Christmas On Nutcracker Court

by Duarte, Judy

It was almost nine when he finally called it a day, but what else was new? He rarely returned home before dark.

  Upon entering the living room, he’d expected to catch a whiff of whatever Priscilla had made for dinner and was keeping warm in the oven for him.

  Instead, he spotted her suitcase near the fireplace.

  “Baby?” he called.

  She didn’t respond, but when she entered the room, he nodded toward her bag. “What’s that?”

  “I’m leaving, Logan.”

  She’d made it sound like it was for good.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Home. To Texas.”

  There hadn’t been anything for her in that Podunk town, at least, that’s what she’d told him when they’d met three years ago.

  The question rolled off his tongue before he could stop it. “When are you coming back?”

  “I’m not.”

  Her words held a chill and a finality that he’d never heard before, and his gut clenched at the thought that she might mean what she said.

  But Logan didn’t like being backed into a corner. So, he shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Max reread the beginning of the scene that had almost written itself. He hadn’t planned for it to unfold like that. Up until this point, Priscilla had only had a walk-on part in his novel. But while he’d sat at the keyboard, typing out the pages, the dialogue had just taken off.

  And that was the problem. He hadn’t expected Priscilla to walk out on Logan, although he liked the way her departure had left his protagonist a little unbalanced. That would come in handy during the next scene. But Max didn’t know where to go from here.

  Something was out of whack, although he couldn’t figure out what it was. Then again, maybe it wasn’t.

  Either way, Max seemed to be suffering from a little writer’s block tonight. He also had a nagging headache, a byproduct of scrunching his shoulders for hours on end and stressing about a scene that wouldn’t play out. But there wasn’t any need to beat himself up about something out of his control.

  Maybe a change of activity would help—not to mention a couple of aspirin.

  He pushed back his desk chair, got to his feet, and went into the bathroom, where he opened the medicine cabinet. He shuffled around the Band-Aids, toothpaste, dental floss, and his extra razor cartridges.

  Where in the world was the aspirin? He could have sworn he had a bottle in here somewhere. But apparently he didn’t.

  After closing the mirrored door a little harder than necessary, he went into the kitchen. Sometimes a snack or a bite to eat helped, but it wasn’t a bowl of chili or something hearty he was craving. He wanted something sweet.

  Trouble was, when he opened up the pantry, he found it miserably empty.

  Okay, so he had plenty of stuff inside—canned goods mostly, a can of coffee, a jar of gherkins, a new bottle of Tabasco, various condiments . . . But there wasn’t anything in there that he wanted to munch on this evening.

  Sometimes eating junk food helped him deal with a temporary case of writer’s block. Not that he was blocked, exactly. It was just that something was off, and since he couldn’t figure out what wasn’t working, he couldn’t very well fix it. So that made it impossible for him to go on.

  He reached for a bag of half-eaten Cheetos he’d left on the middle shelf a while back, opened it up, and popped one into his mouth. Instead of the cheesy crunch he’d been expecting, his teeth bit into gummy, bland air. He guessed they’d been in there longer than he’d remembered.

  Next to the Cheetos he spotted a package of raw almonds, but he left it on the shelf. That wasn’t going to do the trick tonight—too healthy.

  It seemed as though his pantry could compete with Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard this evening. And her financial outlook was probably better than his at this moment, too. If he didn’t score ink soon, he’d be back working nine-to-five at the probation department.

  He couldn’t very well complain about that, though. It was a solid job with great benefits. Besides, he was good at what he did. He could spot a liar a mile away or sense a violation in the works. But somewhere along the line, it had become . . . well, just a job, and he’d wanted something new and different.

  Actually, he’d needed it. And a book contract with a major New York publisher would certainly fill the bill. Besides, he’d put too much time into this manuscript to call it quits now.

  He kneaded his temples, then rolled his head from side to side, hoping it would make the ache go away. Then he crossed the room and swung open the refrigerator door.

  There wasn’t much in there, either—particularly milk, which he was going to need in the morning. Of course, he wasn’t about to make this a full-on shopping trip at this time of night, but a run to the market was in order.

  “You wait here,” he told Hemingway, who was snoozing by the hearth and didn’t seem to give a squat either way. “I’ll be back before you can say Purina Puppy Chow.”

  Five minutes later, Max entered the supermarket on the corner of Park and First Street. He’d made out a grocery list while he’d been in the parking lot, which he didn’t do very often, but he was actually out of quite a few things.

  So he grabbed a cart and started down the aisles, heading straight for the section that provided his favorite junk food. Then he went in search of the other items he needed, as well as some he didn’t.

  Okay, so he was an impulse shopper.

  He moved up one aisle and down the next, stopping when he came to the breakfast cereal. He probably ought to choose something healthy, with plenty of bran and fiber, but he opted for sweet and tasty instead. He wasn’t in the mood for health food this week.

  Next he headed for the pet supplies, thinking he’d get Hemingway a different brand of food than the stuff he had at home—maybe something canned, moist, and meaty, rather than dry.

  Would that make the mutt happier and more content? And more likely to stay in the yard and not run off?

