A Knights Bridge Christmas

by Carla Neggers

  Logan smiled at the boy. “Yes, it is. Do you have grandparents, Owen?”

  “I have lots of grandparents.”

  “My grandmother is learning about birds. We can have a look at the bird feeders she and her friends have set up for the winter.”

  “Aidan knows everything about raptors. They’re birds of prey.” Owen paused, very serious now. “They eat baby birds.”

  Clare looked slightly horrified, but Logan grinned. “I doubt we’ll see any owls and hawks at the bird feeders, and no baby birds are up here this time of year.”

  The boy allowed that was likely the case. They grabbed their coats and agreed to Logan’s suggestion they go in his car, Clare explaining she and Owen would have to come back to town, anyway, given where they lived. “We live in a sawmill,” Owen said, climbing into Logan’s backseat. “It’s on a waterfall. It’s cool but Mom has to sleep in the living room.”

  “It’s not a problem,” Clare said. “It’s temporary—until we decide where we want to live.”

  “I want to live in Knights Bridge,” Owen said, slightly panicked. “We’re not moving again, are we? I have friends here.”

  “I meant where to live in Knights Bridge,” Clare amended, pulling on her seat belt.

  Owen relaxed. “Oh. Okay.”

  When they arrived at Rivendell, all was quiet. One of the dining room workers was outside, drinking coffee and checking her phone. She waved as Logan, Clare and Owen got out of the car. “Beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?” she said with a smile. “Have to enjoy above-freezing temperatures when we have them.”

  Logan didn’t have the heart to tell her the temperature had again dipped below freezing. Technically, it had gone above thirty-two degrees that afternoon but he doubted it had been for more than an hour. Winter was arriving in New England. The weather would get worse before it got better, but he had to admit he loved this time of year. Clare seemed content, bundled up against the cold. She unzipped her jacket as they went inside. Owen had refused to zip his jacket. Logan supposed he’d been oblivious to the cold at six, too.

  They found his grandmother in the sunroom with her longtime friend Grace Webster, a retired schoolteacher in her nineties. Grace’s grandson, Dylan McCaffrey, the only child of the baby boy she’d borne secretly in her late teens and allowed to be adopted, was funding an updated technology room and expanded gardens for the facility.

  Frail but otherwise in good physical and mental health, Grace was pointing out where an intrepid, clever squirrel had gotten into one of the feeders outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. “We think it’s only one squirrel,” she said. “He’s diabolical.”

  “Would a raptor eat him?” Owen asked.

  Clare inhaled at her son’s blunt question, but Grace motioned for him to come closer to her. She then launched into an explanation of squirrels and winter bird feeding, her decades of teaching in evidence. She commanded Owen’s full attention, especially when she told him she’d seen bald eagles now that they’d returned to the area, given the protected Quabbin wilderness.

  Using just her cane—no walker today—Daisy got to her feet. “What a sweet boy,” she said, addressing Clare. “How’s he adjusting to Knights Bridge?”

  “Very well, thanks,” Clare said.

  “My friends and I used to swim out at the old sawmill, before it was turned into an apartment. I still have the scar on my knee where I slipped on the rocks. I dived right back in, blood and all. Nowadays I suppose someone would have used their cell phone and called an ambulance.”

  “You probably could have used stitches,” Logan said.

  She waved a thin hand. “I’ve never had stitches in my life. Well, I suppose I did when I had my gallbladder out. But that’s—what do the kids say now? TMI? Too much information? Or isn’t that a current phrase anymore?” She didn’t wait for a response, instead smiling at her grandson and taking his hand. “It’s good to see you. How’s the decorating?”

  “It’s almost done. Clare’s been helping.”

  “Oh, good. Decorating needs a woman’s touch, especially if a Farrell man is involved.”

