Yuletide Hearts

by Ruth Logan Herne

  “If they existed, no.”

  “And on that note…” She sent him a “let’s change the subject” look and quipped, “About the weather we’re having lately…”

  “Safe topic.”

  “Weather is what it is. Human relationships?” Callie flashed him a grin and shrugged. “Whole other box of tools.”

  The General stood, paced to the door and whined. “Jake, can you take The General out, please?”

  “Okay.”

  Once Jake had pulled on his thick hoodie and dashed outside with the dog, Callie nudged Matt for his attention.

  “Hmm?” He looked up, a pencil held tight in his teeth, his square positioned to mark the outside of the last wall cabinet on that side.

  Callie jerked her head toward the door. “You did a great job working with him.”

  Matt shook it off. “No big deal.”

  Callie hesitated, then waded in. “It was a big deal to Jake. He loves learning the trade. Trying his hand at things. And when we were working steady two years ago, he was too small to be much help but he longed to learn.” She settled a warm look on the work-in-progress kitchen. “This is what he’s been waiting for. A chance to try his hand at things. Be the apprentice. I just wanted to say thank you when he wasn’t around.”

  Her heartfelt words made Matt suck in a breath, and her sweet expression loosened a rusty internal clamp left over from his painful childhood. He glanced away, wondering how much to say, then shrugged, wondering where the shot of pain came from after all this time. He’d thought it erased, two decades of good negating one of bad.

  Obviously it didn’t work that way.

  “My grandfather taught me a lot of what I know,” he told her but didn’t meet her gaze. “He was a lot like your dad.

  Strong. Kind. Straight-shooting. And he loved God, heart and soul.”

  “You miss him.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Matt hauled in a breath, then swept the well-apportioned house a look of appreciation. “But mostly I want him proud. I want him watching me from heaven, knowing I stayed on the straight and narrow. Knowing I didn’t stray. That I listened to everything he said and carried it with me.”

  “He knows.”

  “You think?” Matt faced her, hands out.

  Callie smiled down at him, her look endearing. Engaging. “Oh, yes. I believe that utterly. When I’ve messed up, I can almost feel my mother’s arm around me, saying, ‘Well, then. Fix it.’”

  Matt smiled. “Exactly.” He hesitated, then waded into last night’s dinner dilemma. “You know that Don’s my stepfather.”

  Callie nodded as she applied the next screw. “Dad said as much. But that’s all he said. And I couldn’t wrestle information out of Buck either, so that’s all I know.”

  “Neal Brennan was my father.”

  Callie stopped working and turned full about. “Jeff’s father?”

  “And Meredith’s. Yes.”

  “Meredith was a year ahead of me in school,” Callie mused. “Beautiful. Polished. Cheerleader. I didn’t know her, but a part of me would have loved to be just like her.”

  “Kids hide a lot under an illusion of success.”

  “Did you?”

  He snorted. “Not hardly. I went the other way.”

  Her expression said “Tell me more,” but he wasn’t about to spill everything here and now, when Jake would rejoin them at any moment.

  “So Don married your mother…”

  “If only it was that easy.” Matt finished leveling the last cabinets, face forward. “My mother cheated on Don. She was a waitress, Neal was a customer. A rich customer. I was the result. No one knew until Neal made it public knowledge when I was eight years old. Don walked out, started drinking, and I never heard from him again. My mother began entertaining guy after guy, never happy. Never content. She died during my first tour in Iraq.”

  “Oh, Matt.” Callie touched his arm, sympathetic. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah, well.” He shrugged one shoulder, and changed the subject, feeling like he’d shared enough darkness to shadow a blessed holiday. “We’re good here.”

  Jake burst back through the door, scrubbing his hands together, the dog trotting alongside. “It got cold out there.”

  Matt knew that. And working in a house all day with no heat wasn’t exactly comfortable, even with their layers. “One more cabinet and we’ll call it a day. I’ve got to grab a few things at the lumber yard in the morning, so I’ll head over first thing. They open at six.”

  “It’s Black Friday,” Callie reminded him.

