Keeping Christmas

by Rebecca Blevins

  "Nah." He had a twinkle in his eye. "Trust me on this one."

  "Okay." She shrugged, then reached into the backseat and pulled out the smallest container. "But only a few."

  "That'll do."

  Paige followed the sheriff into the courthouse, unnerved by the turn of events. She hoped all this would be over quickly.

  Chapter Three

  Wes stared with bleary eyes at the worn wooden floor. He was tired. So tired. He traced the patterns in the heavy desk, its smooth, waxed surface marked with ink and coffee stains, most of them made years and years before he was born. After today's news, he wasn't sure how he was going to pull off the annual town Christmas dinner.

  Judge Skip Gatlin yawned as he walked through his office door and stopped when he saw Wes. "What're you doing still here? I thought Eddie was on shift next."

  "He was. He called me a couple hours ago to tell me he caught the virus and was worshipping at the porcelain throne, so I came in. Hosed down the bathroom while I was at it."

  "How about Larry?"

  "He had to take his little girl to the hospital for dehydration. She'll be okay, but of course he should be there."

  "So it's just us, then. Boy, I'm concerned you're stretching yourself too thin. Try to take it easy." Skip's pink scalp shone through his white hair. Was he a little more stooped than he'd been at the start of the year? Wes didn't want to admit it, but Skip had aged a lot in the last few months. Wes worried about the old judge. Skip was the closest thing he had left a father.

  Wes put that line of thinking out of his head. "Well, I am pretty beat, but at least I'm not hanging on the porcelain throne like Eddie was. Someone has to man the desk around here. Besides, you're one to talk. When do you ever relax? You could go home early. Or are there a lot of cases I know nothing about?"

  Skip sighed. "I can always find more paperwork. No use puttering around in an empty house, wasting time." His face fell, and he turned to get a cup of hot cocoa from the dispenser. The judge was incredibly fond of anything sweet. He never took coffee with fewer than six lumps of sugar. Wes wondered how the old judge wasn't wired all the time if sugar flowed through his veins instead of blood.

  Wes stood up, shuffling a small stack of fliers that didn't need shuffling. He missed Aida too. Skip's wife had been incredibly kind to Wes, especially after the whole thing with Katherine.

  Aida had practically been the mother of the whole town. She'd started the annual Christmas dinner and party several years ago when they’d been hard hit by flooding that wiped out the farmers' crops. Too many families were barely getting by, which made Christmas festivities out of the question. Aida had seen the need, stepped in, and never looked back. That dinner was the start to the humanitarian position on the town council, which Aida ran as a force of nature right up until she got sick. She'd begged Wes to take over for her, and he gladly had. Which was why he couldn't let anyone down by canceling the dinner.

  But how could he run a dinner when he had no one to cook the food?

  Stephen Connelly had donated the hams and fixings as he usually did, and everything was waiting to be picked up. All he had to do was call Stephen and take the truck over to the grocery store. Thing was, Betsy Trimble usually oversaw the cooking, but she'd been down for three days already, and despite her desperate attempts to get better so she could help, she was too weak. Tim over at the health department would have a fit if Betsy even tried.

  Marjorie Platte, Larry's wife, could do it too, but with her daughter in the hospital, Wes wasn't even going to ask. Enough people had recovered or escaped the virus to attend, but how would he get everything done? Cooking for two hundred people was a far cry from heating up some tomato soup and popping a pan of canned biscuits in the oven.

  The phone rang in Skip’s office, and the judge hurried to answer, slopping some cocoa on the floor in the process.

  Wes snagged a paper towel and wiped up the cocoa, listening to Skip’s booming voice as he talked with someone about the Christmas dinner and how they—well, Wes—hadn’t found someone to help yet. He tossed the paper towel in the trash as he heard the judge’s door close. Skip was still on the phone, by the sound of the unintelligible one-sided conversation still going on.

  Wes sank back into his creaky desk chair and rubbed his chin, feeling the prickle of his five o'clock shadow. Maybe someone had a plan. He hoped so. Truth was, he needed help. He’d completely run out of ideas.

