A Cozy Country Christmas Anthology

by Melange Books, LLC

  Still struggling with her emotions, she attempted to hide her surprise. “Not yet, Ham. It’s only six o’clock.”

  The sun seams shaped Ham’s face into a walnut shell. It seemed apparent that the meal’s tension hadn’t escaped his notice; he clearly felt under pressure to provide some form of entertainment. “Ain’t much to do after supper. We could listen to the ball game on the radio...get an ice cream...play poker?”

  “I vote for ice cream.” Rob already stood near the screen door, looking outside as if longing to escape.

  “How about you, darlin’?” Ham turned to her, his smile anxious.

  “Ready for ice cream!” Dorothy infused enthusiasm into her voice but she didn’t want to go anywhere. She wanted to remain in close proximity with Rob, hoping to push him into betraying the anger underlying his polite smiles, opening doors for her, passing a slice of pizza. But she couldn’t put Ham in the middle. Her mission this weekend seemed doomed to failure.

  Hooper’s Ice Cream Emporium featured high stools lined up before an old fashioned soda fountain that would probably cost a fortune to recreate for a movie set. Dorothy studied the chalkboard tacked up behind the fountain. A weekend special named “The Northern Lights” featured scoops of orange and green sherbet.

  Ham introduced them to the other customers with pride as “my grandson, the doc, and his better half, Dorothy.”

  Dorothy’s tummy had settled down but her back continued to ache. Since they were up north, she ordered the weekend special. Perched on a stool, she massaged sore muscles while studying the bay window fronting on Main Street. Spinning back to the counter, she touched the napkin dispenser, marring its shiny silver surface with a print of her index finger.

  Their desserts arrived in moments and she closed her eyes as a spoonful of the blessed coolness melted on her tongue. Ham, who’d chosen a chocolate strawberry cone, was too busy licking for conversation. Rob had turned on his stool to chat with an elderly couple at a nearby table, bending to scratch their equally ancient cocker spaniel behind the ears as the dog lapped with concentration at a dish of vanilla ice cream.

  The enormous wooden blades of an overhead fan provided a background hum as they sliced through the hot evening air. She felt as if she’d stepped into a colorized movie classic, where the tinkle of the bell over the door might signal the arrival of a young Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland dropping by for a malted milk.

  Dorothy became acutely aware of the cracked leather of the stool as it chafed the backs of her legs, the sherbet melting into a muddle in the bottom of her cup and Rob’s studied avoidance. He seemed comfortable here, as he’d never appeared in her world. She realized with a twinge of nausea that she’d never tried to live in his.

  In contrast to her growing misery, her husband grew boisterous, harpooning Ham by blowing the paper wrapper off his straw and contributing an entry to the tall tale contest in session at the counter.

  The winner of the contest, an unshaven man in overalls, was awarded a free refill of his milkshake. He repeated the story for the benefit of each newcomer. “No placee can beat this town for heat. Last night, Elsie had a craving for a snack. I went out to the popcorn patch, peeled back a couple husks, and filled a bowl with already popped kernels.”

  Ham punctuated the latest burst of laughter by sliding off his stool. “Got to get these young folks to home. Need their rest, being plum tuckered out from that fast city livin’.”

  On the stroll back to the house, Ham offered Dorothy his bed. A vision of the army cot she’d glimpsed earlier in the bedroom lent conviction to her refusal, which he accepted with ill-concealed relief.

  “But you’re my guests.” His smile wavered. “I’m an old fool, never thought about where you’d lay your heads—”

  “I’ll handle the sleeping arrangements,” Rob said, his voice firm. “Don’t worry, Ham, we’ll be fine.”

  Overhead, stars winked in the evening sky while the sounds of their footsteps punctuated desultory conversation until they arrived back at Ham’s house.

  Dorothy took up her host’s earlier offer and soaked as much of her weary body as was possible in the tiny bathtub, tracing the hard water lines on its porcelain sides with her fingertip. Closing her eyes, she visualized the snatched, sweet moments when they’d made love while Rob was on the medical school treadmill, interludes that had dwindled into rare physical intimacy. By her continued insistence that she be placed first, she’d only pushed him further and further away.