  He’d forgotten that.

  “Most of the craziness will be at the big stores and the shopping areas in Olean, but…” she let her voice taper and shifted a brow up, “the lumber yard had an ad in today’s paper, so they’ll be busy.”

  He should have made the run yesterday, but he didn’t and he hated standing in line. “Shop-a-phobic?”

  He grunted. “Not when there’s a point to it. But Black Friday?”

  “Want me to go instead?” she asked as she applied the last two mounting screws.

  Matt shook his head as he and Jake gathered tools. “No. My bad. And if they have a quick lane open, I’ll still be able to get in and out.”

  Callie’s doubtful look said that wasn’t going to happen, but Matt could hope, right?

  “This is amazing, Hank.” Matt walked into the dining area a short while later and swallowed a lumber-sized lump in his throat, the laden table set for four. “What can I do to help?”

  Hank beamed. “Have a seat. We’re all set except for mashing the potatoes and saying grace. Only thing is, Callie doesn’t let me get away with quick grace on Thanksgiving, so I might hold off and do the potatoes after we pray.”

  “Funny, Dad.”

  Hank grinned her way, his pride and affection for Callie and Jake obvious, and as they finished drying their hands and settled in at the festive table, one of Matt’s heart clamps loosened a little bit more.

  He fit at this table. With this family.

  He didn’t dare make too much of that. He comprehended the darkness of past sins.

  But it felt good to be here. Real good. And Matt hadn’t sat at a family table to have a holiday dinner in fifteen years, so this…

  Oh, this was nice.

  They joined hands, heads bowed as Hank said the blessing, and while slightly longer than his usual, it wasn’t overdone to the point of cold potatoes.

  “You were right.” Callie sent Matt a look of unsurpassed happiness a few minutes later. “This turkey is magnificent.”

  He grinned. “Told you so.”

  “Son, I haven’t had a bird taste this good in a long time,” Hank confessed. “We always buy the frozen ones they sell cheap in November. This—” he speared a piece of white meat and held it aloft “—reminds me of turkeys we had when I was a boy, when my parents would go to the farm and pick theirs out.”

  “Free range. Some mighty good eating right there.”

  “And even though I’m eating a feast,” Callie confessed, “I’m already envisioning turkey sandwiches with cranberry sauce. Turkey and biscuits. Turkey and rice.”

  “And pie,” Matt added with enthusiasm.

  His tone of appreciation made her flush. “Now the pressure’s on. What if they’re not good?”

  “They’ll be wonderful.”

  “You used your mama’s crust recipe, and crust makes the pie,” Hank declared. “Now, Jake, if you’ll hand me that dish of sweet potatoes, I think I’ve cleared a corner on this plate of mine.”

  Jake laughed and passed the bowl left, his eagerness for food warding off the urge to converse, unusual for Jake. But Matt understood the boy’s attentiveness to a meal like this, and couldn’t deny he felt the same way.

  Warm. Fed. A place to belong.

  Guilt niggled him out of nowhere.

  Where was Don tonight? Did he catch Thanksgiving dinner with a friend? Or had this been his only option and Matt ruined it by
being there?

  Sizing up the amount of food they had, the twinge of guilt grew. There’d have been plenty of food for Don and leftovers.

  Did he want his former stepfather hanging around?

  No.

  But that gut feeling went against the grain of faith. Matt knew better. And if his original reason to work in southern Allegheny County was to mend old fences, he could have started with Don.

  “Matt, you okay?” Jake asked when he’d been quiet too long.

  “I’m fine, bud. Just thinking of how wonderful this is. How blessed I am to be here.”

  Hank met his look across the table. Read his mind. Matt saw it in a tiny flash of satisfaction that crinkled Hank’s gaze.

  He’d messed up by leaving Don out of this equation. But because Don was staying in town for the winter, Matt could find some way to fix it.

  Add it to the list, his conscience scoffed. And that list is getting a little long, don’t you think?

  It was, but Thanksgiving night was a time for rejoicing. Eating pie. Watching football and the first Christmas specials.

