by Carol Ross
She always packed a small travel cushion with her, but it wasn’t anywhere close to the same as a real pillow. Her schedule meant keeping inconsistent, often odd hours that precluded sleeping late, or well. Getting enough sleep was a rare indulgence but oh so treasured. Whenever she came home, taking a literal catnap was one of her very favorite activities.
How had her Santa known about her secret pillow yearning? She was positive she’d never blogged about the topic. Maybe she’d mentioned it in a social media post? Offhand, like complaining about a particularly bad one? She couldn’t recall, though, so if she had, it’d been years ago.
There was more in the box, a pillowcase in buttery-soft flannel featuring adorable cartoon cats wearing Santa hats and all tangled in Christmas lights.
She found a card that read:
Since you’re home for the holidays, you might as well enjoy all the comforts. Wishing you sweet dreams and plenty of catnaps. Love from your Secret Santa.
Tears welled in her eyes. Not the crying kind but like good old-fashioned happy tears. So many Christmases she’d spent alone, which was okay. That was her choice, but now that she was home, it felt so good to be here—and to be known. And loved. Like someone understood that as the only remaining single James child, she’d been feeling lonely and a bit left out.
Glancing at her mom’s gigantic antique grandfather clock in the corner, she calculated the hours until bedtime. Too long. Did she have time for a nap?
In a case of utterly weird and perfect timing, her mom’s cat Mica breezed in from the hall, strolled across the floor and parked himself at her feet. Gazing up at her with a slow, lazy blink, he let out a soft meow that could easily be interpreted as an invitation. A cat after her own heart, he was always up for a snooze.
An unexpected sting of tears burned behind her eyes. The sad kind now because another challenge of life forever on the go was no pets. She’d missed the cats, too, she realized while she’d been away. What was wrong with her?
Swiping at an errant tear on her cheek, she crouched to scratch Mica’s cheeks. “I appreciate your enthusiasm. Maybe we can—”
The sound of the back door opening caught her attention, and then Shay’s voice called, “Hello?”
She stood. “Hey, Shay. In here!”
Mica wandered over to inspect the now-empty box, no doubt considering it for a potential napping spot.
“Hi, you,” her sister said, striding quickly into the living room. She was smartly dressed in a blue-green cashmere sweater and gray wool slacks tucked into stylish but sturdy boots. With her dark brown hair neatly twisted on top of her head, her sister looked every inch the driven, successful, no-nonsense hotel owner that she was. But her gold-brown eyes reflected pure contentment, and Hazel knew that was due to her husband, Jonah, and their sweet baby, Maggie, the daughter they’d believed they could never have and whom they’d named after her grandmother Margaret.
Shay was extremely dedicated to her little family, which included her father-in-law, Caleb. Without a doubt, her loyalty and devotion to those she loved was one of her best traits, but as her Secret Santa, Hazel intended to show Shay that she deserved a little attention, too. She hoped Shay would mention the gift she’d had delivered yesterday.
“Good morning!” Hazel said brightly.
“I’m glad I caught you before you left for work.”
“I’m glad you caught me, too. Breakfast burritos in the kitchen if you’re hungry. Did you get my message about the Festival of Trees contributions?”
“Yes! Thank you! That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Bering dropped a tree off for you guys at the inn. Emily ordered spares through the tourism bureau for any late participants who might need them.”
“Of course she did.”
“I know, right? The woman is a marvel. All you need to do is get your ornaments and schedule your decorating time.”
The trees were creatively themed, usually in relation to the business or organization donating them. The decorations were typically unique, often handcrafted or special-ordered, resulting in trees that were veritable works of art in their own right. The finished products were kept top secret until the “authorized viewing days” before the auction, when they were set up in the Faraway Inn to generate interest and excitement—and sell last-minute tickets. Thus, the necessity of scheduling a decorating appointment.
