Christmas On Nutcracker Court

by Duarte, Judy

  “She mentioned that just out of the blue?”

  “Yeah, and I’m not sure how she even knew about the interview, unless Lynette told her.”

  “You’re right. It’s a little weird.” Grant glanced across the street, at Max’s house. “Do you get a lot of grief about not decorating for Christmas?”

  “Some, but I just ignore it. Why?”

  “This morning, Maggie came by and volunteered to help me put up lights.”

  “She mentioned something to me about my lack of decorations, too,” Max said, “but I told her I wasn’t in the holiday spirit this year.”

  “It’s not that I’m a Grinch, but as far as I’m concerned, December twenty-fifth is just another day. I’ll probably buy a wreath and stick it on the door, though. Maybe then Maggie and some of the other neighbors will stay off my back.”

  Max crossed his arms and nodded. “That’s one of the nice things about working nights and sleeping days. The neighbors don’t see much of me, so they can’t put a lot of pressure on me to conform.”

  Grant smiled. “If I get any kind of a job offer for a night shift, I’ll keep that positive point in mind.”

  “Well,” Max said, “it’s getting cold out here. I think I’ll head back inside where it’s warm.”

  “Good luck finding your dog.”

  “Thanks. But you might be right. If he’s happy living with me, he shouldn’t have the need to roam.”

  With nothing more to add, Max told his neighbor good night, then returned to his house. About the time he was climbing the porch steps, he heard a whimper, followed by a little bark.

  Max turned around. “Hemingway?”

  The dog barked again, this time louder.

  “Where’ve you been?” Max called to the night shadows. “Come on over here.”

  Hemingway hobbled into view, holding up his left rear paw.

  “What happened, buddy?”

  The dog slowed to a stop in front of Max, then plopped down in a half sit/half squat.

  Max stooped to get a better look at the bad leg, but with only the yellow glow of the porch light, it was impossible to determine what was wrong. Still, he reached for the rear paw and examined it the best he could.

  Just as he skimmed his fingers across something hard and sharp, the dog flinched and cried.

  What was it? A thorn? A piece of glass?

  “Were you in the canyon again?” he asked.

  There wasn’t a response, of course. But if Max actually thought Maggie had any dog whispering talent, he’d take the dog to her and have her ask him.

  Instead, he bent over, wrapped his arms around Hemingway’s chest, and carried him into the house, where a fire blazed softly in the hearth and the lamplight lit the room. Once inside, he set the dog down on the carpet and proceeded to examine the leg.

  Sure enough, he found a thorn stuck between the pads of his paw and carefully removed it. When he was done, Hemingway began to lick the wound.

  “Maybe that’ll teach you for running off,” Max said.

  The dog merely looked up from what he was doing, then rested his head on his front legs.

  All right. So Max had been worried about the crazy mutt. Why not admit it?

  “Hey, Hemingway,” he said. “I’m glad you’re back.”

  The dog’s response was a swish of the tail and a noise that came out like a half whine/half groan.

  Max couldn’t blame the four-legged wanderer for being wiped out and wanting to snooze, he supposed. Who knew where he’d been or what he’d been up to.

  Still, on a whim, Max said, “Hey, Butch.”

  The dog looked up, his eyes wide and alert, then he gave a little bark before getting to his feet. As he hobbled over to where Max was sitting, his tail wagged to beat the band.

  No way was that dog’s name Butch.

  Yet Max couldn’t help wondering if Maggie really did have a gift, or if she and the dog were somehow in cahoots and playing a trick on him.

  It was after nine o’clock that evening when Rosa and Carlos arrived at their 1970s-style tract home in Serena Vista, a tired, old subdivision located on the east side of Fairbrook.

  As usual, Carlos parked in the driveway, rather than in the garage, which had accumulated so much junk over the years that even one of their vehicles no longer fit inside.

  Rosa wished she could say that she loved this house or the neighborhood, but that was no longer the case. And she feared a remodel or some renovations wouldn’t change that.

  She took a moment to study the cream-colored stucco with its cracked and peeling brown trim, thinking it needed new paint, something bright and cheery. In fact, the four-bedroom house needed a lot of things: new curtains, new furniture, new appliances. Even a new family.

  Now that the kids were grown and gone, the spacious old home was much too large for a retired couple suffering from the first pangs of arthritis. And with all the community work Carlos had committed to, he found very little time to keep up the yard the way he once did.

  In the past, Rosa would have tried to help with that, but at her age, there was no way she could take on mowing and edging the lawn, too. Goodness, she had trouble keeping the inside as clean as she used to, even when she’d had small children underfoot.

  Rosa, like both her mother and her abuelita, believed that a floor wasn’t really clean unless someone got on their hands and knees to mop it—something she could no longer do.

  Not that the house was a mess; she kept it picked up. She also made sure that the bathrooms were clean and the dishes washed and put away. But she always seemed to spot something that needed to be done, something that wasn’t up to her usual standards.

  Now, as she and Carlos got out of the car, she brought up a conversation they’d had several times already. “I really wish you’d reconsider talking to a real estate agent, honey.”