  Randy Frost entered the sunroom with his mother, Audrey, another of Daisy’s friends. They joined Grace’s bird discussion. Owen was clearly enthralled, and Randy offered to look after him while Clare and Logan went with his grandmother back to her apartment. Randy gave Logan what he could only describe as a suspicious look—it was more than appraising or neutral but a notch below hostile. The sort of look that forced Logan to consider his reputation in Knights Bridge.

  Then again, maybe Randy had simply detected Logan’s war with himself over his attraction to Clare. Since she was renting an apartment from the Frosts, the older man would naturally feel protective of her. Logan didn’t know Randy Frost well. It was possible he often looked suspicious.

  Logan knew better than to offer his grandmother help as they walked down the hall to her apartment. Not only didn’t she want his help, it was good for her to manage on her own. One of the attractions of assisted living, she’d told him, was being able to see people and do things she couldn’t do at home—like chat about birds and go to yoga class with her friends.

  “A pair of cardinals stay here all winter,” she said. “I haven’t spotted them yet. The bright red of the male will be something to see against the white snow. I hated giving up my bird feeders at home.”

  “You had plenty to do,” Logan said.

  “That’s true. I’ve never been bored—not even since Tom died. Lonesome, but that’s different.”

  She pointed out apartments of people she knew. Most of the doors were decorated for the season with indoor wreaths, Santa Clauses and tiny reindeer and sleighs. Logan noticed his grandmother’s door was bare and saw that Clare noticed, too. “Would you like us to bring you some decorations from your house?” she asked once they were inside the small apartment.

  “That would be lovely,” Daisy said, easing onto her chair. She put her cane aside. “I don’t need anything elaborate. Just a little something to remind me it’s Christmas.”

  “Owen collected the pieces to a crèche we found,” Clare said.

  “That would be perfect. We got that when Logan’s father was a little boy. I’d love to have it here.”

  “And something for the door,” Clare added. “A small indoor wreath made of some of your Christmas decorations? I think we could pull that off.”

  “I’d love it.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Logan said.

  “The office has a list of restrictions. It’s what you’d expect in a building full of senior citizens. Common sense.” Daisy smiled and leaned toward Clare, a conspiratorial glint in her aged eyes. “They don’t want us having anything highly flammable.”

  Logan smiled. “As you say, common sense.”

  “Speaking of flammable,” Clare said. “We found a small box labeled Christmas 1945. Its only contents is a candle. It looks homemade. I was wondering—”

  “A candle?”

  Logan eyed his grandmother with concern. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, and she clutched her shirt at her chest as she stared up at Clare.

  Clare went still. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you.”

  But Logan could see that his grandmother wasn’t hearing her. She was lost in her own thoughts—something triggered by the mention of the candle. “A candle,” she repeated. “Yes... I... I...”

  “Gran.” Logan spoke sharply but gently. He knelt on one knee in front of her and took her hand. “Gran, it’s okay. Breathe normally.”

  She gulped in air, fast, clearly hyperventilating.

  “What can I do to help?” Clare asked.

  “Nothing. She’s fine.” He took his grandmother’s hand, checking her pulse. “Gran, hold your breath for a second or I’m going to throw a paper bag over your head.”

  She nodded, shutting her eyes, calming herself. Her breathing returned to normal. She squeezed Logan’s hand. “I’m all right.”

  Cl
are stood next to him, shivering. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m so sorry.”

  Before he could reassure her, she about-faced and fled from the apartment.

  “Oh, dear,” his grandmother said, already stronger. “Now look what I’ve done.”

  “You didn’t do anything, Gran.”

  “You’ll see to her?”

  “Once I know you’re not going to pass out on the floor.”

  “Would it be okay if I pass out in my chair? Honestly, Logan, has anyone ever talked to you about your bedside manner?”

  He grinned. “Often.”

  “You remind me of your grandfather,” she said, sinking back into her chair. “It was a bit of a shock, that’s all. That candle...” She closed her eyes. “Go see to Clare.”

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Logan said.