  “More stuffing, Matt?”

  Callie offered the green-glazed bowl full of the most delicious stuffing he’d ever tasted, the bowl’s color contrasting with the lighter green of her eyes. “Yes, please. It’s the best I’ve ever had, Callie.”

  Gladness brightened her features, but she angled him a warning look, sassy and spritely, total Callie. “Don’t get used to it. I’d rather build, remember?”

  “I won’t likely forget. Nor would you let me.”

  But right then the thought of building together, eating together, grabbing frozen food together…

  That seemed too good to be true, but for tonight, this night, he’d relax and enjoy the moment.

  Chapter Ten

  “Cavanaugh.”

  Matt cringed inside the next morning. Outwardly, he showed no emotion as Finch McGee sauntered his way, the lumber yard registers doing a brisk Black Friday business. “Mr. McGee. Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”

  McGee’s glare contradicted his positive reply. “Fine.” He scanned the box of hardware Matt held, the bite in his look unbecoming. “Not taking time off?”

  “Time is money.”

  “It is.” McGee drew closer. Too close. Matt resisted the urge to step back, the people behind him too close to allow room, and not wanting to give Finch the satisfaction of knowing he crowded him. But he also didn’t want to pick a fight with the building inspector.

  “And you know I’m watching you, right?”

  Matt fought a sigh. McGee’s attitude was growing tedious. And unless he missed his guess, the faint scent of hops meant Finch hadn’t gone to bed sober last night. Great. “Any advice I get on finishing those homes is welcome.”

  “Oh, I’m not advising you.” Finch leaned in closer, the rising volume of his voice drawing glances from nearby shoppers, strains of Christmas music blotted out by the building inspector’s mounting tirade. “I’m hounding you. Watching. Waiting. Wondering when you’re going to screw up again because I know you will. Your kind always does.”

  Should he set the hardware down and leave quietly, avoiding a scene?

  The combined attention of the cashiers flanking them and the people in line said it was too late for that.

  Change of subject?

  One look at Finch’s bloodshot eyes negated that option.

  He’d punt the ball, figuratively. “Mr. McGee, what do you think of Councilman Gilroody’s suggestion requiring all new housing to have metal roofs?”

  McGee stepped back, confused.

  Perfect.

  “The one-time expense drives initial prices up,” Matt continued as he moved closer to checking out and a much-needed escape, “but the home’s value stays steady and gives banks less reason to refuse a mortgage, so the long-run offering is substantial.”

  “Gilroody’s a good man.”

  Matt knew that. And the quick change of subject had gotten him to the cash register, so mission complete. “And the extended life warranty on those roofs is attractive.”

  Finch gathered his thoughts just long enough for the young woman to ring up Matt’s purchases. He smiled at her, accepted the bag of hardware needed to finish off the kitchen in the Cape, then turned toward the door. “Remember, Cavanaugh.”

  Matt headed out, saying nothing, unwilling to feed the other man’s hungover angst.

  Maybe Finch had a drinking problem. From the look of him, he shouldn’t have been driving, and Matt could attest that he shouldn’t have been talking either, his posture and words drawing attention from a crowd.

  It was foolish behavior for a town official, but in Matt’s experience, even a little power could turn a man’s head. But Finch was in a position to cost Matt two things he couldn’t afford to waste: money and time.

  He needed Phase One complete before he requested Colby as his inspector. That good faith initiative went far in town government, and Matt was determined to make the grade, but Finch’s attitude said this was far from over, and that didn’t bode well.

  He paused as he backed up the truck. He could return to Cobbled Creek and think about offering Don a job or he could man up and do it.

  The clock told him it was early, but construction crews weren’t much for sleeping in and Matt had looked up Don’s address the night before. He had an apartment in Wellsville, five minutes from the lumber store.

  Jesus had seized every opportunity to bring his lambs home. He’d gone hungry and thirsty to teach. He’d supped with sinners regularly, pressing the message that all were welcome at God’s table.