  Chapter Four

  Paige followed the sheriff through the ancient, heavy doors into the old courthouse. Even with her heart pounding in dread, she couldn't help but appreciate how pretty the historic building was. The red brick set off the gleaming wood doors, even in the dim lamplight, and as she stepped into the foyer, the smell of wood polish mixed with pine felt homey. To the left of the entryway stood a small, very plain Christmas tree, looking like an afterthought.

  Sheriff Carlston led her through a second set of doors into a large, open area, then into an office to the left.

  A man sat behind an old wooden desk, writing on a pad of paper. The first thing Paige noticed about him was his hair—full and deep brown and wavy, but short around his ears. She had never really liked the messy look on guys, but she wanted to see what this head of hair would be like just a little mussed.

  He glanced up and straight into her eyes. Her breath caught. He wasn't the hottest man she'd ever seen—he had a strong nose, and his forehead was a bit high to be Abercrombie material, but there was something almost magnetic about the way he studied her with his blue eyes. A flash of something—she didn't know what—crossed his face, and then it was gone.

  Sheriff Carlston spoke. "Deputy Atwood, this here is Paige Sorensen. She's on her way to Iowa, and she’s in a bit of trouble. Speeding, brake light, bribery."

  The way he rattled off the list made Paige feel like a criminal. She spoke up. "I really am so sorry. I did know better. And I promise I wasn’t trying to bribe anyone." The deputy didn't say anything, but he studied Sheriff Carlston, eyes questioning.

  "Also," the sheriff added, "she had these." He opened the container of boller, and the delicious scent wafted through the room.

  "Huh. 'Special ingredient' rolls? That's a different take." The deputy’s eyebrows raised.

  Paige wanted to yell and snatch her boller out of the sheriff’s hands.

  "No," the sheriff said, a little too smug for Paige’s liking. "Just some mighty fine-smelling baked goods. Is the judge in? He said he was over here in his office."

  "He sure is," the deputy said. "I wish he'd get some rest, but you know how he's been. Go on in. I'm guessing Miss Sorensen won't give me any trouble." He winked at Paige. She didn't know what to think.

  "Of course I won't. But I would like to use the ladies' room, if that's all right." The hot chocolate had done its job, and Paige hoped he wouldn't make her wait.

  "Of course.” Deputy Atwood stood, and Paige was impressed by his height. His build wasn't bad, either. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. He looked a bit like a ball player, or like a guy who didn't shirk away from manual labor. Even in his uniform, she could tell he worked hard or worked out. Or both. She swallowed with a bit of difficulty.

  Sheriff Carlston went through a door down the hall to the left, and Deputy Atwood came to stand by Paige. "You're sure you're not a flight risk?" he teased. "You must have been going pretty fast."

  She was flustered, which was ridiculous since she'd barely met this man, and after a few more minutes, would hopefully never see him again. Still, something about him made her want to have his good opinion. "It really was a mistake. I was trying to outrun the storm, and I normally never speed.

  ‘But I didn't want to get snowed in back in the city and not make it home for Christmas. My family is really big on all our Norwegian traditions, and Christmas lasts a lot longer for us than most people. I've baked a ton for them, and we always have such a great time making julekurver and putting up the tree—Christmas means family. I've missed them." She
closed her mouth abruptly. Why had she said all that? It wasn't like he'd care. In fact, she could have sworn he seemed slightly annoyed.

  "Well, that's all good, but the law is there for a reason. Christmas isn't a good-enough excuse to break it. You could have ended up in a ditch and never made it home at all." He opened a door to stone steps that led to the basement. "Public bathrooms are down this way."

  Paige walked down the stairs, grateful he followed behind and he couldn't see her face. She tried to focus on the beautiful stonework that made her feel like she was walking down castle steps, but inside, she trembled, and not because of the damp chill. What on earth was happening here? And who was this deputy, acting all high and mighty? Sure, she’d been speeding—she already owned that. But he didn’t have to make her feel worse about it.

