by Hebby Roman
He pivoted and glanced at her. “A penny for them? Am I making myself too much at home here?”
“Oh no, no. I’m glad you do.”
“You are, are you?” He came over and pecked her on the lips but Carrie reached up, entwining her fingers around his neck.
“I am. Very glad you feel you can make yourself at home. So now you can set the table.”
* * *
Flickering candles had burned down halfway, their wax making dripped designs on their columns and setting off a perfume that suffused the dining room. Silverware was now scattered on plates dirtied by the complex traditional meal, smears of cranberry and sweet potato in evidence. Silence reigned from the sated diners.
“What, in Heaven’s name, is your secret, Carrie? This was the most delicious turkey I’ve ever tasted.” Tate’s mother sat back from the dinner table, looking replete. “Tate’s a good eater but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him eat this much.”
“Yes, I have Mom, and don’t flatter Carrie too much. I don’t know where that will lead.” He caught his mother’s flash of wide eye. “I don’t like the neighbors thinking they’re better than us, especially greenhorns.” He pushed back a bit from the table and bit down his smirk.
“I’ll have you know this little greenhorn was up at five today, shoveling hay from the back of the sleigh and mucking out and so on. What were you doing at five this morning?”
Tate laughed. “I was cozy in bed having lovely dreams.”
“What did you dream about?” Tim piped in. “I’ve been dreaming about Santa bringing me a horse, and galloping away over the fields.”
Carrie glanced quickly at Grayson who had been very quiet throughout the meal. “Christmas is a way off, Tim. Let’s just concentrate on getting there, shall we?” She rose and started to clear plates.
Grayson started to rise.
“You sit down. I’ll help.” Tate grabbed the foreman’s dirty plates and followed Carrie. In the kitchen, he said, “You load, I’ll bring?”
“Sounds good.”
As he swung back through the kitchen door, Tim came in.
“May I be excused for a while? There was a good western on TV.”
“Oh, Tim, don’t you want pumpkin pie and ice cream?”
“Can I have it later? I’m very full.”
“It’s really rude to leave the table, Tim—”
Tate re-entered with a handful of dirty plates. “If you’re worried about us, don’t be.” He set the plates down by the sink and swung Tim up in the air. “What’s on TV?” Glancing over at Carrie, he wondered if he’d overstepped a mark by butting in. He set Tim down again. “Sorry. Did I intrude?”
“No, no, of course not. Tim, go ask Mrs. Schrugge and Grayson if they’d mind if you excused yourself and if they say it’s okay, then you may go.”
Tim gave a little skip and disappeared.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s fine. Really.” Carrie turned back to rinsing and getting the dishes in the machine.
He came up behind her and took a wet plate from her hand, and placed it back in the sink before he bent and kissed the back of her neck. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
He kissed her again, the soft spot behind her ear getting his attention this time. “Really?”
She hunched a bit and rubbed her head against his, a sure sign his kiss was having an effect.
“Definitely sure?” he asked and turned her head slightly so he could give her other side some equal attention.
“If you keep this up, I won’t be sure of anything!”
Tate pulled back and laughed. “Well, I can’t let that happen. Thanksgiving means pumpkin pie and if your turkey is anything to go by, I’m in for a treat.” Though he was thinking of other ‘treats’ he might also enjoy.
“Is the table clear?”
Just as Tate opened his mouth, Grayson’s booming, gritty snarl came through the doorway. “You drove that man crazy!”
“Uh-oh,” was all Tate could say before he dashed through the door.
“You drove him crazy! And that last Christmas of his, two years ago, it was a wonder he didn’t just drop dead then! Why you couldn’t just marry the ol’—”
“Stop!” Tate had both hands raised and he could feel his jaw tighten and set. “Grayson, we’ve all been through this and there’s no need to go through it all again. Tom is gone, and it was between my mother and him. That’s it. That’s the end of it, let’s just finish with this and get on with Carrie’s lovely dinner.”
Grayson rose up and threw his napkin down. “Ah, well. Thanksgiving. There are things I’d like to be giving thanks for and that poor girl and her son are two of them, but it would’ve been nice if Tom had lived to see them and been happy… happy doing so.”
Tate’s mother was obviously ruffled and Carrie wasn’t much better. Tim had come back to the hall door and stood indecisively, no doubt unsure as to what was more interesting, the adult shouting going on or the TV program he’d been watching. During the momentary lull, he seemed to decide the TV might be a safer bet.
Carrie came forward. “Can we...I don’t....”
Eleanor stood. “I’m so sorry, my dear. Grayson likes dragging up things that happened a long, long time ago and that have absolutely no bearing on today’s wonderful meal. Maybe, Tate, you could run me home?”
“Arrrrggg. Don’t be so dumb, Nell. Carrie’ll cut me a piece of pie and I’ll take it to the bunkhouse.”
The look on Carrie’s face cut right through Tate. He took a deep breath and sighed it out. “Grayson just sit down and let’s be happy and finish the meal. For goodness sake, you bring that up every time you see Mom. It’s over and done with. Forget it, okay?”