  Doing less felt wrong because it was wrong. Matt shoved the truck into drive and headed into Wellsville, hoping Don was awake. And sober.

  “Matt?” Don scrubbed a hand to a lightly whiskered face and squinted at him in the doorway. “What are you doing here?”

  “May I come in?”

  “Sure.” Don pushed the door open wider and let Matt into a threadbare apartment that smelled like coffee. “Want some coffee?”

  “Please.”

  Don led him into the galley kitchen and filled two chipped mugs. “Got milk here.”

  “Black’s fine.”

  “Sugar?”

  Matt shook his head and figured they’d pretty much exhausted small talk. “You said you needed a job.”

  Don flushed, tentative. “I’m doing fine, actually. I’ve got some things lined up in Florida…”

  “Except you’re not going to Florida.”

  Don frowned. “Hank told you, huh?”

  “Look, Don.” Matt sat down in one of the two available chairs and pretended to be at ease. “I need a good drywall seamer. Hank says you’re the best around.”

  “He’s right.”

  “You’ve got to have steady hands to run seam.”

  “That’s your way of saying no drinking.” Don paused, glanced around, then met Matt’s gaze. “I don’t drink anymore, although there are days I want to. And the more I sit around, the harder that seems, but I don’t want a job out of pity.” He shifted forward, his gaze intent. “I did you wrong, Matt. I got mad at your mother for living a lie and I walked out, thinking biology made a man a father.”

  Matt gripped his coffee cup, unwilling to interrupt.

  “I tossed eight years of loving you, being your dad, being so proud I could bust, into the trash over a cheating woman. It was a shameful thing to do. Between your mother and me, we did a lousy number on you and you ended up hanging with the wrong crowd, getting into all kinds of trouble. Considering that,” Don hunched forward, his eyes clear, his expression guarded, “why would you offer me a job?”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do.” Matt leaned forward as well, but not as far.

  Regret shadowed Don’s his features.

  “I messed up big time,” Matt continued. “But that was my fault as much as anybody’s. I didn’t hang with the wrong crowd, Don. I was the wrong crowd.” He took one last lo
ng swig of coffee and stood. “I’m not good at all this talking stuff.”

  “Me neither.”

  “I need a seamer. I’d like us to get along. I can’t have drinking around me, but if you’re comfortable with that, I’d like to have you on board while the others work on sealing the remaining houses before the weather gets worse.”

  “Snow’s forecast for next week.”

  “Which gives me just enough time if all goes well.”

  Don stretched out a hand, not a tremor in sight. “I’m in. And thank you, Matt.”

  A simple handshake between two construction guys. Why did it feel like so much more? “Head over once you’re ready. I’ll be in the model.”

  “Callie’s house.”

  Don’s easy remark made the words more real. The model reflected Callie in so many ways. Strong. Beautiful. Attentive to detail.

  The idea of selling it made Matt feel guilty, but that was silly. She and Hank had designed the house with no intention of living there. Why should he feel bad?

  He climbed into the truck and stared at his phone, knowing Sunday loomed two days away. And Sunday meant church. And Katie, if he went to the White Church at the Bend again.

  So he wouldn’t. Why would he intentionally encroach on her life? So what that he felt at home the minute he walked in the door. That he eyed the structural problems of the old building, wondering what he could do to help.

  He took Route 19 North and hung a right toward Jamison, taking the shortcut back to Cobbled Creek. As he followed the Park Round curve, Simon MacDaniel waved from the driveway of the church.

  Matt slowed the truck and rolled down the window. “Hey, Si. What’s up?”

  Si pulled a worn but thick hoodie closer and grimaced. “I can’t believe I’m hoping for snow, but this rain is wreaking havoc with our roof.”

  Matt thrust his chin toward the church and nodded. “I noticed that. And your interior damage will spread if it doesn’t get fixed.”

  “And money’s nonexistent with so many of the congregation heading south this time of year,” Si told him. “We’ve gotten a couple of decent bequests and memoriam donations, but roofing is crazy expensive. We were hoping to hold off until next summer, but I don’t think we can.”