  Her parents’ wealth and social status must have birthed fears in Rob that he wasn’t good enough, but she didn’t realize the truth until her careless words uttered in frustration and loneliness had torn their marriage apart.

  Plucking at the chain, Dorothy lifted the plug. Water swirled and gurgled into a cyclone shape above the open drain, a grim parallel to a marriage’s destruction. She’d never realized it before but such images were everywhere. Dorothy sighed, realizing with a shiver that a degree in literature hadn’t equipped her for anything but seeing literary references in everyday life.

  Hoping Ham had already gone to bed, Dorothy slipped on one of Rob’s tee-shirts instead of the negligee she’d planned to wear. Although Ham had bragged about “birthing more hosses, calves and puppies than there’s tumbleweeds on the prairie,” she didn’t want the poor guy scandalized by the sight of his granddaughter-in-law’s bare legs.

  When she emerged, she saw Rob kneeling near the couch. “Ham didn’t have any extra blankets so I went next door and borrowed a couple of sleeping bags.”

  He’d zipped the two together and arranged them on the floor. Turning out the overhead light, he joined Dorothy on the makeshift mattress. With an apology in his voice, he said, “Ham was so excited to know we were coming that he didn’t stop to think about where we’d sleep. If Rose were alive, our every need would have been anticipated.”

  She heard a yearning in his voice and whispered, “Rose?” This was the first spontaneous remark he’d made in weeks, a light gleaming through a chink in the fortress walls.

  Rob hooked his wrist behind his head. “My grandmother. A gal from a Boston family of bluebloods who somehow ended up on a ranch with Ham. But she was practical and according to Ham, she learned fast. Sounds like she handled all the details while Ham did the dreaming. But they were so close, so in love. I remember thinking as a little kid that my house would be like theirs.”

  His voice roughened and he hurried on. “They lived in a cottage on the other side of this town. After her death, Ham sold everything they owned and bought this shack. Everything in the other house reminded him of Rose.”

  Just like everything in their house reminded her of Rob, plagued her with bittersweet memories. The sachet of dried rose petals that she’d brought on this trip was the remainder of the two dozen roses, their stems bound in a silver ribbon, delivered the morning after she’d accepted Rob’s proposal. It wasn’t until months later she’d learned that her starving medical school student fiancé had pawned his winter coat to afford the roses.

  Roses. Rose. Rob’s grandmother had given up her life for her husband. What had Dorothy ever given up?

  “It’s your fault,” she muttered to herself.

  But Rob heard and misunderstood. “You mean, the baby?” He snorted. “Be spontaneous in your sex life, that’s what you told me that marriage counselor said. Look where that got us!”

  A child needs a loving, stable home, not the raveled strands that bound her to Rob. His indifference to the news of her pregnancy had shaken her belief that the dying embers could be fanned into flame. The only thing he’d done on this trip regarding her pregnancy had been a couple of curt reminders to drink the bottled water he’d brought, to remain hydrated.

  Insects buzzed outside; she longed for a breeze to stir the curtain at the window. Marriage counseling had come too late, she realized with the heaviness of sorrow. Rob felt bound to her by the new life and not by love.

  Although she could feel the heat radiating
from Rob’s body, the distance between them seemed so great he might as well be sleeping in Minneapolis. The last year of stifled and pent-up communication separated them. The air remained breathless; a faint whiff of mosquito repellant rose from the material beneath her cheek.

  Rob grunted, gave a soft snort before beginning to snore. Had other women lain beside him and watched him sleep, stroked back the rebellious lock of hair which fell across his left eye after making love?

  Dorothy longed to believe that infidelity was responsible for his remote gaze—she could fight back against another person. But she knew in her heart that Rob remained physically faithful to his marriage vows. The love and cherish part had been ripped from the service, however...

  Unable to bear the proximity to her lost dreams, Dorothy got up with careful movements to avoid waking Rob and wandered to the front door, which Ham had left ajar after locking the screen door. Gazing out at the darkness, Dorothy tried to empty her thoughts and relax.

  “What’s wrong?”

  At the sound of Rob’s voice in her ear, Dorothy shied like a startled horse and his warm hands closed on her bare arms, steadying her.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  She knew he referred to the baby and wished for one moment that he cared about her. “Just needed to change position—“

  Breaking off, she stared at the colors that spattered the night sky, dissolving and reappearing. “So beautiful,” she murmured. “Achingly, gorgeously beautiful. . .”