  They reached the bathroom door, and Deputy Atwood leaned against the opposite wall—how dare he be so casually attractive like that—and motioned her to go in.

  The door creaked as she pushed it open. While the upstairs gleamed with old-fashioned beauty and the staircase belonged in a medieval castle, the downstairs bathroom made Paige shiver. The green stalls and fluorescent lighting could have been part of the prison when the courthouse was built.

  By the time they got back upstairs and into the office, Sheriff Carlston waited with an elderly gentleman who was chewing on one of her boller. He had to be the judge. He had a kind face, Paige decided. One she hoped would show mercy. With the cost of paying off culinary school, a ticket would make her budget extremely tight, but the possibility of being tossed in jail worried her even more.

  The man finished chewing and swallowed. "Hello, young lady," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Judge Gatlin. I wish we'd met under better circumstances, but here we are."

  Paige shook it. "Nice to meet you." The less she appeared difficult, the better. Deputy Atwood stood next to her, arms folded. She checked her watch. Twenty-five minutes. Twenty-five minutes since she'd been pulled over. If they could get this resolved in the next few, and she didn’t end up in the clink, maybe she'd still have a chance to beat the storm. As if to mock her, the wind howled.

  Judge Gatlin studied her. Sheriff Carlston fidgeted impatiently, but seemed pleased with himself. What in the world was going on? Then the judge spoke. "Miss Sorensen, please come into my office. We have the matter of your civil disobedience to discuss."

  Seriously? This had gone on long enough. Fear gave way to a rise of anger, and Paige struggled to hold back a few choice words. Finally, she spoke. "Judge, if it's all the same to you, I know I was in the wrong. My brake light must have just gone out, as I had my car inspected only last week, and I promise to get it fixed as soon as I possibly can. And I was only offering the sheriff a bolle to be polite. I never, ever would try to bribe an officer. May I please have my ticket so I can be on my way?"

  The judge shook his head. "I'm sorry, my dear, but it's not that simple. Please come in so we can discuss your predicament."

  Shoulders sagging in defeat, Paige followed the judge into his chamber. Sheriff Carlston left, and Deputy Atwood turned to follow him, but the judge stopped him. "Wes, come in here. I think you're going to be interested in what I have to say."

  So the snooty hot deputy’s name was Wes, Paige thought. It suited him somehow.

  Wes appeared puzzled, but came in, shut the door, and took a seat in one of the heavy wooden chairs. Paige thought the chairs must have been designed to make a person feel inferior and small when sitting in front of the judge, but Wes's height and bearing could have made him a king on a throne. All he needed was a crown. And a shave. Or a slightly grown-out beard. He turned his gaze to her, and she brought her attention back to the judge, mortified to have been caught staring. She hoped that this one time, her perpetually pale face wouldn't betray her by blushing.

  "Well," the judge said, sitting in his chair and steepling his fingers, "this is an unusual situation. From the taste of those rolls and from what the sheriff told me about you, I assume you can cook?"

  What kind of question was that? And what did it have to do with her ticket? Paige didn't want to make small talk. "Yes, I can, Judge. I help run a catering company."

  "Better and better!"

  "Excuse me?" Paige said.

  The judge laughed. "I'm sorry. This is too fortuitous! We have a real problem in Higgins, and here you've shown up, with exactly the skill we need. It’s just too perfect.

  "We have a Christmas dinner every year for the whole town, but it's especially for the poor. We take donations for gifts to give the children and make sure everyone is taken care of. My late wife—" He swallowed a few times before continuing. "My late wife started it a few years back.

  “A stomach bug has been going around, and we don't want to see the dinner canceled Enough people are well enough to attend, but the ones we always rely on to prepare the food are either ill or have enough illness in their families that the health department won't allow them to handle the food for fear of it spreading."

  "What does this have to do with me?" A bit of dread sank heavy as a rock in the pit of her stomach.

  "The ticket would run you one hundred and eight dollars alone, not counting any charges for having a brake light out. And bribing an officer—well, I could easily toss you in jail for a night or two. But I’d rather not do that.”