  If the gourmet dog chow didn’t work, then maybe Max should turn Hemingway in to the pound himself. After all, if he wasn’t happy living with a single guy like him and preferred a family, then so be it.

  Max had copped a similar attitude when his wife had told him that she wasn’t happy being married to him and that she was leaving.

  He could have groveled, he supposed, but that wouldn’t have helped. Instead, he’d stood by and watched her move out. And two weeks later, he’d found out she was dating a guy he’d once played golf with, a guy he’d thought of as a friend.

  She’d told him that the new relationship had started after their split, but Max hadn’t believed her. And he’d pretended that he didn’t care either way.

  It was weird, though. For some reason, he was doing more to save the relationship with his dog than he’d been willing to put into his marriage. But that was probably because he hadn’t been so happy, either.

  Grabbing two cans of the most expensive dog food he could find, Max put them in the cart, then continued to the area of the store where he could find the aspirin. His headache had eased once he’d gone out into the night air, but it wasn’t completely gone.

  As he turned down the pharmaceutical aisle, he nearly froze in his tracks when he saw Carly Westbrook scanning the shelves. She had on a pair of running shoes, black slacks, and a dark jacket, nothing very stylish. And she wasn’t wearing any makeup to speak of. Still she was an attractive woman, the kind who could make a man block traffic in a grocery store by parking himself in an aisle just to look at her.

  He continued to study her a moment, the way she furrowed her brow and nibbled on her bottom lip. The way those glossy, chocolate-colored strands curled softly around her shoulders. She hadn’t run a comb through her hair in a while, but it didn’t seem to matter.

  Finally, Max cleared his voice and said, “Fancy meeting you here.”

  She looked up, and when recognition crossed her face, her cheeks flushed and her lips parted. “Oh. Hi.”
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br />   He couldn’t expect more than that from her, he supposed. Not after that last awkward confrontation they’d had. But he wasn’t ready to move on just yet, so he asked, “Did you get your boy’s new glasses?”

  “I . . . uh . . . placed an order, but they won’t be in for a week or two.” She smoothed her hair with her hand, as though she knew she’d left home in a hurry and wished she hadn’t. Or maybe it had just been a nervous gesture on her part. Max had probably been the last man in the world she’d expected to see tonight.

  He certainly hadn’t expected to see her here, either.

  She bit down on her bottom lip, in a move that was actually kind of cute—and more alluring than it should be. Then she said, “I’m sorry for . . . the other night.”

  Did she mean that she was sorry for jumping to conclusions, blaming his dog for an innocent mishap, and demanding that he pay for her son’s glasses?

  Part of him wanted to pop off with a snappy retort, something snide or cynical, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do so. For some reason the pretty single mom had a way of disarming his spiteful side.

  For lack of anything better to start a conversation, he found himself asking, “Are you ready for Christmas yet?”

  It was a lame thing to bring up, especially coming from a guy who’d grown tired of hearing that particular question repeated ad nauseam and whose own answer was always the same.

  “There’s not much to get ready for this year,” she said. “I plan to pick up a couple of small gifts for the boys at the dollar store, but like I said the other night, we won’t be having a tree.” She shrugged, then straightened her shoulders and shoved her hands in her jacket pockets. “But that doesn’t mean we won’t try to make the day special. We’ll go to church in the morning, have frozen turkey potpies for dinner, and read the Christmas story before opening packages.”

  “I’m sure your sons will enjoy that.”

  “I hope you’re right. Mikey will, I know. But Josh . . .” She paused, and he watched as uncertainty clouded her brow. She tried to break free of it, but even when she gave another shrug, he could see that worry still weighed heavy in her eyes. “I’m not so sure what to expect from him these days.”

  “Has that bully been bothering him again?”

  She stiffened, and when she caught his eye, her gaze snaked around his with a death grip. “Do you think that could be the problem? Could he be terrorized by that bully? I’d thought it was just something he was going through, like the aging process or male hormones or something. But if he’s feeling frightened or threatened. . . Well, I’d better call the school and see what I can do to stop it.”

  Max had no way of knowing what was going on with her son, and while he wasn’t about to assume that he did, he hated to see her worry. “I’m sure it’s nothing to stress about. He’s probably just trying to exert his independence. There comes a time in a boy’s life when he doesn’t want his mother to know everything he’s thinking.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  So did Max.

  “Well,” she said, removing her hands from her pockets and probably intending to go on her way. “Thanks for sharing the male perspective. I’m afraid I’m lost when it comes to things like that. I was a real girly-girl growing up.”

  Weren’t most women?

  She must have read the curiosity in his eyes, the interest, because she said, “Oh, you know. I liked to play with my dolls, and I loved wearing dresses and shopping for new party shoes.”

  A smile stretched across his face. Even tonight, when she’d clearly dashed off to the store without giving her appearance any thought, she still had a distinctly feminine aura, and he couldn’t help wondering what she’d look like if she was going to a party and wearing a fancy dress and heels.

  “In fact,” she added, “as far as my friends and I were concerned, we thought all boys had cooties.”

  Those were the little girls who were fun to chase in school, whether a boy’s threat was a toad in his hand or puckered lips.

