Maid Under the Mistletoe

by Maureen Child

“You’re not here to celebrate the holidays,” he reminded her in a voice just short of a growl. “You’re here to take care of the house.”

  “I know. But, if you change your mind, I’m an excellent multitasker.” She got to her feet and held on to the book she’d chosen from the stack. Staring up into his eyes, she said, “I’ll do my job, but just so you know? You don’t scare me, Sam, so you might as well quit trying so hard.”

  * * *

  Every night, she came to the great room. Every night, Sam told himself not to be there. And every night, he was sitting by the fire, waiting for her.

  Not like he was talking to her. But apparently nothing stopped her from talking. Not even his seeming disinterest in her presence. He’d heard about her business, about the house fire that had brought her to his place and about every moment of Holly’s life up until this point. Her voice in the dark was both frustrating and seductive. Firelight created a cocoon of shadows and light, making it seem as if the two of them were alone in the world. Sam’s days stretched out interminably, but the nights with Joy flew past, ending long before he wanted them to.

  And that was an irritation, as well. Sam had been here for five years and in that time he hadn’t wanted company. Hadn’t wanted anyone around. Hell, he put up with Kaye because the woman kept his house running and meals on the table—but she also kept her distance. Usually. Now, here he was, sitting in the dark, waiting, hoping Joy would show up in the great room and shatter the solitude he’d fought so hard for.

  But the days were different. During the day, Joy stayed out of his way and made sure her daughter did the same. They were like ghosts in the house. Once in a while, he would catch a little girl’s laughter, quickly silenced. Everything was clean, sheets on his bed changed, meals appeared in the dining room, but Joy herself was not to be seen. How she managed it, he wasn’t sure.

  Why it bothered him was even more of a mystery.

  Hell, he hadn’t wanted them to stay in the first place. Yet now that he wasn’t being bothered, wasn’t seeing either of them, he found himself always on guard. Expecting one or both of them to jump out from behind a door every time he walked through a room. Which was stupid, but kept him on edge. Something he didn’t like.

  Hell, he hadn’t even managed to get started on his next project yet because thoughts of Joy and Holly kept him from concentrating on anything else. Today, he had the place to himself because Joy and Holly had gone into Franklin. He knew that because there’d been a sticky note on the table beside his blueberry muffin and travel mug of coffee that Joy routinely left out in the dining room every morning.

  Strange. The first morning they were here, it was him avoiding having breakfast with them. Now, it seemed that Joy was perfectly happy shuffling him off without even seeing him. Why that bothered him, Sam didn’t even ask himself. There was no damn answer anyway.

  So now, instead of working, he found himself glancing out the window repeatedly, watching for Joy’s beat-up car to pull into the drive. All right, fine, it wasn’t a broken-down heap, but her car was too old and, he thought, too unreliable for driving in the kind of snow they could get this high up the mountain. Frowning, he noted the fitful flurries of snowflakes drifting from the sky. Hardly a storm, more like the skies were teasing them with just enough snow to make things cold and slick.

  So naturally, Sam’s mind went to the road into town and the possible ice patches that dotted it. If Joy hit one of them, lost control of the car...his hands fisted. He should have driven them. But he hadn’t really known they were going anywhere until it was too late. And that was because he wasn’t spending any time with her except for those late-night sessions in the library.

  Maybe if he’d opened his mouth the night before, she might have told him about this trip into town and he could have offered to drive them. Or at the very least, she could have driven his truck. Then he wouldn’t be standing here wondering if her damn car had spun out.

  Why the hell was he watching? Why did he care if she was safe or not? Why did he even bother to ask himself why? He knew damn well that his own past was feeding the sense of disquiet that clung to him. So despite resenting his own need to do it, he stayed where he was, watching. Waiting.

  Which was why he was in place to see Ken Taylor when he arrived. Taylor and his wife, Emma, ran the gallery/gift shop in Franklin that mostly catered to tourists who came up the mountain for snow skiing in winter and boating on the lake in summer. Their shop, Crafty, sold local artisans’ work—everything from paintings to jewelry to candles to the hand-made furniture and decor that Sam made.