“Sounds good. Kai and I already ordered the ornaments online. Tiny suitcases, backpacks, little maps and globes. It’ll be supercute.” She wasn’t much of a “crafter” herself, but Kai had volunteered for the job, assuring her he had an artistic side. Since he was already on-site anyway, she’d given him free rein. “Kai will be in touch.”
“Will you be back by Saturday for baking day?” Seth and Victoria would be arriving Friday, so Margaret had invited everyone over on Saturday for holiday baking and cookie decorating.
“Wouldn’t miss it! Coming home Friday.”
“Excellent.” Shay’s gaze turned curious as if just noticing the bounty still clutched to her chest. “What’s with the pillow? Are you okay? Or is that part of a Santa costume?”
“Oh, you must be referring to this,” Hazel said, making a show of pointing at the pillow. She gave it an affectionate pat. “This is not just a pillow. This happens to be the best gift ever in all the history of Secret Santa gift-giving.”
“A pillow?” Shay repeated skeptically. “A pillow is the best gift ever?”
“One hundred percent.”
“I hate to disappoint you, little sister, but yesterday, I got the best gift ever.”
“Oh?” Hazel asked, her spirits lifting even further.
“My Secret Santa got me a pedicure. And I don’t mean a future pedicure, as in a gift card to add to my stack of unused gift cards. I adore pedicures, but do you think I ever get them? No. I’m always going to, and then I get busy, or I decide to spend my free time with Maggie instead...” She exhaled with a shrug that suggested she couldn’t help herself.
“My point here is that my toes stay neglected. See, my Secret Santa knows this about me and delivered a pedicure to the inn. I couldn’t say no. Anita came right into my office and set up a portable foot bath. I’m not even joking—I almost cried. Hands down, one of the best gifts I’ve ever gotten. Ever.”
“That is pretty awesome,” she agreed casually. Yesss! Nailed it! she wanted to shout as she basked in Shay’s pure delight.
Their mom was onto something big here.
“Don’t tell her I said this, but I think Mom might be a Christmas genius.”
“Ha!” Margaret chirped brightly, strolling into the room. “I heard that.”
Shay groaned good-naturedly.
“Mornin’, Mom,” Hazel crooned. “Breakfast burritos in the kitchen.”
“Oh, good. You can take one to Cricket.”
“Cricket? Why?” Her stomach executed a nervous flip. Had her mom seen the cookies? Did she somehow know their significance?
“His power is out. Dad has his generator, and I was hoping you could drop it off on your way to work?”
* * *
SO, WITH A plate of oatmeal cookies and an insulated lunch box on the seat beside her, Hazel drove her father’s spare pickup to Cricket’s house. She wasn’t home often enough to justify a vehicle of her own, but she adored this one. Old, but like most everything her father owned, it was clean, perfectly maintained and smelled faintly of fish. She suspected he hung on to it just for her to use.
A lack of snow this winter, and none the past week, meant the road surface was nice and clear. With every second that passed, her heart seemed to grow. As if the closer she got, the more it, too, remembered how much she used to love visiting him here.
She hadn’t been to Cricket’s place in ages, but the memories returned fast and fresh when she turned onto his driveway. Maybe because, throughout the years, sh
e’d recalled those idyllic moments more often than was probably healthy.
She’d always adored the bungalow-style home with its wide and welcoming front porch lined with tall rectangular windows. The exterior was a combination of natural cedar-plank siding and shingles, all trimmed in white. He took extreme care and an equal amount of pride in maintaining every square inch.
The interior was spacious but comfortable. Homey. Her favorite features were the kitchen, where they’d often cooked together, the partially covered deck on the back of the house and the sunroom. The sunroom. Where she’d kissed him. Probably not a good idea to revisit that specific locale. Or to linger around the house for very long.
Yes, she decided, best to make this a quick visit. Ease into these memories like dipping a toe into a hot bath. Give him the cookies and get out. Smart to have a plan.