  “I told you before. I don’t want to sell the house. We have memories here. This is where we raised our kids, it’s where they call home. And even if that weren’t the case, the mortgage is just about paid off.”

  “But it’s too big for us. We don’t need all the space—or the extra work it requires. Besides, those new condos on Oceanview Drive are really nice. I think one of them would suit us a whole lot better.”

  “How do you figure?” Carlos stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, turned to face her, and folded his arms over his barrel chest. “We’d have those homeowner’s fees to pay. And even if we poured all the money from the sale of this house into the new one, we’d still have to take a loan out at the bank. Those condos are really overpriced.”

  Some of them also provided an ocean view and a lovely, restful sea breeze that could really pick up a woman’s spirit. But she doubted he would care about that.

  Crossing her own arms, she said, “But if we moved to a condo, you wouldn’t have any yard work to do or any repairs to make. Everything would be new and under warranty.”

  Carlos merely grunted, which was what he usually did when he didn’t like the direction their conversation was going. Then he uncrossed his arms, turned, and headed for the door.

  She followed behind, watching as he pulled out his key and inserted it into the lock, jiggling it a little so it would slip into place and work properly.

  Once inside, he turned on the light.

  Yet it still didn’t feel like home to Rosa. All she could see were the tired walls begging for a fresh coat of paint and the old shag carpet with matted-down traffic areas.

  And for some reason, she just couldn’t seem to let the subject drop.

  “I know you don’t like changes, and making a move like that is a big one, but really, Carlos, I’m just trying to look out for you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You’re overdoing it, honey. You’re not as young as you used to be. And neither am I. It’s time we really retired, but it seems as though we’re working harder now than ever.”

  He shed his jacket and hung it on the hook near the do
or. Then he offered her a weary smile. “When something happens to me, you can sell the house and do anything you want. You won’t be locked into that condominium with all your cash tied up in equity.”

  There he went again, implying that he didn’t have long to live. “What makes you think you’ll be the first to go?”

  He grunted again.

  Rosa knew he’d made up his mind and that he probably wouldn’t budge.

  What had happened to that handsome young man who’d asked Daddy for her hand in marriage, the man who’d sworn he’d do everything to make her happy? The guy who’d actually done just that until about five years ago?

  She had no idea how he’d morphed into an old man hell-bent on helping as many people as he could before he dropped in his tracks. Or, more likely, before she did. But she knew when she was barking up the wrong tree. So she placed her purse on the bottom step of the stairs, then started the long, painful climb to the bedroom.

  “Just think,” he said, as he followed her up to their room. “You can take as many cruises as you want to when I’m gone.”

  She stopped and turned to face him. Then she lifted her finger and pointed it at him in a downward direction, thanks to the extra height two stair steps gave her. “Listen here, Carlos. I’m not going on a cruise without you.”

  He smiled, resembling that young man she’d fallen in love with nearly forty years ago. Then he reached up and cupped her cheek. “Okay, who knows? Maybe we can take a cruise together, but I have some things I need to do first.”

  “Like what?”

  “Just things.”

  He could be so cryptic when he wanted to. So she let out a sigh, clicked her tongue, and threw up her hands in submission. Then she turned and continued her climb upstairs.

  When she reached the landing, and he was only a step behind her, she gave it one last shot and said, “Did you ever take a look at that brochure I showed you?”

  “The one that advertised the Caribbean cruise you wanted to take?” He smiled. “Yes, I did. And it looks nice, honey, but it’s pretty expensive.”

  And he’d probably rather spend their money on charity or give it to the church.

  Goodness. Did that make her selfish? She hoped not. A lot of people believed in tithing 10 percent, but Carlos gave above and beyond that.

  Was there something wrong with her wanting them to spend a little of their savings on themselves? Couldn’t they consider it an investment in their marriage?

  Rosa blew out another sigh, one that was wearier than the last, then entered the bedroom and turned down the quilt.

  “I’m getting tired,” she told him. “And I’m not so sure how much time I have left, either. I’d like to make the best of it. Wouldn’t you?”

  “So which is it you want to have the most?” he asked. “A new condo or a cruise? You can’t have it all.”

  The way he looked at her, with his hands on his hips and his head cocked to the side as though she were a spoiled, errant child, made her feel like a whining nag, and the feeling didn’t sit well with her. So she let the subject drop—for now, anyway.

  While he undressed, she took her flannel nightgown into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and got ready for bed.

  When she returned to their room, Carlos was standing by the nightstand in his Jockey shorts. His back was to her, and he was running his hand up and down the length of his left arm.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Is your arm bothering you?”

  “A little bit. It’s probably just some tendinitis. It happens sometimes.”

  “Maybe you ought to see a doctor.”

  “I might do that.” He gave her a no-worries smile, then padded into the bathroom.

  While he was gone, she climbed under the covers and reached for the pillow she tucked between her knees at night, something that seemed to help ease the aches and pains she usually woke up having in the morning.

