Christmas on Candy Cane Lane

by Sheila Roberts

  They got sidetracked on the way to Zelda’s when Georgie saw a holiday serving platter and insisted Tilda buy it. “This’ll be perfect for your turkey,” she said.

  It would. Tilda picked it up.

  And then set it down again.

  “This thing is seventy bucks!”

  “That’s because it’s fine china.”

  “Too fine for my bank account,” Tilda said wistfully. “Come on, guys, let’s go eat.”

  After Tilda drove to the old Craftsman-style house she’d grown up in to deliver Zelda’s popular Christmas salad with spinach, blue cheese, dried cranberries and pecans. “Hey, sickie, where are you?” she called as she walked in.

  As usual, the place smelled like an ashtray. She’d tried any number of times over the years to get Mom to quit smoking, but the stubborn brat refused and no amount of pleading, bribery and scary information from cancer websites seemed to work. “We all have to die of something,” Mom liked to say, to which Tilda usually responded, “How’d you like to go with me throttling you for being so stubborn?” That, of course, always made her laugh. Yeah, ha, ha. New Year’s resolution—lock Mom in her room and make her quit cold turkey, whether she wanted to or not.

  “Out here,” came a croak.

  Okay, that didn’t sound good. Tilda walked into the family room to find her mom sacked out on the couch with a mystery novel, an afghan thrown over her skinny legs, her bed pillow behind her head. She was wearing her newest Christmas sweatshirt, sporting a yellow Minion in a Santa hat.

  “You sound like crap,” Tilda said.

  Mom let out a hacking cough. “I feel like crap.”

  Tilda set the salad on the nearby coffee table and took a seat in the rocking chair her mother had had ever since Tilda could remember. “Have you gone to the doctor?”

  “For a cold? Of course not.”

  “It seems to be in your chest now.”

  “I just gave myself a mustard plaster.”

  Oh, yeah. Tilda remembered those dreaded mustard plasters. They stung like the devil and they didn’t work. “If you get bronchitis, you’ll be down for the count.”

  “I won’t,” Mom assured her, and then quickly changed the subject. “So, did you get a stove?”

  “I did. Arvid says he’ll deliver it next week.”

  “Which really means in two weeks, but at least you’ll have it by Christmas.” Mom blew her nose on a fresh tissue, then deposited it in the wastebasket she’d set next to the couch.

  The thing was practically full. Tilda picked it up and emptied it in the kitchen garbage can. “Are you going to be well by Christmas? I’m counting on you to help me pull off this Christmas Eve dinner.”

  “Of course I’ll be well by Christmas,” Mom said, and coughed.

  At the rate she was going she wouldn’t even be well by New Year’s. “Have you been eating?”

  “Food. Bleh.”

  Tilda returned and sat in the rocking chair. She picked up the container. “I brought your favorite salad.”

  Mom waved it away. “I’ll have it later.”

  “Later when?”

  “Later when I feel like eating,” Mom said with a scowl. “Honestly, Tillie, you can turn into such a nag.”

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t nag if you’d act like a grown-up when you got sick.”

  Mom pointed a warning finger at her, a reminder of where she got her own finger-pointing habit. “I brought you into this world. I can take you out.”

  “Yeah, I’m scared. I’m going to the Safeway deli to get you some chicken soup.”

  Mom sighed and leaned back against the pillow. “Okay.”

  Tilda bent and kissed her head. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  Chicken soup wasn’t going to do it. What Mom needed was to go to the doctor. Why was she so darned stubborn, anyway?

  Tilda skirted the busy downtown, taking the back roads to the store. Fresh snow was falling, which would make downtown and all its pretty shops look like the inside of a snow globe. It would also create slippery driving conditions for all the visitors who’d taken their chains off after coming through the pass. Especially the ones with all-wheel drive who considered themselves invincible. Before the day was over there’d be at least one accident.

  The Safeway parking lot was a zoo, packed with cars easing in and out, people dashing into the store, dogs inside cars and trucks, barking at passersby.