  “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

  * * *

  Logan found Clare on a patio outside the front entrance, pacing, clearly upset. “My grandmother is fine,” he said. “She hyperventilated, that’s all. It could happen to any of us.”

  “But at her age—”

  “It looks worse at her age. Everything does. She gripes about it all the time. At Thanksgiving she told me that if she gets a piece of popcorn stuck in her teeth people panic, thinking she’s about to keel over.”

  “She is very elderly, Logan.”

  “Yes, she is. It can be tricky to balance her desire for independence with her legitimate geriatric needs. That’s one reason this place will be so good for her. That might not be the case for every senior, but it is for her—by her own account. And I believe her.”

  Clare shivered, her jacket open against the cold air. “It’s my fault she got upset. I should never have asked her about the candle. I get curious and then I start asking questions that I have no business asking.”

  “That’s part of what makes you a good librarian. If you hadn’t mentioned the candle, I would have. It was an innocent mistake, if it even was a mistake. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “If she’d had a heart attack—”

  “She didn’t,” Logan said, trying to break through Clare’s self-recriminations. “And if she had, it still wouldn’t be your fault.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. “Sorry.” She breathed deeply, then exhaled slowly, obviously a practiced move. She opened her eyes again and smiled at him. “I’m not as accustomed to medical emergencies as you are.”

  He decided not to tell her that his grandmother hadn’t experienced a medical emergency. It obviously had looked worse to Clare. He touched her shoulder. “Okay now?”

  She nodded. “Nobody likes to scare the hell out of an old lady.”

  He laughed at her unexpected irreverent humor. “Gran would agree. She feels terrible she upset you.”

  “It’s not her fault!”

  “See how that works?”

  “Point taken,” Clare said, calmer. “I should see about Owen.”

  “They won’t let him run off, but Randy Frost might hunt you down.”

  “I noticed he looked daggers at you. Do you two have a history?”

  Logan pulled open the door, letting Clare walk in ahead of him. “Not one that I know of. He’s protective of you, isn’t he?”

  “He looks out for Owen and me. I don’t know if I’d call it protective. But what’s that got to do with the look he gave you?”

  “Mmm. What, indeed?”

  Her cheeks flushed red, and Logan grinned, realizing she had just figured out what, indeed? Had she been oblivious to his attraction to her until now? She shot ahead of him back inside, but she hesitated when she reached his grandmother’s apartment.

  He eased past her and went in first. His grandmother was dozing in her chair. “I’ll let her sleep,” he said. “I can come back later.”

  Clare stood next to him. “My grandmothers are both in their eighties. They’re such a presence in my life. You want to think they’re going to be there forever...” She trailed off. “We’re lucky to have them with us.”

  He leaned in close to her. “Now I really do want to kiss you,” he said in a low voice.

  She blinked at him. “What?”

  “Imagine the ruckus if I kiss you and Gran wakes up or Randy Frost walks in here. Not to mention Grace Webster. She’s been retired for thirty years, but I bet she can still rap knuckles with her ruler.”

  “Do you think she ever rapped knuckles?”

  Logan grinned. “No doubt in my mind.”

  He kissed Clare lightly on the top of her head—sort of like a friend, except not really. He could smell her hair, feel its softness. She entwined her fingers with his, just for a second, long enough to tell him that she didn’t object.

  “We should go before we start a scandal,” she whispered.

  Would that be such a bad thing? Logan thought, amused. He walked over to his grandmother and kissed her on the forehead. “See you soon.”

  “Good,” she said without opening her eyes.

  “Didn’t realize you were awake.”

  “And you a doctor.”

  But she was barely awake—just awake enough to let him know she was aware of the exchange between him and Clare. He might have been embarrassed if he thought his grandmother realized what he’d been thinking. Then again, she hadn’t lived eighty-plus years alone on Mars. She knew the score.

  Clare went out ahead of him. When he met her in the hall, she let out a breath and raked a hand through her pale hair. “You keep it up, Logan, and I’m not going to be able to live in this town. There will be rumors about us all over this place by nightfall. They won’t stay within these walls, either.”