  “So I take it you didn’t have any brothers,” he said.

  “No, and my dad died when I was twelve.”

  “Where’s the boys’ father?” he asked.

  “I haven’t seen him or heard from him in years. So he’s not going to be any help at all.”

  Max assumed she wasn’t getting any financial support from the guy, either, which was too bad. It had to be a lousy situation for her, especially at this time of year.

  He wondered if she was as angry and distrustful of men as he was with women—something he really didn’t like admitting. It was easier to stay in his writing cave and to take out his frustration on any female he came across, even one who was fictional.

  Maybe that’s why he couldn’t seem to work through the Priscilla/Logan issue.

  Carly, who had no grocery cart at all, scanned the inside of his and smiled. “Froot Loops? Macaroni and cheese? Chips, candy . . . ?”

  He shrugged. “What can I say? I guess I’m just a kid at heart.”

  At that, she almost laughed. “You could have fooled me.”

  Yeah, well, there were some things he concealed pretty well. But he returned her chuckle with a smile.

  “All you need is some ice cream to go with those cookies,” she added.

  “I haven’t gone down the freezer aisle yet, but that’s next on my list.”

  He wondered what she thought about his shopping habits. He supposed he couldn’t blame her for making assumptions. The truth was, he’d been raised in a strict household, and no one had ever asked him what he’d wanted to eat, or where he’d like to go, or what he’d like to watch on television. So now that he was an adult and could do whatever he pleased, he tended to be a little self-centered.

  “So where’s your cart?” he asked.

  “I only came for some cold medicine.” She glanced at her wristwatch, which was perched on a delicate wrist. She had pretty hands, too, he noticed, with medium-length nails that had been neatly manicured.

  When she looked back up at him, she said, “I’m afraid I have to run. I have a sick child at home and don’t like leaving the boys alone this late at night.”

  “Which one’s sick?”

  “Mikey. The little one.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” And he was. But he was also glad he’d run into her this evening, and he wasn’t quite ready for her to leave. “Do you trust the older boy to look after his brother?”

  “Yes, but it’s getting late.”

  When it came to kids being home alone, Max supposed she was right. But he still couldn’t help wanting to keep her here just a moment longer.

  “How do the boys get along?” he asked.

  “For the most part, great. Josh is really good with Mikey, although he complains once in a while about being left in charge. I’ve tried to talk to him about it, but he’s a lot more introspective than he’s ever been before. So I’m really not sure what he’s thinking. And that bothers me.”

  “It’s hard for some boys to confide in a woman,” he said, “especially a mother.”

  “I guess.” She reached for a small box on the shelf, then gave another half shrug. “It’s also difficult not having a man to talk to about it.” Her cheeks flushed, and she momentarily broke eye contact before regaining it. “I mean his father. You know?”

  Yeah, he knew. If he and his ex were still married, he might have asked her to read over his manuscript and get her take on what was wrong, what was missing. But Karen didn’t know anything about the writing process. And she’d never been very supportive of his dream anyway.

  As Carly turned and reached for another box on the shelf, turning it to read the label, an idea struck. A wild one, granted, but it was the best thing either of them had going right now.

  “I know a way we could help each other out.”

  She wrinkled her brow. “How’s that?”

  “You’d like a man’s perspective on raising sons, and I’d like a woman’s perspectiv
e on a problem I have, too. So maybe we could do a trade-off.”

  He figured she was going to blow him off, but she surprised him. “I wouldn’t mind picking your brain and sharing my opinion with you, but I don’t have time now. I have to get home.”

  “I realize that. But how about coffee one of these days? Or maybe even lunch—my treat, of course. I’d really like your opinion about something.”

  “What’s the matter? Are you having trouble with a woman?”

  “No,” he said, not wanting to tell her he’d had plenty of those kinds of problems last year. But he couldn’t lie, either. “Actually, once my divorce was final, my female troubles were over.”

  “You’re lucky. I think a divorce just leaves a person with a whole new set of problems.”

  She might be right, but he didn’t want to think about that, so he asked, “What do you have planned for Monday?”

  “It’s a light day for me at the salon. I used to take it off, but . . . Well, the holidays are a busy time and I can use the money.”

  He’d figured as much. “So what time can you meet?”

  “How about one o’clock?”

  “Great. Where?”

  “Someplace close to Shear Magic, where I work.”

  That narrowed down the choices. “There’s a little bistro not far from the florist on Parkside Drive. What do you think about that?”

  “Sounds good, but I really need to go now.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you then.”

  She nodded, made a final decision on the medicine, putting the other back on the shelf, then hurried off toward the checkout lanes.

  It was only a meeting, Max reminded himself, a sharing of perspectives. Yet for some reason, it felt a little bit like a date.

  Carly paid for the medication, using her credit card, which she hated to do, but she didn’t have quite enough cash on her this evening, so her options were limited.

  After seeing Max’s cart, which was filled with all kinds of goodies her boys would have loved, she’d been tempted to buy them a treat, too, and surprise them. But the sorry fact was, Mikey’s medication had been the only extra she could afford tonight.