A Knights Bridge Christmas

by Carla Neggers

  “It can be hard to know what’s best when someone you care about is in the sunset of their life. You wish...” Logan cut his waffles with his fork. “You wish you had more time and you know you don’t.”

  The three brothers were silent a moment. Finally Justin stabbed his home fries with his fork. “You must see all kinds of tragedies in your work. You have to know how to distance yourself in order to do your job. I’m glad I work with two-by-fours and nail guns.”

  “Always good to have a two-by-four at hand when dealing with a Sloan,” Christopher said with a grin. “Especially one of the first-borns.”

  Eric rolled his eyes. “So says the spoiled little brother. Speaking of younger brothers, I understand Brandon took Owen Morgan skating yesterday with his boys while Clare helped you decorate Daisy’s house.”

  “They seemed to have a good time,” Logan said, keeping his tone neutral.

  “Then they made snowmen together. Winter in a small town, right?” Eric lifted his coffee mug. “Owen’s got you and our new librarian paired up. He told Brandon. Thought you might want to know.”

  “Clare’s new in town,” Logan said. “Do you watch out for her, too?”

  Eric didn’t hesitate. “Count on it.”

  * * *

  After breakfast, Logan got in his car and immediately wished he’d just grabbed coffee and headed straight to Boston. The sky had turned blue, the air clear and sharp and not much warmer than when he’d left for Smith’s. Conversation with the Sloans had shifted to topics less fraught with emotional peril, such as who was doing horse-drawn sleigh and wagon rides for Christmas. Logan had never done either and had no plans to. But he didn’t tell the Sloans that. They’d gone from open suspicion bordering on hostility to grudging neutrality. He understood. He couldn’t do enough for his grandmother. No one could.

  He stopped to see her on his way out of town. She was in her apartment, sitting in her comfy chair, pencil in hand as she worked a large-print crossword puzzle. “What’s a six-letter word for sheep stew? No one says sheep stew. Lamb stew, but it’s four letters. I’ve never liked lamb.”

  “Do you want me to tell you if I know?”

  “Yes, why do you think I asked? I have a whole book of puzzles. Hundreds of words I need to think up. I’m not a slacker if I get help with one.”

  Logan smiled. “Mutton.”

  “Ah. Of course. Ugh, though. I had mutton in Ireland. I hated it.”

  “When did you go to Ireland?”

  “I went with your grandfather—oh, I don’t remember the exact year. It was after your father graduated from college, because we didn’t have two nickels to put together until then. Tom’s people came to the Swift River Valley from Northern Ireland in the eighteenth century. We visited it and the republic. We had the best time.”

  “Good memories, Gran.”

  “We could have spent the money on a new kitchen. I’m glad we didn’t. I’d rather have the memories.” She pointed her pencil at him. “Except for the mutton.”

  “Gran...”

  “Hold on. Let me write mutton before I forget.”

  He waited. She had the most energy and was most alert in the morning and planned accordingly. Once she finished writing her word in the appropriate spaces, she put her pencil on top of the crossword puzzle on her lap and looked at him expectantly.

  “I have to go,” he said. “I have to be at the hospital in a couple of hours.”

  “Oh, my goodness. Was there a bus accident or something? Not a shooting, I hope.”

  “There’s no mass casualty incident, Gran. It’s normal scheduling issues. I’m sorry I have to run, but I’ll get back here as soon as I can. It’s not far. I’ll call you.”

  She narrowed her aged eyes on him. “Do not feel guilty, Logan Farrell. I’m fine.”

  “Clare Morgan and I got a good start on the house. Her son thinks we should put up a Christmas tree. It would be a nice touch to have a tree lit up in a window. We could even put one up on the porch.”

  “Whatever you decide will be perfect.”

  He kissed her on the top of her head. “You’re the best, Gran. Call me if you need anything.”

  “I think I’ll like taking yoga. I wasn’t sure I would. I was just humoring Audrey Frost. Do you think I’m up for regular classes?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I suppose it’ll be all right. I can’t imagine they’d have us do headstands.”

  He laughed. “Listen to your body and your doctor.”