  “Rumors? I did just kiss you, and you did just willingly grab my hand.”

  “I didn’t grab your hand. I...” She fumbled for the right word. “I got caught up in the moment.”

  “My point.”

  She sighed, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I’m going to be smart this time and not respond.”

  When they reached the sunroom, Owen was outside at the bird feeders with Randy Frost. Grace Webster was reading, and Audrey Frost was crocheting. “I can only look at birds and snow for so long without doing something,” she said.

  Randy popped his head in the door. “Why don’t I take Owen back to the mill with me? He wants to ride in my truck. Let you two finish decorating.”

  “Your truck?” Clare grimaced. “Is it safe for a six-year-old?”

  “I was a volunteer firefighter for thirty years. We’ll be okay.”

  She smiled. “Of course you will. Thank you.”

  Owen waved to her at the window. Randy chuckled. “He’s been pressing up against the glass and making faces at my mother. We’ll know what fingerprints are his. He’s the only kid here.” Randy seemed to enjoy having Owen to entertain. He turned back to Clare. “We’ll plan on giving him dinner at the house if you run late.”

  Logan didn’t detect any animosity in Randy’s tone, just a knowing look as Logan left with Clare. He had no inclination to disabuse Randy of his suspicions. He wouldn’t be surprised if most of them were true, anyway.

  Clare was quiet as they left the facility and went back outside and got into his car. “What’s on your mind, Clare Morgan?” Logan asked as he eased behind the wheel.

  “Nothing.”

  “Usually someone as quiet as you are right now has more than nothing on her mind.”

  “Owen...” She glanced back at the building where she’d left her son. “First skating with the Sloans, then lunch with them—then a nap because he was so worn out. Now off with Randy Frost.”

  “And?”

  “Owen won’t think I’m neglecting him, will he?”

  “He’ll think you’ve moved to a great little town.”

  “It’s been just the two of us for so long...” She smiled at him as he started the car. “I sometimes come up to the line of being an anxiety-driven and overprotective mother, especially
since our move, but I don’t often cross it.”

  “Depends where you draw the line. It’s easy to label people.”

  “Do people label you?”

  “I hope so.”

  She laughed. “You’re not serious.”

  “What kind of label would I have?”

  “Hard-driving, sexy ER doctor?”

  “That’s not bad. I could live with that.”

  “Hard-driving, sexy ER doctor who leaves a trail of broken hearts behind him?”

  He backed out of the parking space, very aware of her next to him. “I guess you could just add narcissistic cad of an ER doctor to the label.”

  “Then you’re not denying it,” she said.

  “I’m hard-driving, and I’m an emergency physician. I’m not denying that.” He shifted out of reverse into first gear. “It’s for others to decide if I’m sexy or a cad.”

  “Or both. A trail of broken hearts, though—that would be factual, wouldn’t it?”

  “If it were true, yes.”

  “It’s not?”

  “There’s no trail,” he said, easing his car onto the road back to town. “These days most of my friends are married or hooked up. But no complaints.” He decided a change in subject was in order. “I didn’t buy food for dinner. I can see what I can find at the country store, but I’m not up for finding my way around Gran’s kitchen. Every spoon and fork is tied to a memory. What if we have dinner at Knights Bridge village’s one restaurant?”

  “That sounds great,” Clare said. “So much for my leftover mac and cheese.”

  “We can work on blowing up people’s labels about us.”

  “By having a turkey club?”

  He smiled at her. “And here I was thinking you’d be dancing on the tables.”

  “Do you think librarians don’t dance on tables?”

  “I’m sure some librarians do, but the label says they don’t.”

  “You think I don’t,” she said.

  “Do you?”

  She laughed, watching out the passenger window as they wound their way into the village. “Not since that one time in college.”

  “I will definitely have to hear about that.”

  “Have you ever danced on tables—or have you only goaded other people into doing it?”