A Knights Bridge Christmas

by Carla Neggers

Logan shook his head. “Too young. His older brother was killed in the war. I don’t know much about him. My great-grandfather—Gran’s father—was in the navy. I don’t know much about his service, either.”

  “Do you remember him or did he die before you were born?”

  “I never knew him.”

  “There’s a lot of history in this house,” Clare said softly.

  He pushed back his chair and stood up. “The label could be misleading. Gran might have stuck the candle in the box without noticing the label.”

  “That doesn’t sound like her. Look around here. Everything is in order. She might be a pack rat, but she’s precise and very organized.” Clare quickly switched off the faucet, realizing what she’d said. “I’m sorry, Logan. Of course you know your grandmother better than I do. I’m only starting to get to know the people in Knights Bridge.”

  “But you’re observant,” he said, clearly not offended. “If there aren’t medical symptoms involved, I can be oblivious.”

  “Do you want to ask her about the candle?”

  “I’ll play it by ear. She’s a strong woman who’s seen a lot of life, but I’m not convinced she’s not lying through her teeth about how ready she is for assisted living.”

  He tore open another box filled with decorations. Clare went through each of the boxes, picking and choosing what would work for the exterior and meet with Daisy Farrell’s approval. Logan worked quickly, efficiently, not lingering on anything that looked, at least to Clare, as if it might call up memories. Either he wasn’t one for nostalgia or wasn’t opening himself up to letting it creep in. She suspected he wasn’t one for it. He’d promised his grandmother he’d decorate her house for Christmas. Time to get the job done.

  Clare discovered a pinecone wreath at the bottom of a box and decided she could refresh it. She cleaned the pinecones and added a red-ribbon bow and a faux cardinal she’d found in another box.

  “I’m impressed,” Logan said. “I thought for sure the pinecones were only good for mulch.”

  “If you don’t look closely, you won’t notice they’ve seen better days.”

  They took the wreath out to the porch and hung it on the front door, on a hook presumably there from previous Christmases.

  “Window boxes,” he said, pointing at the front windows. “I didn’t think of it until now, but Gran used to decorate the window boxes for Christmas. Shall we give it a shot?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  She was aware of Logan eyeing her. “I suppose I should feed you first,” he said. “You must be hungry.”

  “I can manage the window boxes.”

  “You can manage them better after a sandwich.”

  “Do you have sandwich fixings? We can always walk over to the country store and see what they have.”

  “I’ve already been to the store. We have ham, cheese, tomatoes, pickles, onion and a baguette. Does that suit you? Otherwise it’s a can of soup from 1998.”

  Clare wasn’t sure he was exaggerating about the date. “Suits me fine.”

  They returned to the kitchen, which still smelled faintly of chocolate. Her phone dinged with a text from Maggie Sloan: I’m feeding the boys.

  Clare answered. Great, thanks.

  She slipped her phone back in her jacket and relayed the message to Logan. “Maggie’s a caterer, did you know? She did coffee hour for her book club at the library. She made an applesauce spice cake that I still dream about. I didn’t resist.”

  Logan leaned in close to her. “Life can’t always be about resisting.”

  He winked—sexily, provocatively—and set to making lunch.

  Clare discovered a stack of about a half-dozen boxes in the dining room. The top one was marked Mysteries. She lifted it and set it on the floor, opening it up to books by Rex Stout, P. D. James, Dorothy Sayers and Ross McDonald. A first edition would be a find, but all of the books would be snapped up in a library sale.

  “I read P. D. James with a dictionary next to me,” Logan said, handing Clare a small baguette sandwich.

  “She never underestimated her readers, did she?” Clare noted a paperback copy of Fer-de-Lance. “Nero Wolfe is a favorite with the seniors, and a teen book club just discovered him. He’s timeless and yet part of another time.”

  Logan sat at the dining room table with his sandwich. “Did you become a librarian because you love to read?”

  Clare sat across from him. “I’d love to read whether I’d become an accountant or a gardener.”

