by Lisa Kleypas
Maggie went to the child and pulled her close. “Guess who I brought?” she asked against the light tangled banners of Holly’s hair.
“Renfield!” the girl exclaimed.
Recognizing his name, the bulldog readily approached the sofa with his bulging eyes and perpetual grimace. Holly regarded him doubtfully, shrinking back as he put his front paws on the edge of the sofa and stood on his hind legs. “He’s funny-looking,” she whispered to Maggie.
“Yes, but he doesn’t know it. He thinks he’s gorgeous.”
Holly chuckled, and leaned forward to pet him tentatively.
Sighing, Renfield rested his huge head against her and closed his eyes in contentment.
“He loves attention,” Maggie told Holly, who began to croon and baby-talk to the adoring bulldog. Maggie grinned and kissed Holly’s head. “I have to go now. Thanks for babysitting him today, Holly. When I come back to pick him up later, I’ll bring you a surprise from the toy shop.”
Mark watched from the doorway, his gaze warm and thoughtful. “Want some breakfast?” he asked. “We’ve got eggs and toast.”
“Thanks, but I already had cereal.”
“Have some Jell-O,” Holly exclaimed. “Uncle Mark made three colors. He gave me some and said it was a bowl of rainbow.”
“Really?” Maggie gave Mark a wondering smile. “It’s nice to hear that your uncle uses his imagination.”
“You have no idea,” Mark said. He walked Maggie to the front door and gave her the tall thermos filled with coffee. Maggie was troubled by the cozy domestic feeling that had swept over her. The dog, the child, the man in a flannel shirt, even the house, a Victorian fixer-upper…it was all perfect.
“It doesn’t seem like a fair trade,” she said. “Special coffee, for a day with Renfield.”
“If it means I get to see you twice in one day,” Mark replied, “I’ll take that deal any time.”
Eleven
In the two weeks that followed, Maggie found herself seeing more and more of Mark Nolan. To her relief, it seemed that he had accepted that she was only interested in friendship. He frequently dropped by the toy shop with the thermos of coffee, and he also brought treats from a local bakery: crisp chocolate croissants, apricot pinwheels, sugared pastry sticks in white paper sacks. Now and then he coaxed Maggie to have lunch with him, once at Market Chef, and another time at a wine bar, where they lingered until Maggie realized that nearly two hours had gone by.
She was never able to turn down his invitations because she couldn’t point to one instance in which Mark had put a move on her. In fact, he had done everything possible to allay Maggie’s worries. There were no kisses or suggestive comments, nothing that indicated that he was interested in anything beyond friendship.
Mark had gone to Seattle to break up with Shelby, who had apparently taken it as well as could have been expected. When he told Maggie about it afterward, he didn’t go into detail, but his relief was obvious. “No tears, screaming, or drama,” he said. After a perfectly timed pause, he added, “Not from Shelby, either.”
“You’re still in the backslide window,” Maggie said. “There’s still a chance you may get back together with her.”
“There’s no backslide window.”
“You never know. Have you already deleted her number from your phone?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you returned all the things she left at your house?”
“She never got the chance to leave anything. Sam and I have a rule: no sleepover guests while Holly’s in the house.”
“So when Shelby visited you on the island, where did you and she…”
“We stayed at a bed-and-breakfast.”
“Well,” she said, “I guess it really is over. Are you sure you’re not in denial? It’s normal to feel sad when you’ve lost something.”
“Nothing was lost. I’ve never thought of a failed relationship as a waste of time. You always learn something.”
“What did you learn from Shelby?” Maggie asked, fascinated.
Mark pondered the question carefully. “For a while I thought it was good that we never argued. Now I realize it meant we weren’t really connecting.”
Holly soon asked for another day with Renfield, and Maggie brought him to Rainshadow Vineyard again. As they approached the house, Maggie saw that a small removable ramp had been set over part of the front steps. The top-heavy dog padded up the ramp, finding it much easier than trying to navigate the tall, narrow steps. “Is that for Renfield’s benefit?” Maggie asked as Mark opened the door.