  “Why do you think they have a special called “The Northern Lights” at the cafe?” His breath, ice cream sweet, stirred her hair. “Rose and Ham enjoyed living here. Ham said they used to walk after dusk and dance along with the Northern Lights.”

  “How romantic,” Dorothy whispered, her heart aching. She no longer wanted to force a confrontation but just wanted to turn and find that his arms were waiting for her.

  For a moment, his hand cupped the nape of her neck and then it slipped away. “We’d better get back to bed. Such as it is.” After a moment, he said under his breath, “I never should have agreed to let you come.”

  “So I wouldn’t see your grandfather? Wouldn’t tempt you to love me again?” But the words remained unspoken, a leaden weight in her heart. She stood until the lights vanished, wiping the tears away with the sleeve of Rob’s borrowed shirt, before going back to join him on the sleeping bags.

  This was the first time she’d ever touched one of these things. Rob used to enjoying camping out, loved the Boundary Waters, according to Ham’s conversation this evening. But had she ever asked what he preferred for vacation instead of insisting they go skiing at a Vail resort? Couldn’t she have offered to do those things with him?

  Combined with her demands that he choose her over his passion for his work, she didn’t need a therapist to tell her what went wrong. Unfortunately, none of the professionals seemed to have an answer on how to repair her marriage. Wishing she could travel back in time and take her newfound wisdom with her, Dorothy fell asleep.

  Crackling static awakened her from a dream of dancing ice cream cones. A sheet covered her bare limbs. Tasting fuzziness inside her mouth, she realized the sounds came from the old Philco radio on the sideboard. Dorothy yanked the sheet up to her shoulders and, rolling over, she squinted through a curtain of hair at their host.

  Ham sat at the card table, with his back to her and his attitude of intense concentration. When Dorothy cleared her throat, he spun around, cheeks burning, averting his eyes from her sheet-wrapped form.

  “Up already?” Shoulders hunched, he addressed his words to the couch.

  Rob groaned, stood, and twisted. Stretching, he rubbed the tortured muscles of his lower back. “Lying on your floor felt worse than bending over an operating table for ten hours, Ham. And where’s that garbled static coming from?” He clapped his hands over his ears.

  “Hog and cattle reports. I allus listen first thing. ‘Bout time you was stirring. Let you sleep this long cause I knowed you was both tuckered out.”

  Draping the sheet toga fashion around her body, Dorothy bent to lift a change of clothes from her overnight bag, Her lips curved in a smile when a shrill whistle came from a bird outside the window and Ham hollered, “Don’t mind him’, he ain’t whistling at your legs. He does that every morning to make sure I’m up.”

  She slipped into the bathroom to change. Dressed in shorts and a stylish maternity top, Dorothy came out in time to see Ham place two glasses of water on the card table next to bowls of cereal. Rob, shirtless, stood by the lumpy couch. Her husband’s body was anything but lumpy! She swallowed at the sight of his lean, yet muscular abdomen. Delectable as a piece of gourmet chocolate—she wanted to touch him, stroke his supple skin and press kisses against the strong line of his jaw.

  How could he not want her as well? She closed her eyes against the overwhelming pain.

  Biting her lip, she watched Ham look over the table with the care of a hostess checking on the place cards. “I’ll get your water in a minute, Robbie,” he promised.

  Rob pulled a tee-shirt over his head, the bristles on his jaw scraping against the cotton fabric. “Since we’re having cereal, Dorothy and I don’t need water.”

  “Suit yerself. This stuff’s powerful dry without it.”

  “We prefer milk.” Rob took the few steps into the kitchen and returned with a carton. Opening the top, he tipped it and something resembling a lump of cottage cheese slid out and plopped in the middle of Dorothy’s bran flakes, sending them flying like dried out leaves in a gust of wind. Dorothy recoiled, gagging, from the sour smell arising from the bowl.

  “Ham, this milk has turned!” Rob exploded, squinting at the freshness expiration date. “This expired over two months ago.”