  Speaking of trucks, there was Devon Black’s. If she hadn’t promised her mom chicken soup, she would’ve turned around and left. Collaring punks, facing gunfire, breaking up fights—none of those situations fazed Tilda. She knew what to do and she did it well. Social situations, on the other hand, particularly situations where you ran into a guy you wanted nothing to do with, a guy who’d had the nerve to tell you off when you didn’t deserve it—well, those were a challenge. She could already feel her heart rate picking up, as if she was about to walk into a dark, abandoned warehouse filled with criminals all lying in wait.

  She sat in her Jeep, considering her options. As far as she could tell, she only had two. Keep sitting there until he left and hope he didn’t notice her, or go in, get her soup and hope she didn’t run into him.

  And if she did, then what? She’d nod her head, acknowledge his presence and move on. That was how she’d always treated him. He’d strung some lights for her and hung around and made a pest of himself, but it didn’t change anything. He was still a pain in the butt and she was still not interested. Not. Interested. Remember that.

  With her plan in place, she entered the store. It took her no more than a couple of minutes to fill a container with soup. She’d be out of here in no time. And the sooner, the better. Not only did she want to avoid Devon, she was ready to get away from the woman behind her in line and her wound-up kid.

  “No, James, you can’t climb up there,” she said after her son’s second attempt to follow the chips and apples onto the checkout conveyor belt. “He’s three,” she said to Tilda as if that explained it.

  Before Tilda could respond, James was busy again, this time helping himself to a candy bar from the impulse-buy rack.

  “No, baby, give that to Mama.”

  “I want it,” he protested as she took it away.

  “Not today. We’re getting corn chips instead.”

  “I want candy,” he whined.

  “Remember what we said. You had to be good at Grandma’s.”

  Obviously, James hadn’t been good at Grandma’s.

  Now he was on an invisible spring, jumping up and down, bouncing into the old woman behind him who let out a yelp when he jumped on her toes.

  “Oh, dear,” fretted his mother. “I’m so sorry. James, stand still.”

  James was either hyperactive or on a sugar high. He was also a good argument for birth control if you asked Tilda. She paid for her soup and got away from the pair.

  She was almost at the door when Devon approached from a check stand farther down. He hesitated for a second, looking half hopeful, half embarrassed, then he prepared to march past her.

  “I’m not stuck-up,” she informed him when he got within hearing range. Was she responding to something he’d said when he was at her place or later when he’d invaded her dreams? She wasn’t quite sure and now she felt like a fool.

  He stopped right in front of her. He wore dark jeans, boots and a navy pea coat, and the beginning of a five-o’clock shadow was darkening his chin.

  Like chocolate-dipped potato chips from Sweet Dreams Chocolates, Zelda’s chocolate-kiss martinis and all such things that were bad for a girl, he looked ridiculously tempting.

  “Yeah, you are,” he said.

  “I am not,” she growled.

  “P
rove it.”

  Just then the kid who’d been in line went racing past. “James!” his mother shouted.

  James was enjoying his temporary freedom far too much to heed his mother. The automatic door had opened and the whole world (or at least the parking lot) was before him, a snowy wonderland. Out he bolted.

  “Crap!” Tilda dropped her soup and went in hot pursuit.

  A car with two old ladies in the front seat had slid into the parking lot and was now sledding its way toward the child. Tilda registered it all as a few seconds stretched into slow motion. The one in the passenger seat was Mrs. Walters. The driver had to be her sister. Mrs. Walters held both hands to her cheeks and had an expression of terror on her face. Her sister looked just as terrified. She’d obviously slammed on the brakes and lost control of the car. A woman screamed. A baby cried. Someone swore. Oh, yeah. That was her.

  As Tilda bolted for the boy, a bigger body shoved past her and scooped up the child, handing him off to Tilda like a two-legged football. The car sent the rescuer sprawling, then came to a stop, colliding with a display of Christmas wreaths, toppling them and spilling them in all directions.

  The boy’s mother took him from Tilda, tearful and grateful. “You and your friend saved my son’s life.”

  The friend was covered in Christmas wreaths and struggling to get up. If it hadn’t been such a serious rescue, it would have been comic.

  Tilda ran to Devon’s side. “Don’t move. You might be hurt.”