“The ramp? Yes. Did it work?”
“Perfectly.” She smiled appreciatively, realizing that Mark had noticed the dog’s previous difficulty with the steps, and had come up with a way to make it easier for him to go in and out of the house.
“You still trying to find a home for him?” Mark asked, holding the door as they entered the house. He bent to pet and scratch Renfield, who looked up at him with the grin of a medieval gargoyle, tongue dangling.
“Yes, but we’re not having much luck,” Maggie said. “He’s got too many problems. He’s probably going to need a hip replacement at some point, and there’s his underbite, and his eczema. It’s one thing to be high maintenance and cute, but high maintenance and looking like Renfield…no takers.”
“Actually, if it’s okay with you,” Mark said slowly, “we’d like to keep him.”
Maggie was stunned. “You mean on a permanent basis?”
“Yes. Why do you look so surprised?”
“He’s not your type of dog.”
“What’s my type of dog?”
“Well, a normal one. A Lab or a springer. One that could keep up with you when you go for a run.”
“I’ll put Renfield on wheels. Sam and Holly spent the previous afternoon teaching him how to skateboard.”
“He can’t go fishing with you—bulldogs can’t swim.”
“He can wear a life jacket.” Mark gave her a quizzical smile. “Why does it bother you that I want him?”
Renfield looked from Mark to Maggie and back again.
“It doesn’t bother me…I just don’t understand why you want him.”
“He’s good company. He’s quiet. Sam says he’s going to be great at keeping pests out of the vineyard. And most of all, Holly loves him.”
“He needs so much care. He’s got skin conditions. He needs a special diet, and special grooming products, and you’re going to have a lot of vet bills. I’m not sure you understand everything that’s ahead of you.”
“Whatever it is, I’ll deal with it.”
Maggie didn’t understand herself, the great swell of emotion that rolled through her. She lowered to her haunches and began to pet the dog, keeping her face averted. “Renfield, it looks like you’ve got a home now,” she said, her voice husky.
Mark knelt beside her and cupped his hand under her chin, and urged her to look at him. His blue-green eyes were warm and searching. “Hey,” he said softly. “What is it? Second thoughts about giving him away?”
“No. You’ve just surprised me, that’s all.”
“You didn’t think I could make a commitment even when there are obvious problems ahead?” His thumb stroked over her cheek. “I’m learning to take life as it comes. Having a dog like Renfield is going to be inconvenient, messy, and expensive. But most likely worth it. You were right—there is something noble about him. Ugly on the outside, but damned if he isn’t full of self-esteem. He’s a good dog.”
Maggie wanted to smile, but her chin quivered, and the flood of emotion was nearly overwhelming her again. “You’re a good man,” she managed to say. “I hope someday you’ll find someone who appreciates you.”
“I hope so, too.” The words were edged with a smile. “Can we get up off the floor now?”
When Mark asked what Maggie’s plans for Thanksgiving were, she told him that she had dinner with her parents in Bellingham every year. With the exception of the turkey, which her mothe
r made, the rest of the meal was a huge potluck, with everyone contributing their best side dishes and pies.
“If you want to stay on the island this year,” Mark said, “you could spend Thanksgiving with us.”
Maggie experienced that feeling when she caught herself reaching for something that she had already decided not to allow herself: the last cookie on the plate, the one glass of wine too many. Spending a holiday with Mark and Holly was too much involvement, too much closeness. “Thank you, but I’d better stick to tradition,” she said, forcing a quick smile. “My family’s counting on me to bring mac and cheese.”
“The mac and cheese?” Mark sounded forlorn. “Your grandmother’s recipe with the four kinds of cheese and the bread crumbs?”
“You remember all that?”
“How could I forget?” He gave her a yearning glance. “Are you bringing back any leftovers?”
Maggie began to laugh. “You are shameless. I’ll make an extra ramekin of mac and cheese for you. Would you like me to make a pie for you, too?”
“Would you?”
“What kind? Pumpkin…apple…pecan?”