  “Gran told me to make sure I always had something entertaining to read during medical school and my residency. It was good advice. I’d pull out a book on breaks and dive into another world, even if it was just for a few minutes. It was often hard to let myself believe I had the time, or that reading a paragraph of a thriller or biography here and there could make a difference.”

  “What kind of difference?”

  “Perspective,” he said, again without hesitation.

  “To remind yourself that being a doctor doesn’t mean you’re all knowing? That kind of perspective?”

  “That kind of perspective.” His eyes held hers. “Also that there’s life outside work.”

  She ignored another flutter in her stomach. “It’s good just to get caught up in a story, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t read as much as I’d like now.” He smiled. “Gran wouldn’t be pleased.”

  “Do you always take her advice?”

  “I always listen to her advice.”

  “What advice didn’t you take?”

  “Get married before I turned thirty-two.”

  It wasn’t the answer Clare had expected. “Why thirty-two?”

  “It was a compromise between thirty and thirty-five. One was too young for what Gran calls the modern world and the other too old for her comfort. She was married at eighteen.”

  “You adore her,” Clare said.

  “Yes, and I’m hoping nothing in here makes me blush.”

  “Surely she’s gotten rid of anything that might.”

  He leaned back in his chair, looking amused. “Are you implying my grandmother could have a secret life?”

  “I’m not, but I am a librarian. I know that people are complicated.”

  “Ah-ha. What the doctor doesn’t know about people, the librarian does.”

  She laughed. “I’ll go along with that, but I doubt your grandmother has any secrets that would raise your eyebrows or mine.”

  “It takes a lot to raise my eyebrows.”

  * * *

  Clare was on the front porch, fine-tuning the placement of the cardinal on the pinecone wreath, when Maggie Sloan delivered a tired, contented Owen. Logan, who’d brought out more strings of lights, opened the front door. “You can hang out in the front room,” he told Owen. “We’ll be in soon.”

  “The boys had a great time,” Maggie said as Owen went inside. “We now have a family of snowmen in the yard to rival the family at the country store. The mother is wearing my best winter hat. That needs to change.”

  “There are loads of hats here,” Logan said.

  “If you can spare one that might not come back, that would be awesome. I can’t guarantee a neighborhood dog or wandering wild turkey won’t make off with it.”

  “The hazards of life as a snowman,” Logan said, heading into the house.

  Maggie appraised the decorations on the front porch, wisps of her red hair in her face as she turned to Clare. “You and Logan have worked miracles with this place already. Last year, Daisy barely managed a wreath.”

  “What about candles in the windows?”

  “It wouldn’t be Christmas in Knights Bridge without candles in the windows at the Farrell house.”

  “Do you know why?” Clare asked.

  “I always assumed it’s because Daisy liked them, but I don’t really know. I doubt Tom cared one way or the other, so long as she was happy. Why?”

  “Daisy asked Logan to light a candle on Christmas Eve.”


  “She and Tom switched to electric candles a long time ago. Maybe that’s what she meant.” Maggie sat on the porch rail next to the spruce boughs. “Tom would love that Logan is here.”

  “Was Tom pleased his grandson became a doctor?”

  “I’m sure he was but I’ve never given it any thought. Logan’s father left Knights Bridge for college and never came back here to live. No animosity—just life. He and his family would come to visit Daisy and Tom. Daisy and Tom would go visit them. Usual family stuff. I’ve always figured Logan got his grandfather’s adrenaline-junkie gene. Instead of becoming a firefighter, he became an ER doctor.” Maggie shrugged her slim shoulders. “That’s my take, anyway.”

  “You must know everyone in Knights Bridge,” Clare said.

  “Not everyone.” Maggie smiled. “But I know most everyone.”

  Clare glanced at the door, not wanting Logan to catch them gossiping about his family when he returned with the hat. But hadn’t he just told her that life wasn’t always about resisting? Even if he hadn’t meant it—if he’d been flirting with her or teasing her to ease his boredom—it was a point well taken, something she often told herself when she let her what ifs overwhelm her.