  “And here I am sniffing at ninety.”

  Logan left her contemplating her yoga classes and returning to her crossword puzzle.

  He hated getting back in his car, but he knew he had to. As he wound his way out of town, he wondered what Clare and her son were doing this morning. Making pancakes? Sleeping late?

  When he hit the highway east to Boston, Logan forced them to the back of his mind.

  Two and a half hours later, when he walked into the emergency department, he was focused on his job and nothing else.

  A Recipe for Oat Waffles

  Who doesn’t like waffles on a cold winter morning? Made with traditional rolled oats, these waffles are both hearty and light. Making maple syrup is one of the early signs of spring in New England, but waffles with homemade strawberry or blackberry preserves are also irresistible. There’s nothing like opening a jar of homemade blackberry jam on a cold winter morning. It tastes like summer.

  3 tablespoons butter

  1¼ cups all-purpose flour

  1¼ cups water

  ¾ cup rolled oats

  1 tablespoon sugar

  ½ teaspoon baking soda

  1½ teaspoons baking powder

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  1 to 1¼ cups buttermilk

  2 eggs

  Combine oats and water in a saucepan and simmer for about 3 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add butter, stirring until it melts. Sift together remaining dry ingredients and set aside. In a separate bowl, beat lightly together eggs and buttermilk, then stir in oatmeal and butter mixture. Add dry ingredients just until blended.

  Preheat waffle iron and use about ¾ cup batter per 8-inch waffle. Makes four. Serve with butter and pure maple syrup or your favorite preserves.

  Seven

  “You have never seen the like of me before!” exclaimed the Spirit.

  —Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

  WHEN CLARE ARRIVED at Daisy Farrell’s house, she had mentally arranged the window boxes on the front porch and knew more or less what she wanted to do. She had enlisted Owen’s help snipping boughs from a huge white pine that stood on the corner of the parking lot at Frost Millworks. She planned to use them in the boxes, and she’d found ribbons in her gift-packing materials that she could try out to see what worked best.

  As she mounted the porch steps, she admitted to a flutter in her stomach at the thought of seeing Logan again. Her dreams last night hadn’t helped. She didn’t even want to think about the details with Owen behind her, trotting innocently onto the porch. She didn’t see Logan’s car but assumed he was off doing errands.

  Eric Sloan walked by in his police uniform and called a hello to her and Owen. “Working on the place on your own today?” he asked her.

  She shook her head. “We’re meeting Logan.”

  “He must not have been able to reach you—he had to go to Boston. He was called in to the ER at the last minute. It happens.”

  “Right. Of course. It’s no big deal. Owen and I can do up the window boxes on our own.”

  Her feigned cheerfulness didn’t seem to convince Eric. “The place looks good,” he said. “Daisy will be pleased.”

  “I hope so. Thanks for stopping by.”

  “No problem.”

  Clare waited until he was out of sight before she checked her phone, but she didn’t have a voice mail or text from Logan. She couldn’t remember if she’d given him her email address, but there was no email from him, either.

 
She had his contact information and debated calling or texting him, but if he was at work...

  And he’d left without getting in touch with her, hadn’t he?

  She put her phone back in her pocket, regretting letting herself get excited about seeing him. What had she been thinking, getting ahead of herself like that? She knew better. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t familiar with his type.

  Logan Farrell took care of Logan Farrell.

  “Let’s unload the car,” she told Owen. “It’s cold out but we’re dressed for the weather. We can make quick work of the window boxes.”

  “Can we have hot chocolate again?” her son asked.

  “We can have lunch at Smith’s. They’ll have hot chocolate.”

  “Logan can come, too.”

  “Logan isn’t here.” She heard the sharpness in her voice and forced herself to soften it as she continued. “He’s a busy doctor in Boston. Come on. Let’s keep moving so we don’t turn into Popsicles.”

  Owen giggled at the idea of them turning into Popsicles. They ran back down the steps and out to her car. She handed him the small bag of ribbons to carry and grabbed the pine boughs for herself.

  “Look,” he said when they reached the front porch. “There’s a present.”