  Moments later, Carlos returned carrying a glass of water and a bottle of antacids. He placed them both on the nightstand next to his side of the bed.

  “Is your stomach bothering you?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I’ve got some heartburn. I think you were right. Eating that chili cheeseburger wasn’t a good idea.”

  He’d insisted upon having fast food for dinner tonight, which had been a relief in one sense. It had saved her from cooking dinner and cleaning up the kitchen when she was already exhausted. But he should have chosen that grilled chicken burger on a wheat bun, like she’d suggested.

  She clicked her tongue. Sometimes Carlos could be so set in his ways.

  He turned off the light, then joined her in bed. Instead of cuddling, like they used to do in the early years, he rolled to the side, letting his back face her.

  While the clock on the bureau tick-tocked louder than she remembered it ever doing before, she did her best to block out the annoying sound, as well as the thoughts that tumbled through her brain.

  But she couldn’t seem to quell the resentment that had begun to root in her heart.

  Carly had turned out the lights and climbed into bed, just as Mikey started coughing again. She’d noticed his cold symptoms at dinner this evening, and they seemed to be getting worse. So she threw off the covers and went into the room the boys shared, since Mikey had fewer nightmares when he slept near his brother.

  She didn’t normally go to bed while the kids were still awake, but she hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. Too much to stress about, she supposed.

  When she entered the room, Josh was sitting on the floor near the toy box, thumbing through a National Geographic Kids magazine, a subscription Sharon Garvey had paid for before she’d moved away.

  Carly missed her neighbor and friend at times like this—when she was out of children’s cold medication and needed to make an evening run to purchase some. One call to Sharon, and Carly would have someone to look after the boys for a couple of minutes.

  But she no longer had that option.

  Mikey, who was curled up in bed already, sat up and grimaced. “My throat hurts, Mommy.”

  Carly crossed the room and took a seat on the edge of his mattress, then she placed a hand on his forehead. He didn’t feel particularly warm, but that didn’t mean anything. The child clearly wasn’t feeling well.

  “Can I sleep on the sofa?” Josh asked. “I don’t want Mikey to get me sick.”

  “No, you stay in the room. Mikey can sleep with me.”

  “Can I bring my teddy, too?” her youngest son asked.

  “Yes. You can go now, but you’ll need to wait for me a few minutes. I need to run to the store and pick up something for your cough.” The pharmacy was probably closed by now, but the market stayed open until eleven.

  “But don’t buy any of the red stuff,” Mikey said, as he threw off the covers and climbed out of his bed. “I hate that one.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Carly glanced at Josh, who was still thumbing through the magazine. “I’m going to have to leave for a few minutes. Will you watch your brother? It won’t take me very long.”

  “Sure.” Clearly focused on a colorful photo of tree frogs, he didn’t look up.

  “And if anyone calls . . .” she began.

  “I know the rules. You’re taking a shower. If they give me their phone number, you’ll call them as soon as you get dried off.”

  “Good.”

  After Mikey left the room, Carly watched her oldest son for a moment, taking note of how much he’d grown and being both pleased by his maturity and uneasy at the thought of all the changes the teen years were sure to bring.

  But she didn’t have time for maternal musing. “I’ll have my cell phone with me, Josh. And it’s fully charged. Call me if you have any trouble whatsoever. I’m only a few blocks away.”

  “Got it.” He finally looked up and caught her eye. “Don’t worry about us. Just go do what you have to do.”

  “I’ll lock the
door when I leave, but bolt it after I go, okay?”

  He frowned, clearly miffed by her instructions. “Come on, Mom. I know the routine. I’m not a kid anymore, okay?”

  No, it wasn’t okay. He was in that in-between stage, neither child nor teenager. And she wasn’t sure what effect his age was having on their mother/son relationship.

  “I love you,” she added, leaving all her other concerns behind.

  “I know.”

  What? No “I love you” back?

  She told herself that he was growing older, that kissing his mother good-bye and saying “I love you” was probably too mushy for him. But that didn’t mean it didn’t worry her to think his feelings for her were changing, too.

  Again, she shook off her concern—or at least she tried to—and went back to her room, where she slipped out of her pajamas, threw on the clothes she’d been wearing earlier, and put on a pair of sneakers.

  Next she grabbed her jacket and purse, taking a moment to count her cash. Convinced that she had enough money to make the purchase without using the credit card that was already stretched to the max, she left the house, making sure the door was locked.

  Once in her car, she made the quick drive to the market.

  She didn’t like leaving the kids alone during the day, but she hated doing so in the evening, when any number of things could go wrong. Still, the store was only a couple of blocks away.

  And she would hurry back.

  Chapter 10

  With a little arm twisting, Chuck Lassiter had spilled his guts, but Logan wasn’t any closer to an arrest.

  So he’d met his partner for a drink at Rayburn’s, a trendy bar near the marina, where they discussed the case for an hour or so. Then they’d spent the rest of the time shooting the breeze and having a few laughs. Logan probably ought to call home, but Priscilla knew his job came first.