  Grateful for the distraction, Sam shrugged into his black leather jacket and headed out of the workshop into the cold bite of the wind and swirl of snowflakes. Tugging the collar up around his neck, Sam squinted into the wind and walked over to meet the man as he climbed out of his truck.

  “Hey, Sam.” Ken held out one hand and Sam shook it.

  “Thanks for coming out to get the table,” Sam said. “Appreciate it.”

  “Hey, you keep building them, I’ll drive up the mountain to pick them up.” Ken grinned. About forty, he had pulled his black hair into a ponytail at the base of his neck. He wore a heavy brown coat over a flannel shirt, blue jeans and black work boots. He opened the gate at the back of his truck, then grinned at Sam. “One of these times, though, you should come into town yourself so you can see the reactions of the people who buy your stuff.” Shaking his head, he mused, “I mean, they all but applaud when we bring in new stock.”

  “Good to know,” Sam said. It was odd, he thought, that he’d taken what had once been a hobby—woodworking—and turned it into an outlet for the creativity that had been choked off years ago. He liked knowing that his work was appreciated.

  Once upon a time, he’d been lauded in magazines and newspapers. Reporters had badgered him for interviews, and one or two of his paintings actually hung in European palaces. He’d been the darling of the art world, and he’d enjoyed it all. He’d poured his heart and soul into his work and drank in the adulation as his due. Sam had so loved his work, he’d buried himself in it to the detriment of everything else. His life outside the art world had drifted past without him even realizing it.

  Sam hadn’t paid attention to what should have been most important, and before he could learn his lesson and make changes, he’d lost it and all he had left was the art. The paintings. The name he’d carved for himself. Left alone, it was only when he had been broken that he realized how empty it all was. How much he’d sacrificed for the glory.

  So he wasn’t interested in applause. Not anymore.

  “No thanks,” he said, forcing a smile in spite of his dark thoughts. He couldn’t explain why he didn’t want to meet prospective customers, why he didn’t care about hearing praise, so he said, “I figure being the hermit on the mountain probably adds to the mystique. Why ruin that by showing up in town?”

  Ken looked at him, as if he were trying to figure him out, but a second later, shook his head. “Up to you, man. But anytime you change your mind, Emma would love to have you as the star of our next Meet the Artist night.”

  Sam laughed shortly. “Well, that sounds hideous.”

  Ken laughed, too. “I’ll admit that it really is. Emma drives me nuts planning the snacks to get from Nibbles, putting out press releases, and the last time, she even bought some radio ads in Boise...” He trailed off and sighed. “And the artist managed to insult almost everyone in town. Don’t understand these artsy types, but I’m happy enough to sell their stuff.” He stopped, winced. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” Sam assured him. “Believe me.” He’d known plenty of the kind of artists Ken was describing. Those who so believed in their own press no one could stand to be around them.

  “But, Emma loves doing it, of course, and I have to give it to her, we do big business on those nights.”


  Imagining being in the center of a crowd hungering to be close to an artist, to ask him questions, hang on everything he said, talk about the “art”... It all gave Sam cold chills and he realized just how far he’d come from the man he’d once been. “Yeah, like I said, awful.”

  “I even have to wear a suit. What’s up with that?” Ken shook his head glumly and followed after Sam when he headed for the workshop door. “The only thing I like about it is the food, really. Nibbles has so many great things. My favorite’s those tiny grilled cheese sandwiches. I can eat a dozen of ’em and still come back for more...”

  Sam was hardly listening. He’d done so many of those “artist meets the public” nights years ago that he had zero interest in hearing about them now. His life, his world, had changed so much since then, he couldn’t even imagine being a part of that scene anymore.

  Ken was still talking. “Speaking of food, I saw Joy and Holly at the restaurant as I was leaving town.”