  Clare hadn’t noticed the small box on the doormat before. “That’s nice, Owen, but it’s not for us.”

  “It is. Look. That’s my name. O-w-e-n.”

  She set the boughs on the floor next to the front door. Sure enough, a small envelope attached to the box was addressed to “Clare & Owen.” Owen’s name was printed. Hers was a nearly illegible scrawl. She pulled off her gloves and opened the envelope.

  Inside was a handwritten note on lined paper out of a tablet she’d noticed yesterday in Daisy’s kitchen. The note had obviously been jotted in haste, in the same scrawl as her name:

  Clare, my apologies. I have to run. Work calls. I’d have called you but it was early and I didn’t want to disturb you. I was looking forward to today. Door is unlocked. I figure it’s safe. Help yourself to Gran’s books and feel free to do whatever decorating you want to do. My best to Owen.

  Logan

  Owen was ripping open the box. Inside was an old-fashioned snow globe with a scene of Santa and his elves at the North Pole. Logan must have found it in the decorations. Owen shook it, and snow fell on the quaint scene. He’d never seen one before and was transfixed.

  “That’s from Logan,” Clare said.

  “It’s so cool.”

  She felt like a heel for having jumped to conclusions. She pushed open the front door, and she and Owen went inside. The house was reasonably warm. Logan must not have turned the heat down when he left. Owen beelined for the kitchen, where the owner’s grandson had set out the tin of Dutch cocoa and a clean saucepan on the counter. Clare was careful about too much sugar, but it was a cold morning.

  It wouldn’t be the day she’d planned, but she’d make it a good one.

  * * *

  By early afternoon, Clare had finished rearranging the window boxes to her satisfaction, and Owen was bored. She’d save sorting through more of Daisy’s boxes of books for when he wasn’t with her. She and Owen settled into the kitchen, where she made hot chocolate, trying to picture Tom and Daisy Farrell’s life here. Had they ever wanted to live anywhere else? Had it even been possible?

  Clare ran her fingertips over the worn counter. The old house was a gem, but it did need a significant amount of work. She let herself imagine being in charge of renovations. What would she do? What colors would she use—what style would she go with for new furnishings? It would be fun to live in town. She could walk to work and Owen could walk to school and to visit his friends.

  A cold draft brought her out of her thoughts.

  The back door was cracked open. How had that happened? The wind? But it was a still day, almost no wind to speak of.

  Old houses, she thought.

  “Okay, Owen, time to head home,” she said, turning from the counter. She expected to find him at the table, but he wasn’t there. She went into the dining room, figuring he was checking for more treasures among Daisy’s things.

  He wasn’t there, either.

  Clare felt her heart jolt. “Owen!” she yelled, remembering the draft.

  She ran back into the kitchen and out through the back door onto the landing, hitting an icy patch. She stopped abruptly, spotting her son on the walk that led across the yard to the driveway and unattached garage.

  He grinned at her, the picture of innocence. “Hi, Mom.”

  She tried to calm her heart rate. “Owen, what are you doing out here?”

  “I’m leaving bread for the birds.”

  Sure enough, he’d crumbled and scattered bread crumbs on the walk. Clare didn’t see any birds, but something would find the crumbs before long. Owen had on his boots and his hat, but no gloves and, worse, no coat.

  “That’s great,” she said, “but you need to wear a coat when it’s this cold.”

  “I’m coming right back in.”

  “And you need to tell me when you’re going outside.”

  He blinked at her. “Didn’t you see me?”

  “No, I didn’t. You can’t count on that. You need to ask permission.”

  “When I’m bigger can I go outside without asking?”

  She relaxed, trying not to look as if she’d panicked. “Yes, but it’s always good to let people know where you are. Logan couldn’t be here today, and he left us a note. That was his way of letting us know. Because you’re six, it’s a matter of safety, but it’s also good manners.”

  “Okay. What kind of birds will eat the bread?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll see some while we pack up. Birds probably won’t come with us standing here. I’m getting cold.”

  He smiled. “Me, too.”