  Such as what if he opened the door and caught her and Maggie talking about his family?

  She became aware of Maggie frowning at her. “You okay, Clare?”

  “Sorry. Lost in thought.”

  “Don’t worry about talking about the Farrells.” She grinned, good-natured and unrepentant. “We all talk about everybody around here. Part of being a good neighbor, right? Anyway, I need to run. I’m catering a get-together at the Farm at Carriage Hill tonight. Have you been out there yet?”

  “I have. The house looks so charming. I didn’t realize it was on a dead-end road. I turned around at the Quabbin gate and came back home.”

  “Next time stop in and say hi. I’ll show you around if I’m there. Have you met Dylan and Olivia?”

  Clare shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “To think that less than a year ago, none of us knew Dylan’s father had bought Grace Webster’s old house up the road from Olivia’s place—never mind that she’s his birth mother. A real tragedy that he died a short time later, but at least he got to meet Grace.”

  “I’m lost,” Clare said. “Grace had a son?”

  “It’s one of the best stories ever around here,” Maggie said. “But it’s sad, too. Grace and a British flyer fell for each other just as she and her family were being forced out of their home in the valley to make way for Quabbin. He went back to England, never to return. He was killed early in the war.”

  Clare recalled hearing bits and pieces of the story but hadn’t realized it involved elderly Grace Webster. “Now Dylan—Grace’s grandson—is marrying a local woman, and they’re building a house and a business together.”

  “Several businesses at the rate Dylan’s going. He’s not one to stand still. Olivia, either. She and I have dipped a toe into making goat’s milk soaps. We use milk from my mother’s goats.” Maggie jumped down from the porch rail. “I should get rolling. That applesauce-spice cake isn’t going to bake itself. You’ll get up to speed on the goings-on in Knights Bridge. Just have to figure out how deep you want to dig.”

  “Deep enough to do my job,” Clare said.

  “And live here, too, I hope. You don’t plan to buy a house in another town, do you?”

  “No plans to do anything right now, but Owen is lobbying me for a bigger house.”

  “He says you sleep on the couch. Could do worse. When Brandon and I were in a rough patch last year, he slept in a tent.” Maggie waved a hand before Clare could register her confusion. “Long story with a happy ending.”

  Logan came out onto the porch. “Perfect for a snowman,” he said, handing Maggie a green plaid beret.

  “Much better than my merino-wool hat. Thanks, Logan.”

  She trotted down the steps and out to South Main. Once she disappeared, Logan turned to Clare. “Owen fell asleep on the couch. What do you say we let him nap and open up a few more boxes?”

  A Recipe for Applesauce Spice Cake with Maple Frosting or Cream Cheese Frosting

  CAKE

  2½ cups all-purpose flour or cake flour

  1 teaspoon salt

  ¼ teaspoon baking powder

  1½ teaspoons baking soda

  ¾ teaspoon cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon allspice

  ½ teaspoon cloves

  1¾ cups sugar (scant)

  1½ cups unsweetened applesauce

  ½ cup water

  ½ cup unsalted butter

  2 eggs

  ½ cup chopped walnuts (optional)

  ¾ cup raisins (optional)

  Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter and flour two 8" or two 9" round cake pans or one 9"x13" pan.

  Mix first 7 dry ingredients in medium bowl. Blend sugar, applesauce, butter, eggs and water in large bowl. Add dry ingredients and combine on low mixer speed just until blended. Turn mixer to high speed for about 3 minutes. Fold in optional walnuts and/or raisins by hand.

  Pour batter into pans and bake. Plan on about 30–35 minutes for 9-inch layers and a bit longer for 8-inch layers; 50 to 60 minutes for a rectangular pan. A toothpick or tip of a sharp knife inserted into the center of the cake should come out clean.

  When the cake is cool, frost with maple frosting or cream-cheese frosting.