“Well, I can’t forget it.” Grayson eased himself back into his seat. “The man was my best friend. I loved him like a brother, most generous man ever walked the earth, and you treated him like—”
Tate slammed his hand down on the dining table. “Enough!” The candles flickered wildly and Carrie jumped. “Enough! That’s it, the end, all right?” He glanced across at Carrie, cowering almost by the door. “Sorry,” he said in a lower voice. “Grayson gets a bug in his head and he just won’t shut up.”
“Don’t you be so rude.” Grayson wagged a finger at Tate. “I knew you when you were knee high to a grasshopper.”
Carrie snorted a covered laugh. Everyone looked to her. “You’re not going to say, ‘you young whippersnapper’ are you?”
There was a deadly silence before Eleanor started giggling and Tate laughed. Then Grayson began coughing out a throaty laugh as if he were hooting up each and every chuckle.
Carrie went to the hallway door. “Tim,” she called. “Pie and ice cream. Now!”
Chapter Nine
Stave Two:
Christmas Present
The rectangle of white card stood out on the dark wood of the kitchen table when Carrie got back from seeing Tim off to school. She noticed it straight away and, quizzically, stared at it several seconds before she picked it up. Same card as the Santa letters Tim had received. Same handwriting? But addressed to her.
She opened it.
Carrie,
Mom and I want to thank you for the splendid Thanksgiving meal. We’re both sorry that the past got dredged up for a while, but we truly had a wonderful time.
See you soon,
Tate X
So much flew through her brain at that moment she had to gasp for air and sink onto a chair.
First thought: wow, a man who writes thank-you notes! And handwritten, too.
Second thought: wait a minute, I know that handwriting.
Third thought: oh my God, it can’t be, can it? Tate?
Fourth thought: I’ve been so stupid. I knew it wasn’t Grayson, couldn’t be his handwriting, and all this time I never once thought of Tate. And that day I dropped off the letters for him during my run. How
could I have been so incredibly dumb?
Fifth Thought: ARE YOU KIDDING ME? He promised my son a horse without consulting me? Lied to me when I asked if he’d got Tim’s letter to Santa. Wrote to Tim without telling me? Is he promising the horse on my behalf or did he think he was going to buy Tim the horse? WHAT?!
This time Tate’s desire to be in control of situations and involved had gone that one step too far.
She realized she’d unconsciously tapped the table with the letter for several minutes, and anger had built up in her like a steam engine ready for the rails, until she finally burst. She stood and pulled her coat closed once more, did up the zipper, and pulled her hat back lower on her head.
You must be joking, Tate Scrooge!
* * *
When the doorbell rang, Tate was preparing his end of year accounts, his finger running down a line of numbers. He didn’t want to lose his place and the slow waddle of Hetty toward the door relieved him of answering and seeing whoever it was. But Hetty’s surprised “Ah!” made him stop and mark where he was, and when he heard Carrie’s voice, with rather an edge to it, he put a paper on the line and closed the book.
“I’d like to speak with Tate, please.” The sharp tone caused his brow to wrinkle as he headed to the front and tried to remember what he had put in the thank-you note that might have caused friction.
“Carrie, you coming in?” His own voice held a mix of conciliation and surprise that he found her so...well...angry. Yup, she was definitely not happy about something.
“I’m not staying,” she announced as she stomped her boots and exchanged standing on the ‘welcome’ door mat for settling on the rug in the front entryway.
“Okay.” Tate dragged out the word with a modicum of reasonableness. There seemed to be no point in asking her why she had come, or why she wasn’t staying, because she sure as heck was about to let him know...probably in no uncertain terms.
“You’ve been writing to my son as Santa, haven’t you?”
“Uh-oh.” Hetty now disappeared down the hall, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking as she went.
“Oh. Did he figure it out?”
“Oh, please, Tate. No, I did. Your handwriting. Very nice of you to leave a thank-you note—not many people write them these days, especially not men. But, my goodness, Santa has.”
“Ah.” He thought for a split second in the silence that followed. “And you have a problem with me pretending to be Santa?”
“I wouldn’t have had a problem with you just writing to him; that would have been extremely nice. Lovely. But first you lied to me when I asked if you’d got Tim’s letter to Santa that day and told me the Post Office now had it, and then you didn’t stop there. You went and promised Tim a horse—”
“Uhhh.” Tate reached out and closed the door behind Carrie to stop the blustery cold that blew in. “First of all, I only ‘lied’ as you call it because, as you now know, Tim didn’t like it here—I was only trying to help. Secondly, you’ve been reading those letters so you know very well I haven’t made any promises to him whatso—”
“You asked him what color he preferred! You got my little boy’s hopes up that Santa was going to deliver a horse, or a pony, or whatever, and you never once consulted me, never asked me if it was all right, and who the hell is Santa, or who are you to be getting him a horse? It was my job as his mother. Grayson has supposedly been looking for something for him. We still have over three weeks—”
“Grayson’s been ill, if you recall.”
“Come on, Tate. This started before Grayson became ill. And anyway, he seems to be doing fine now if he can go shouting at your mother the way he did.”
“The way you’re shouting at me?”
Carrie’s hands hung by her side as Tate met her piercing glare with his own. Damn woman.