  They went back inside. Clare engaged Owen’s help to clean up the kitchen. He was clearly preoccupied with his crumbs for the birds. “Let’s put our coats on,” she said. “We can go out front and take pictures of our window boxes.”

  “Can we send them to Logan?”

  She’d been thinking more along the lines of showing them to Daisy Farrell on her next trip out to Rivendell. But Owen looked so eager. “Sure. I have his number.”

  They bundled up and went back out to the front porch. She took a few shots of their handiwork and let Owen take a few, and he picked out the two best ones to send to Logan. Clare took a moment to formulate her text. She felt ridiculously self-conscious. She was a professional librarian accustomed to dealing with all sorts of people under every manner of circumstance, if not this particular person and this particular circumstance.

  Finally she typed a quick message. Owen is very proud of our boxes.

  She didn’t expect an immediate answer, or an answer at all, particularly since Logan was at the ER. But he answered before she could put her phone back in her pocket: Perfect. Tell Owen thanks.

  I will. Thank you for the snow globe.

  Sorry I’m not there.

  Me, too.

  Clare hit send before she realized what she’d typed. She turned off her phone to keep from embarrassing herself further. Surely Logan was too busy to respond.

  It was the adrenaline dump from Owen’s escapade, she told herself. She wasn’t thinking before she acted.

  “Mom, your face is red,” Owen said.

  “It’s this cold weather. Let’s go home and laze around the house. How does that sound? We can do laundry and get ready for school tomorrow.”

  He had to check on his bread crumbs first. They were still scattered on the walk in the cold. Clare assured him they would be gone before he returned, which he vowed to do tomorrow after school.

  “Not alone,” Clare said.

  “You can come with me. Right, Mom?”

  She smiled. “Absolutely.”

  When they arrived at their sawmill apartment, Louise Frost came down from the Frost mill and met them at the entrance. Wa
ter rushed over the dam, but more ice had formed with the colder temperatures. “I love the sound of water,” Louise said. “It’s soothing. Some say that being close to water is good for the spirits. Ions or something.”

  “Really? That doesn’t surprise me. I wish I could open the windows and listen to the water at night.”

  “That’s one of the perks of being here in summer. I can feel the cold rising up from the water. A good day for soup. Randy and I spent the afternoon cooking after we got back from church. We made chicken-and-vegetable soup. We put some aside and thought you and Owen might like it.” She held up a large glass Mason jar. “Soup was always a good way to get my girls to eat vegetables.”

  “Thank you so much,” Clare said. “Owen and I both love soup.”

  Louise nodded up toward the Frost mill. “I was in my office just now working on travel plans. It’s not work-work. Randy and I are going to Europe this spring. I swear planning’s half the fun. Have you ever been?”

  “I did a semester in Paris in college.”

  “Oh, my. That sounds wonderful. For a long time, I was afraid to travel. I didn’t want to drive to the airport never mind get on a plane. It got so I didn’t want to leave town. Just thinking about it set off a panic attack. And my daughters...” She shuddered. “I must have driven them crazy with my anxiety. It was bad, but I rationalized it. My family and friends indulged me. Everyone walked on eggshells to keep me from flipping out.”

  “I’m so glad you’re doing well now,” Clare said.

  “Me, too. I still have to work at it. At least I’ve stopped blaming myself. Randy told me he mentioned the girls’ car accident to you. I was always prone to anxiety, but after that—well, it got worse and worse and blossomed into a full-blown anxiety disorder. Therapy and medication helped. I’m done with both. Clare, you know what I’m saying, don’t you?”

  “Get help if I need it.”

  She nodded. “You don’t have to suffer and you don’t have to let anxiety spiral out of control. You can control it instead of it controlling you. A year ago I wouldn’t drive to Worcester. Now I’m booking flights to Amsterdam. They say Schiphol’s a great airport for first-time travelers to Europe. Great location, well run, everything is in English and everyone speaks English—although I’ve bought a Dutch-English dictionary. I think my pronunciation must be awful, though.” She smiled, then tapped a finger onto the lid of the Mason jar in Clare’s arms. “It’s good with biscuits or corn muffins.”