  How many times did she have to say it? “But I wasn’t—”

  “Ah-ah-ah!” Judge Gatlin waved a finger, and Paige quieted, fuming. “We need someone who can cook food for about two hundred people. At my discretion, I can assign you community service instead of jail. So that's what I'm gonna do."

  No. No, no, no, no. It's not that she didn't want to do community service—in fact, she helped out at her local food kitchen on a regular basis—but she had to get home!

  "If it's all the same to you, Your Honor, is there any way I can get a ticket instead? I really sympathize with your situation here, but I desperately want to get back to my family." The fine would put a pretty big dent in her meager savings, but what else could she do? She glanced at Wes, half expecting to see a smirk, but he appeared as surprised by the judge’s decision as she had been. The deputy studied her, appraising.

  Judge Gatlin leaned forward. "Do you have something pressing tomorrow, anything that can't wait until Sunday?"

  "Yes! I have a date tomorrow night—" She stopped short. Her dating life was none of their business. She glanced at Wes again. There was the smirk she'd been missing.

  "So, you're saying a date is more important than helping the poor around Christmastime?" the judge asked.

  "No. That's not what I'm saying at all—"

  "Good. Then it's settled. We'll put you up at the inn, free of charge, of course. Tomorrow, you'll cook the Christmas dinner. Wes will help, and we’ll find some others to assist you too. Then after all the food is ready, you'll be free to go. It'll be better all around. Let the storm blow through; get a good rest tonight.” The judge folded his arms, pleased with himself.

  Paige could see his reasoning, but really? Sentenced to community service in a small town run by wacky people? Had she just stepped into a Pixar movie?

  "What do you say?" Judge Gatlin asked.

  She didn't want to spend any time in jail. She leaned back against the chair, defeated. "Okay. Well, if I'm going to cook a feast like that, I'd better get some sleep." Then she had another thought. "Wait—are you serving ham?"

  Wes cleared his throat. He put his hands in his pockets, a bit uncomfortable. "Eight hams. That's all that fits in the community building ovens if you stagger the cooking. We usually use the kitchen at the inn for making dessert."

  Paige did a few mental calculations. "Please tell me they're not still frozen."

  "Nope," Wes said. "They've been thawing since yesterday. Some in the refrigerators in the community center, some at the inn. I have one in my fridge, too."

  Thank goodness. If they were still frozen, that would have been a major disaster. "Well, tha
t's a relief. Lead the way to the inn, please. But I'll need a list of everything you're cooking so I can make a game plan before I go to sleep."

  Wes studied her with an unreadable expression. He really did have nice eyes. So blue. Too bad they were wasted on him. After a few moments, he opened the door. "Let's go." Paige stood and took one look back at the judge. If he grinned any bigger, she was afraid it would stick permanently.

  After getting his coat, Wes opened the door, and they went out into the freezing weather. Snowflakes already dusted the ground. Paige stepped on a small stick, likely blown loose by the wind, and skidded. Wes grabbed her and kept her from falling. She held on to his arm as she steadied her footing, trying to ignore the rock-solid muscle she felt through his coat sleeve. "Thank you," she said. He smiled slightly in reply.

  As Wes walked her to her car, she almost wished she’d slip again to see if her mind had been playing tricks on her, or if his arm really was as strong as she’d thought it was.

  Chapter Five

  Paige followed Wes's truck to the Stay Inn. Fancy name, she thought. The town's only gas station and a tiny diner were connected to it. Unusual, but it was a convenient setup. The outside of the inn hadn't been painted for a while, and the peeling white flakes lent the whole place the appearance of being taken straight out of a horror movie, even down to the flickering light by the front door. The cold, gray day didn’t help that image, either.

  She got out and hauled her suitcase from the trunk. Without a word, Wes took it, and she followed him to the entrance. He pushed the door open and went to the small Formica counter hung with green plastic garland. A sign sat on top with a red bow hanging precariously, reading: "Ring Bell for Assistance." Wes pushed a button on the wall, and a bell sounded somewhere above them. Faint thumps beat at regular intervals, like someone was listening to loud music upstairs.