  MAPLE FROSTING

  4 tablespoons butter (preferably unsalted)

  ¼ to ⅓ cup pure maple syrup

  1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

  2½ cups confectioner’s sugar

  2 to 3 tablespoons milk (preferably whole)

  Blend together butter, syrup, vanilla and about a third of the sugar. Alternate milk and sugar. Use as much milk as needed for consistency. If necessary, refrigerate cake before serving to set frosting.

  CREAM CHEESE FROSTING

  8 oz. cream cheese, softened (preferably full fat)

  4 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

  2½ to 3 cups confectioner’s sugar

  1 teaspoon vanilla (or a bit more to taste)

  Blend together cream cheese and butter with enough confectioner’s sugar for good spreading consistency. Stir in vanilla. Refrigerate frosted cake before serving.

  Five

  Its dark brown curls were long and free; free as its genial face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, its cheery voice, its unconstrained demeanour, and its joyful air...

  –Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

  CLARE MORGAN WAS under his skin.

  Logan acknowledged that fact with the clarity and briskness he was accustomed to exercising in his work. Knights Bridge wasn’t a hospital emergency room, and Clare wasn’t a patient or the family member of a patient. But he couldn’t dance around the reality in front of him—staring him in the face.

  He filled two water glasses at the sink. He and Clare had checked the last of the stack of book boxes in the dining room, and she was back at the kitchen table, her fair hair out of its pins, her sweater askew, her face flushed. He noticed the curve of her hip, the shape of her breasts, the blue-green of her eyes...

  It wasn’t good, this attraction to the new town librarian.

  Owen had awakened and was sorting through a small box containing a crèche Logan had forgotten his grandparents had owned. Clare and her six-year-old had already discussed the difference between a donkey and a mule. The wise men now had Owen’s attention.

  Logan knew he should leave the Morgans and run out to see his grandmother. They could find their way home. He would say thanks for the help and get back to his life. Staying here, letting his attraction take hold, was like hanging his toes off the edge of a cliff—tempting fate. He’d buried himself in work and now had a chance to have a good time with an attractive woman. Why play it safe?

  Safe, however, was what Clare wanted and needed.

  His grandmother would expect him not to cause trouble in her hometown.
Help her get settled and decorate her house. Be nice to people. Then go home and come back to visit when he could. She had her full faculties and would see to selling the place.

  If he gave in to the urge to kiss Clare Morgan he risked stirring up trouble.

  Maybe that was why he wanted to do it. He was bored and restless, and he needed a distraction. If there wasn’t a fire for him to put out, then he’d start one. His grandfather used to tell him that his own low tolerance for boredom was what had prompted him to become a firefighter. He didn’t wish anything upon anyone, but he knew if the worst happened, he had the constitution to deal with it. You remind me of myself at your age, he’d told Logan. He’d figured out early on in his training that he was suited to emergency medicine.

  He did what had to be done. People counted on him for that. It was his job.

  It was not his job to mix it up with Clare Morgan.

  His hard-driving personality worked well in his chosen profession. It worked less well in his personal life. He needed to behave himself in Knights Bridge. He wasn’t going to have everyone in town peg him as a cad. His grandmother especially.

  He wasn’t going to be a cad.

  Such a great word, he thought with a smile. Cad. To him a cad was a man who used a woman for his own needs, without regard to anything else. Here he was, decorating his grandparents’ home for Christmas, a season to ask more, not less, of himself. He owed it to Daisy and Tom Farrell to hold himself to a higher standard.

  And if Clare would rather he didn’t? What if a bit of a cad would do her life good right now?

  He shook off the thought and set the water glasses on the table for Clare and her son. “I’d like to check on my grandmother,” he said. “I want to see if she needs me to bring anything else for her new apartment. Care to join me?”

  Clare drank some water. He noticed her full mouth, the slender hands. Not helpful, but what could he do? If she noticed his reaction to her, she gave no sign of it as she set her glass on the table. “I’d love to join you.”

  “Is this the place with the old people?” Owen asked.