Shaking with her ire, she said, “Please do not write to Tim anymore as Santa. Do not make any more promises to him. And do not come round. I can’t have someone usurping my place as parent. It’s been difficult enough to bring him up on my own without him getting attached to someone who may not be in our lives permanently.”
“Usurping your place as parent? You must be joking. You don’t mean that, Carrie. Come in and let’s talk this through.”
“I do mean it, Tate. Please.”
And with that she wheeled to the door, yanked it open and was gone.
* * *
“Well, that little idea went to hell in a hand-basket. Why didn’t you just tell her?” Grayson leaned against the barn wall where Tate had found him, a currycomb in his hand. “She asked me to find the pony for him. If you just told her I asked you, it’d be fine.”
“I know. But she didn’t give me a chance and she was so angry at my interference and all. I don’t know. I wondered if she was using this as an excuse to pull back. We’d been getting on so well, maybe going too fast for her. I knew she’d have concerns over Tim and me and I tried my hardest to show her I love the boy. I really do.”
“Hard not to love the little tike. Well behaved, well brought up. Not like some we know.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“No idea. Thought maybe she’d listen to you if you went and told her.”
“And then what?”
“Not sure. She just said she doesn’t want to see me again.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Tate. Women say that all the time. She was angry, she was upset, she’s thinking of little Tim there. You go on in and tell her the truth and make her listen. Bejesus, you and your mom are surely cut from the same cloth.”
“Grayson....”
“No, I’m not starting again. I’ve given up. Poor Tom’s dead and gone anyway, so what good does it do, my dragging it all up?”
“Well, why the heck didn’t you think about that at Thanksgiving instead of upsetting everyone, Carrie included?”
“It were that champagne you kept pouring. Anyways, I wasn’t thinking. Every time I see your ma, I just get so dang riled, I can’t contain myself.”
“Guess I know what you mean.” Tate tapped his hat back and scratched his neck a moment. “Damnit, I’m in love with that damn woman.”
“Yeah, well, you’re gonna have to think of something. Though I guess it’s gonna be me who goes and explains if she won’t see you.”
“Hmm. I think I have an idea, but I better check with Mom and see what she thinks since it involves Christmas.”
Grayson huffed out a sigh. “You know dang well Nell will agree to just about anything for her boy. What’s your idea?”
“Well. First of all, don’t say anything to Carrie just yet....”
Chapter Ten
“Oh, Tate.” His mother rung her hands and pivoted away from him. “You’ve always rushed headlong into ideas, taken the bull by the horns without thinking, and that girl you went out with was so wrong for you, and Carrie is so right. I know I only met her twice really. But she and her son were so delightful and I really thought you two were right for each other. She has such a good head on her shoulders, seems to love living out here—which not everyone does, as we well know—and is so hardworking, not a shirker, also like someone we both know. What you ever saw in that girl—”
“Mom, come on. That’s finished with. I don’t need a lecture now about dating the wrong woman. What I need to know is how you see my idea going.”
“Just riding in with the pony and ‘saving the day?’ You really think she’d like that, without consulting her? Well. I thought you were smarter than that.” His mom took a few steps to make a space between herself and her son. “If you want to know the truth, I see where you’re coming from with that idea but I really think you should go and apologize, tell her what your plan was and is, and let us all have a happy Christmas. Together. Surprising her may not be the best idea. Really.”
Tate studied his mother for a long moment. “You’re telling me to go and try to explain
things to her, then.”
“I think so. I think that would be best. A surprise, Tate, could so easily backfire with Carrie. And she’d probably be absolutely delighted for her son if you told her, but if you surprise her, well....”
Tate bit his lower lip, his hands in fists within his pockets. He knew he wanted to make things right with Carrie, and he knew he had to go about it in a way that couldn’t possibly backfire.
* * *
Carrie wasn’t concentrating. She had to finish her editorial work before the week was out or she’d go insane. Handling the ranch and doing this just wasn’t working, especially with Grayson not on full steam. The five o’clock mornings, the heavy exertion, dealing with Tim, and then sitting down at her computer before it all started on the afternoon and evening round was just too much. Plus, she had, in a rash moment, told Tate to back off. How stupid could a woman be? Those piercing blue eyes, the wavy brown hair and that face like a sculpted masterpiece, not to mention the rest of him, it was all haunting her dreams day and night. When he held her, she felt so safe, as if nothing in the world could possibly go wrong.
She’d had relationships that had petered out, found an ending because either she or the man knew it wasn’t working. A couple of men had just pulled because they couldn’t handle someone else’s child. But Tate had done none of those. It had been working, he did handle Tim—and very well at that. If he’d played the alpha male in writing to Tim as Santa without her permission, well, wasn’t he allowed one misstep? Had she overreacted? For heaven’s sake, Tim needed a second parent. While Grayson made an excellent surrogate grandpa, the child really needed a fulltime father. And she needed Tate, his presence, his love.
The knock at the backdoor broke into her reveries and she closed the lid of her computer, dragged herself from her chair, and padded to the kitchen. It wouldn’t be Grayson because he nowadays just walked in and started saying what he’d come to say.