She pulled around back in time to see Cricket exit through the garage’s side door. She drove onto the concrete pad and parked. Now that she was here, her confidence wavered. Was she dredging up too many memories? Would this be painfully awkward? What would they talk about?
“You can do this,” she muttered softly. “Friends,” she reminded herself. “Friends would not be nervous right now. Stick to the plan.”
“Hey!” he said when she climbed out, a smile lighting his gorgeous face. “I was expecting your dad, so imagine my delight at seeing you instead.”
Okay, then. This was good. Relief flowed through her. Of course, Cricket wouldn’t let this be weird. Considering the depth of her teenage infatuation and the look on his face, it now seemed completely reasonable how she’d once confused his kindness and compliments, those watchful eyes and electric smile for more.
“I’m glad you think so. And maybe I can even add to that delight.” Reaching into the vehicle, she retrieved the bounty she’d brought him. “Breakfast burrito and a little surprise.”
“Breakfast? Yep, that’ll do it. You can go inside if you want while I unload this and get it going. You haven’t seen my house since the updates, have you? There’s a fire in the woodstove, so it’s nice and warm. I even made a pot of coffee with the percolator if you’d like some. It’s sitting by the stove.” As if he could sense her earlier decision, he added, “I’d love to show you around.”
“Okay,” she agreed, abandoning her previous plan for this much better one. Because the truth was, she needed to face this, deal with her emotions, explain about the cookies.
Besides, she did want to see what he’d done to the house—the place where they’d spent hours together talking, laughing, playing cards, watching TV, making pizzas and quesadillas, and just being. The place where she’d never felt more herself—or ever been so happy.
Maybe the changes he’d made would be a good thing for her emotional state. The lack of the familiar might prevent the spark of feelings that she feared. But even if they did start to flame, she would simply snuff them out like pouring water on a fire. She’d be a feelings-snuffer. And it would be that easy, too, she assured herself, because she was so completely aware now.
Stepping inside, she quickly abandoned the introspection to appreciate the hardwood floors. Same ones, but they’d been refinished and appeared freshly waxed. The walls were different colors. He’d chosen soft ivory for the entryway and a light mushroom hue for the living room, which she liked better than the previous light blue.
Two years ago, he and Tag had totally redone the kitchen, but she’d never seen the results. And she loved it instantly. Bright blond-wood cabinets that she thought might be maple, cream-colored walls, and granite countertops in shades of brown and gray with veins of black to pull it all together. New appliances in black stainless steel. Looking around, she couldn’t help but note there were no signs of Ashley making herself comfortable yet. Hmm. She wondered what that meant.
Cricket had always been a neat housekeeper, tolerating little clutter. That hadn’t changed and could explain the lack of Ashley evidence. But then her gaze homed in on the cookie jar sitting on the counter—the one she’d given him all those years ago filled with homemade oatmeal cookies.
That didn’t necessarily mean anything either, did it? Even if the only other items to grace the surrounding area were a knife block, a coffee maker, salt-and-pepper set and a toaster oven? Obviously, it meant something, but probably not what she wanted it to. The man liked cookies, she reminded herself, and it was a nice container. Airtight and dishwasher safe. Okay, Hazel, possibly you are obsessing about the meaning of a cookie jar. Time to move on.
The kitchen flowed into the dining area, and she placed the food on the counter before heading there. The table was the same, an antique oak pedestal he’d purchased ages ago at an estate sale. Perfect for poker games, he’d once informed her. She knew he often hosted poker night because all her male family members and Hannah regularly attended.
Same antique sideboard, too, upon which several framed photos were neatly arranged. Cricket and Tag posing in front of Cricket’s first Cessna airplane, standing side by side, each with an arm draped over the other’s shoulders, aviator shades on, looking confident, content and handsome. There was another of the wedding party at Tag and Ally’s wedding. Next to that was a brilliant photo of her entire family at one of Bering and Emily’s famed outdoor bashes—her mom and dad seated together in the center with everyone gathered around them. She’d never seen the photo of herself and all three of her sisters in ski gear posing in front of a newly opened Snow Sky Resort. So cute. Cricket’s helicopter could be seen in the background.
