I heard— Were you moving furniture last night?”

  “Moved the tables to get to the light. But took a fair amount of fine-tuning this morning.”

  Wresting her gaze from his face, she looked up. The wagon wheel light was tipped up on one side and tied in place to send all its illumination toward the tree, a spotlight picking up the glitter and shine of the top hubcap, each snowflake, star, and garland distributed over its surface.

  “It’s made all the difference,” she said.

  “If there weren’t a tree there in the first place — which was all your inspiration — there’d be nothing to light up.”