  Sam turned to look at him.

  Ken shrugged. “Deb Casey and her husband, Sean, own Nibbles, and Deb and Joy are tight. She was probably in there visiting since they haven’t seen each other in a while. How’s it going with the two of them living here?”

  “It’s fine.” What the hell else could he say? That Joy was driving him crazy? That he missed Holly coming into the workshop? That as much as he didn’t want them there, he didn’t want them gone even more? Made him sound like a lunatic. Hell, maybe he was.

  Sam walked up to the table and drew off the heavy tarp he’d had protecting the finished table. Watery gray light washed through the windows and seemed to make the tabletop shine.

  “Whoa.” Ken’s voice went soft and awe-filled. “Man, you’ve got some kind of talent. This piece is amazing. We’re going to have customers outbidding each other trying to get it.” He bent down, examined the twisted, gnarled branch pedestal, then stood again to admire the flash of the wood grain beneath the layers of varnish. “Dude, you could be in an art gallery with this kind of work.”

  Sam stiffened. He’d been in enough art galleries for a lifetime, he thought, and had no desire to do it again. That life had ultimately brought him nothing but pain, and it was best left buried in the past.

  “Your shop works for me,” he finally said.

  Ken glanced at him. The steady look in his eyes told Sam that he was wondering about him. But that was nothing new. Everyone in the town of Franklin had no doubt been wondering about him since he first arrived and holed up in this house on the mountain. He had no answers to give any of them, because the man he used to be was a man even Sam didn’t know anymore. And that’s just the way he liked it.

  “Well, maybe one day you’ll explain to me what’s behind you hiding out up here.” Ken gave him a slap on the back. “Until then, though, I’d be a fool to complain when you’re creating things like this for me to sell—and I’m no fool.”

  Sam liked Ken. The man was the closest thing to a friend Sam had had in years. And still, he couldn’t bring himself to tell Ken about the past. About the mess he’d made of his life before finding this house on the mountain. So Sam concentrated instead on securing a tarp over the table and making sure it was tied down against the wind and dampness of the snow and rain. Ken helped him cover that with another tarp, wrapping this one all the way down and under the foot of the pedestal. Double protection since Sam really hated the idea of having the finish on the table ruined before it even made it into the shop. It took both of them to carry the table to the truck and secure it with bungee cords in the bed. Once it was done, Sam stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and nodded to Ken as the man climbed behind the wheel.

  “Y’know, I’m going to say this—just like I do every time I come out here—even knowing you’ll say ‘no, thanks.’”

  Sam gave him a half smile, because he was ready for what was coming next. How could he not be? As Ken said, he made the suggestion every time he was here.

  “Why don’t you come into town some night?” the other man asked, forearm braced on the car door. “We’ll get a couple beers, tell some lies...”

  “No, thanks,” Sam said and almost laughed at the knowing smile creasing Ken’s face. If, for the first time, he was almost tempted to take the man up on it, he’d keep that to himself.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Ken nodded and gave him a rueful smile. “But if you change your mind...”

  “I’ll let you know. Thanks for coming out to pick up the table.”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as we sell it.”

  “I trust you,” Sam said.

  “Yeah, I wish that was true,” Ken told him with another long, thoughtful look.

  “It is.”

  “About the work, sure, I get that,” Ken said. “But I want you to know, you can trust me beyond that, too. Whether you actually do or not.”

  Sam had known Ken and Emma for four years, and if he was looking for friendships, he couldn’t do any better and he knew it. But getting close to people—be it Ken or Joy—meant allowing them close enough to know about his past. And the fewer people who knew, the less pity he had to deal with. So he’d be alone.

  “Appreciate it.” He slapped the side of the truck and took a step back.

  “I’ll see you, then.”

  Ken drove off and when the roar of his engine died away, Sam was left in the cold with only the sigh of the wind through the trees for company. Just the way he liked it.

  Right?