An old toy airplane was parked in front of the photos, made of metal, condition well-loved. She wondered about its origin. Did it belong to Cricket? He didn’t like to talk about his childhood, and it was one of the few topics they’d never thoroughly discussed. Next to the toy was an old photo she’d never seen before. Reaching out, she picked it up for closer inspection. Cricket and his brother, Lee, she realized.
For some reason, the image made her heart clench tightly with a mix of sadness and love. The boys were standing in front of the Presbyterian church here in Rankins—the church her family had attended all her life—which seemed odd because the Blackburns weren’t members.
Cricket appeared stiff, arms at his sides, his expression somber and weary. Worried, even. Lee, however, looked completely the opposite, cocky grin, a glint in his eye, with one arm curled around Cricket’s slim shoulders. She estimated Cricket to be about eight years old, so that meant Lee would have been maybe sixteen or seventeen?
Approximately two years before she was even born. According to what she recalled, that would have been around the time Lee was arrested for his first serious offense and sentenced to a juvenile detention center. Their father, Frank, had spent much of Cricket’s childhood in and out of jail. Where had Cricket gone during those periods?
Neither Lee nor Frank was living in the area by the time Cricket and Hazel had struck up their friendship. She’d never met either of them, had seen only a few photos of Lee. And definitely not this one.
She’d contemplated all of this before, but for some reason, it struck her harder now how much that instability, drama and tension had to have affected him. But it didn’t show; it hadn’t shaped him, had it? Intelligent, accomplished and successful, he was also kind and incredibly generous. He’d not only overcome his circumstances, he’d also become a true pillar in the community. She made a mental note to ask her mom more about his childhood.
The lights flickered on, startling her out of her contemplation. Replacing the photo, she registered how nice the place smelled, too. Unlike most bachelor pads she’d encountered, his house smelled of vanilla, cinnamon and fresh coffee—reminding her to retrieve the percolator from where he’d left it next to the woodstove.
In the kitchen, she found the cups were in the same location in the cupboard next to the sink. She heard the back door open, which led to the garage from the mudroom, where he’d n
ow be removing his coat, hat, gloves and boots.
“Thank you for dropping the generator off,” he told her a moment later when he entered the kitchen. “Russ called and said a transformer’s out. It’ll be hours before the power is back on.” Russ Driscoll, she knew, was a friend of his who worked for the power company.
“Happy to help. Coffee?” She held up his mug that she’d found on the table.
“Please,” he said.
Pouring coffee into his cup, she said, “Your burrito is right there in that lunch bag. You may need to put it in the microwave for a bit. I know you like extra salsa. It’s in the small container.”
She carried their mugs to the bar, where she set them down. “And these,” she said, removing the foil from the plate to reveal the cookies. “Freshly made this morning. Hope they’re still your favorite.”
“Oatmeal cookies,” he stated, voice dipping low while his gaze traveled up to latch onto hers. He remembered.
“Yep,” she said, forcing a smile.
“Yes,” he murmured, his eyes holding hers. “Still my favorite.”
Had she gone too far? She felt silly. Nervously, she cleared her throat. “I figured it would be sort of like starting over, you know? To me, they kind of marked the start of our friendship. So, I was thinking they might do that again. Like a new beginning.”
“I see.” He slowly nodded as if thinking it over, but the whole time his eyes never left hers, and she felt something more. Her pulse accelerated, blasting heat through her bloodstream. Did he go around looking at everyone like this? If so, it was no wonder he had women fawning over him all the time. At that moment, she truly hoped Ashley had changed, because the woman she’d known was nowhere near good enough for him.
She tried to look away but only managed to shift her gaze as far as his mouth. Probably she needed to quit admiring his lips.
But then a smile slowly curved there, and he asked, “You want to see the sunroom?”