  “Them little numbers don’t mean much,” Ham said with his voice defensive. Then he brightened. “Wait, we had that big storm last month, lots of thunder and flash. Lightning must have clabbered the milk.”

  It wasn’t the lightning that had clabbered Dorothy’s appetite. Choking, she ran for the bathroom.

  After recovering, she and a subdued Ham sat on the couch while Rob cleared out the refrigerator, expressing scientific amazement over the variety of bacteria growing on the discarded items. Then he left for the nearest grocery store to stock up on food supplies and baking soda.

  Dorothy’s nausea had subsided, but Rob insisted she remain behind near the bathroom. His threats to hire someone to drive Ham to the store once a week, “if you can’t make arrangements on your own” had sobered his ebullient grandparent considerably.

  “Rob’s just worried about you not getting the proper nourishment or coming down with food poisoning,” Dorothy offered. “He’s afraid that you’re not taking proper care of yourself.”

  They’d moved outside in the shade, Ham seated in front of the sawhorse, his worn rag tracing circles on the aged darkened saddle leather.

  “I know.” He sighed. “Guess it’s easier to order pizza than to fix my own chow.”

  A car rumbled by then silence. Ham dabbed his rag into the can of polish and shook his head. “Truth is, it’s plum difficult to walk into a kitchen, any kitchen. Reminds me of Rosie.”

  “What specifically reminds you of Rosie, Ham?”

  “A sink ‘cause I can still see her washing up dishes. Pots and pans. She was allus rattlin’ pots and pans, baking bread, flipping batter cakes for Sunday breakfast...”

  Dorothy noticed the trembling of his gnarled hands and looked away, respecting his privacy. Plucking a blade of grass from the sparse lawn, she watched a ladybug stroll down the green gangplank until it descended to the ground with the dignity of a matron stepping off a bus.

  “Why did you give up being a cow puncher, Ham? Cows started hitting back?”

  His wheezing chuckles brought an echoing smile to Dorothy’s face, but her thoughts were still centered on Rob. Why was she obsessed with breaking through her husband’s protective reserve, attempting to force an admi
ssion that he wanted to end their marriage? Just flogging a dead horse, as her host would say.

  A bee zoomed past Dorothy’s knee, trailing a buzz like a mini sonic boom, pausing to fuss around the purple cup of a wild violet.

  “T’was hard to give up ranchin’,” Ham said at last. “Riding fences, sitting up all night with a foal that’s poorly, driving cattle to market. . . ” A playful wink. “Hard to give up all that fun. But when Rose started increasing with our first, Robbie’s Uncle Peter, Doc Baker, took me aside and said it would be a rough birthin’. No hospital within a hundred miles of our ranch. So I sold out for little more than buzzard bait.”

  Dorothy rubbed her knee, still stiff from a night on the wooden floor. Rob wouldn’t sell his beloved ranch for her. He’d buy her a ticket and put her on the first train going back East. . . “How did you make a living?”

  “Didn’t have much schooling, but ranching had taught me how to shingle a roof and fix a water pump. Lots of folks too busy making money to potter around the house, so I set up shop and put my kids through college doing a little of this and a lot o’ that.”

  His eyes crinkled as a soft smile curled his mouth. Dorothy guessed he was traveling back through time to a home populated with children, pets, and his beloved Rose.

  “You know, I’ll betcha we filled that bottle with pennies more times than a steer has burrs in its tail.”

  She blinked. “Are you talking about the milk bottle? Why did Rob have to put in a penny yesterday?”

  “Family tradition, Dot. My wife and I started over, dirt poor, in a new town. Most days Rosie and I didn’t have two cents to rub together. But the rule was no complainin’ over rain squalls—we had to save our breath fer the gully washers!”

  Dorothy coughed. “Gully washers?”

  “Downpours that wash away the landscape and overwhelm a soul.”

  She felt her lips tremble and Ham reached out to squeeze her hand. After a moment, his age roughened voice continued. “As a reminder we was hitched for life, whenever Rose crabbed about toting water from the well or I turned up my nose at beans and cornbread three days running, we had to put a penny in the bottle and do somethin’ nice for the other. In for a penny, in for a pound. The young’uns learned right quick that scratching at each other would short them a penny and they’d earn the privilege of making all the beds for a week. “