  Five

  “Oh, God, look at her with that puppy,” Joy said on a sigh.

  Her heart filled and ached as she watched Holly laughing at the black Lab puppy jumping at her legs. How could one little girl mean so much? Joy wondered.

  When she’d first found herself pregnant, Joy remembered the rush of pleasure, excitement that she’d felt. It hadn’t mattered to her that she was single and not exactly financially stable. All she’d been able to think was, she would finally have her own family. Her child.

  Joy had been living in Boise back then, starting up her virtual assistant business and working with several of the small businesses in town. One of those was Mike’s Bikes, a custom motorcycle shop owned by Mike Davis.

  Mike was charming, handsome and had the whole bad-boy thing going for him, and Joy fell hard and fast. Swept off her feet, she gave herself up to her first real love affair and thought it would be forever. It lasted until the day she told Mike she was pregnant, expecting to see the same happiness in him that she was feeling. Mike, though, had no interest in being anyone’s father—or husband, if it came to that. He told her they were through. She was a good time for a while, but the good time was over. He signed a paper relinquishing all future rights to the child he’d created and Joy walked away.

  When she was a kid, she’d come to Franklin with a foster family for a long weekend in the woods and she’d never forgotten it. So when she needed a fresh start for her and her baby, Joy had come here, to this tiny mountain town. And here is where she’d made friends, built her family and, at long last, had finally felt as though she belonged.

  And of all the things she’d been gifted with since moving here, Deb Casey, her best friend, was at the top of the list.

  Deb Casey walked to Joy and looked out the window at the two little girls rolling around on the winter brown grass with a fat black puppy. Their laughter and the puppy’s yips of excitement brought a quick smile. “She’s as crazy about that puppy as my Lizzie.”

  “I know.” Joy sighed a little and leaned on her friend’s kitchen counter. “Holly’s telling everyone she’s getting a puppy of her own for Christmas.”

  “A white one,” Deb supplied.

  Rolling her eyes, Joy shook her head. “I’ve even been into Boise looking for a white puppy, and no one has any. I guess I’m going to have to start prepa
ring her for the fact that Santa can’t always bring you what you want.”

  “Oh, I hate that.” Deb turned back to the wide kitchen island and the tray of tiny brownies she was finishing off with swirls of white chocolate icing. “You’ve still got a few weeks till Christmas. You might find one.”

  “I’ll keep looking, sure. But,” Joy said, resigned, “she might have to wait.”

  “Because kids wait so well,” Deb said with a snort of laughter.

  “You’re not helping.”

  “Have a brownie. That’s the kind of help you need.”

  “Sold.” Joy leaned in and grabbed one of the tiny brownies that was no more than two bites of chocolate heaven.

  The brownies, along with miniature lemon meringue pies, tiny chocolate chip cookies and miniscule Napoleons, would be filling the glass cases at Nibbles by this afternoon. The restaurant had been open for only a couple of years, but it had been a hit from the first day. Who wouldn’t love going for lunch where you could try four or five different types of sandwiches—none of them bigger than a bite or two? Gourmet flavors, a fun atmosphere and desserts that could bring a grown woman to tears of joy, Nibbles had it all.

  “Oh, God, this should be illegal,” Joy said around a mouthful of amazing brownie.

  “Ah, then I couldn’t sell them.” Deb swirled white chocolate on a few more of the brownies. “So, how’s it going up there with the Old Man of the Mountain?”

  “He’s not old.”

  “No kidding.” Deb grinned. “I saw him sneaking into the gallery last summer, and I couldn’t believe it. It was like catching a glimpse of a unicorn. A gorgeous unicorn, I’ve got to say.”

  Joy took another brownie and bit into it. Gorgeous covered it. Of course, there was also intriguing, desirable, fascinating, and as yummy as this brownie. “Yeah, he is.”

  “Still.” Deb looked up at Joy. “Could he be more antisocial? I mean, I get why and all, but aren’t you going nuts up there with no one to talk to?”