“Surprise me,” he said, and stole a kiss from her, so fast that she had no time to react.
The day before Thanksgiving, Maggie picked up Holly from the house at Rainshadow Vineyard, and brought her to her bungalow.
“Am I invited, too?” Sam had asked before they left.
“No, it’s just for girls,” Holly had told him, giggling.
“What if I wear a wig? What if I talk in a really high voice?”
“Uncle Sam,” the child said cheerfully, “you’re the worst girl ever!”
“And you’re the best,” Sam said, kissing her noisily. “All right, you can go without me. But you’d better bring me back a big pie.”
Taking Holly to her house, Maggie put on some music, lit a fire in the fireplace, and tied one of her aprons around Holly. She showed Holly how to use an old-fashioned bell-shaped cheese grater, the kind with four sides. Although Maggie was going to use a food processor for most of the cheese, she wanted Holly to have the experience of grating some of it by hand. It was touching to see the child’s delight in kitchen tasks of measuring, stirring, tasting.
“Here are the different cheeses we’re going to use,” Maggie said. “Irish Cheddar, Parmesan, smoked Gouda, and Gruyère. After we grate all of this, we’re going to melt it with butter and hot milk….”
The air was filled with good smells, with heat and sweetness, and a whiff of flour dust. Having a child in the kitchen reminded Maggie what a miracle it was that a few basic ingredients could be combined and heated into something wonderful. They made enough mac and cheese to feed an army, and topped it with bread crumbs that had been lightly browned in a pan with butter. They made two pies—one with satiny pumpkin filling, one with plump pecans—and Maggie showed Holly how to crimp a pie crust. They cut the extra scraps of dough into shapes, sprinkled them with sugar and cinnamon, and baked them on cookie sheets.
“My mother calls those scrap cookies,” Maggie said.
Holly looked through the oven window at the pie-dough shapes. “Is your mother still alive?” she asked.
“Yes.” Maggie set aside the flour-coated rolling pin and went to Holly. Kneeling behind her, she put her arms around the child, and together they looked into the oven. “What kind of pies did your mother make?” she asked.
“I don’t think she made pies,” Holly said reflectively, “but she made cookies.”
“Chocolate chip?”
“Mmm-hmm. And snickerdoodles…”
It helped, Maggie knew, to be able to talk about those who were gone. It was good to remember. And they continued to talk as they baked, not in a long protracted conversation, but in little here-and-there sprinkles, the spice of memories mingling with the fragrance of warm pie crust.
When Maggie dropped Holly off in the evening, the child put her arms around her waist and held on for an extra-long hug.
Holly’s voice was muffled against Maggie’s front. “Are you sure you won’t have Thanksgiving with us tomorrow?”
Maggie’s tormented gaze went to Mark, who was standing nearby.
“She can’t, Holls,” he said gently. “Maggie’s family needs her to be there with them tomorrow.”
Except that she could, and they didn’t.
Guilt and worry began to crowd out the good feelings that had blossomed during the afternoon. As she looked from the top of Holly’s head to meet Mark’s vaguely sympathetic gaze, Maggie comprehended how easy it would be to fall in love with both of them. And how much she would have to lose then, more than she could ever survive. But if she could somehow keep from getting seriously involved, she wouldn’t have to risk having her heart broken beyond all hope of repair.
She patted Holly’s back and gently disentangled herself from the child’s enthusiastic grip. “I really have to go to Bellingham tomorrow,” she said briskly. “Bye, Holly. It was a fun day.” She bent and kissed the soft cheek, slightly flavored with cinnamon sugar.
On Thanksgiving morning, Maggie flat-ironed her hair, dressed in trouser jeans, booties, and a spice-colored sweater, and took the large foil-covered casserole dish out to her car.
Just as she began to back out of her driveway, her cell phone rang. Stopping the car, she fished around in her bag until she found the phone amid the clutter of receipts, lip-gloss tubes, and spare change.
“Hello?”
“Maggie?”
“Holly,” she said in instant concern. “How are you?”
“Great,” came the little girl’s cheerful reply. “Happy Thanksgiving!”
Maggie smiled, relaxing slightly. “Happy Thanksgiving. What are you up to?”
“I let Renfield outside to go to the bathroom, and then he came back in, and I put food in his bowl and gave him some water.”
“I can tell you’re taking good care of him.”
“But then Uncle Mark made both of us leave the kitchen while they cleared out the smoke.”
“Smoke?” Maggie’s smile faded. “Why was there smoke?”
“Uncle Sam was cooking. And then they called Uncle Alex and he’s taking the oven door off.”
Maggie frowned. Why in the world would Alex be removing the oven door? “Holly…where is Uncle Mark?”
“He’s looking for his safety goggles.”
“Why does he need safety goggles?”
“Because he’s helping Uncle Sam cook the turkey.”
“I see.” Maggie looked down at her watch. If she was fast, she had enough time to drop by Rainshadow Vineyard and still make the late-morning ferry to Anacortes. “Holly, I think I’m going to stop by your house before I go to the ferry terminal.”
“Great!” came the enthusiastic reply. “Except…maybe you shouldn’t say that I called you. Because that might get me in trouble.”
“I won’t mention that part,” Maggie assured her.
Before Holly could reply, a male voice in the background asked, “Holly, who are you talking to?”
Maggie said, “Tell him it’s an opinion poll.”
“A lady is doing an opinion poll,” she heard Holly say.
A brief muffled consultation, then Holly said importantly, “My uncle says we don’t have any opinions.” A pause, and a few more muffled words. “And,” Holly added severely, “we’re on the do-not-call list.”
Maggie grinned. “Well, I’ll just come over, then.”
“Okay. Bye!”
It was cold and a little blustery, the perfect weather for Thanksgiving because it brought to mind images of cozy fireplaces, a turkey in the oven, and watching the Macy’s parade on TV.
There was a BMW in the driveway, immaculate and sleek. The vehicle undoubtedly belonged to Alex, the Nolan brother she hadn’t met. Feeling a little like an intruder, but driven by concern, Maggie parked and went up the front steps.
Holly met her at the door, dressed in corduroy pants and a long-sleeved tee featuring a car
toon turkey. “Maggie!” the girl cried, bouncing up and down, and they hugged. Renfield came up to them, panting and wheezing happily.
“Where are your uncles?” Maggie asked.
“Uncle Alex is in the kitchen. Renfield and I are helping him. I don’t know where anybody else is.”
A distinct odor of scorched food tainted the air, becoming stronger as they went to the kitchen. A dark-haired man was in the middle of disassembling the front of the oven, a power drill in his hand and a ponderous tool box beside him.
Alex Nolan was a smoother, more polished version of his older brothers. His features were handsome but remote, his eyes the crystalline blue of glacier ice. Like Sam, his form was lean and elegant, not quite so broad in build as Mark’s. And his polo shirt and khakis, while casual, had the look of expensive garments.
“Hello,” he said. “Who is this, Holly?”
“This is Maggie.”
“Please, don’t get up,” Maggie said hastily, as he set aside the drill and made to stand. “Obviously you’re in the middle of…something. Can I ask what happened?”
“Sam put some food in the oven and accidentally pushed the self-cleaning cycle button instead of the bake button. The oven incinerated the food and automatically locked, so they couldn’t open the door and get the stuff out.”
“Usually an oven unlocks when the temperature lowers to five or six hundred degrees.”
Alex shook his head. “It’s cooled down, and the door still won’t open. It’s a new oven, and this is the first time the self-cleaning cycle’s ever been used. Apparently the locking mechanism is screwed up somehow, so I have to disassemble it.”
Before Maggie could ask another question, she was startled by a flare of light, then an explosive rush of flame beyond the back door accompanied by a billow of smoke. Instinctively Maggie turned to shield Holly, and ducked her head with a gasp. “My God. What was that?”
Alex was staring at the back door, his face expressionless. “My guess is, that was the turkey.”