  Of course, he ignored her. “I’m fine,” he snapped, brushing fir needles from his coat. “Ow. Shit!”

  “Yeah, I can tell. Sit down. You need someone to check you over.”

  “How about you check me over?”

  “Sit down,” she ordered. She helped him to a nearby stack of bundled kindling. He was limping and his head was bleeding. She took out her cell phone and called the 9-1-1 dispatcher.

  “Seriously?” he said.

  “Yeah, seriously. You’re limping. Your hand’s bleeding and so is your head. You could have a concussion.”

  He took quick advantage of that observation. “Someone should stay with me all night to make sure I’m okay.”

  “If that’s the case, I’ll call your brother.”

  He made a face. “Gee, thanks.”

  She could already hear sirens, which meant help was on the way. “Stay put,” she said, and went to check on the two older women, who were struggling to get out past the car’s air bags. Both were going to have some lovely bruises.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. W.?” she asked Mrs. Walters.

  Mrs. Walters looked around her as if trying to figure out how she’d gotten into this predicament. “That little boy, is he...?”

  “He’s fine. Don’t worry. How do you feel?”

  “Well, dear, to tell the truth, I feel...a bit shaky.”

  “Come on, let’s get you and your sister inside where it’s warm.”

  “And that young man,” Mrs. Walters continued. “Isn’t that Devon?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Well, he’s a true hero.”

  It looked that way. But then, looks could be deceiving. Next time Tilda saw him, he’d probably be in a fight over at the Man Cave.

  Still, he’d risked life and limb to save that kid. Maybe there was more to Devon Black than met the eye. Or her eye, anyway.

  By the time she got Mrs. Walters and her sister calmed down, her fellow officers had arrived on the scene, as well as the aid car. She could leave now. She glanced over at Devon Black. Someone had brought him a roll of paper towels and he sat on that pile of kindling, stanching the flow of blood and looking like a wounded warrior.

  Or a hero.

  Chapter Twelve

  Always make going to see Santa an outing for the whole family.

  —Muriel Sterling, Making the Holidays Bright: How to Have a Perfect Christmas

  Ivy had slipped away from the shop early, leaving the rest of the gang in charge. She didn’t feel too guilty since she’d be back the next day right after church. In retail during the month of December, there was no such thing as a free Sunday. Her day off always had to come on Monday or Tuesday. And there was only one Saturday in December when she traditionally left a little early. That was Santa Saturday, the day she took the kids to visit Mr. and Mrs. Claus in the town center.

  She liked to time her visit so she could stick around for the tree-lighting ceremony afterward. No one would miss her then, as Christmas Haus would be practically void of shoppers. The town square would be filled with visitors and locals alike, all singing Christmas carols and waiting to see the giant tree come to life. She drove to her house where Mutti was on kid patrol and also waiting for Arvid’s repairman to come fix her washing machine. Ivy had gotten most of the water out, but the appliance was still useless and the laundry was piling up.

  Two familiar cars were parked out front. One belonged to Mutti. The other... She pulled into the driveway with her jaw tightly clenched. What was Rob doing here?

  Her son was already in his white shirt and bow tie and black slacks, and Mutti was in the process of buttoning up his little red vest. She looked up at Ivy with a smile that was as guilty as it was welcoming.

  “What’s Rob doing here?” Ivy demanded.

  “He stopped by to drop off treats for the kids.”

  “Mama!” cried Robbie, and ran to her, hands outstretched. “Uppy!”

  She picked him up and kissed his cheek. “It’s my weekend.” Okay, did she sound snippy and selfish?

  “I know, dear,” her mother said calmly.

  “Well, then, why’s he here?”

  “He stopped by to see if you were taking the kids to see Santa, and Hannah told him the washing machine is broken. He’s in the laundry room fixing it.”

  “Him? Where’s the repairman from Arvid’s? He was supposed to come this afternoon.”

  “He had a family emergency.”

  “That’s the second time they haven’t shown up when they said they would.”

  “Rob offered to help.” Mutti shrugged. “I figured since he was here, anyway... And you do have a civil relationship now, right?”

  “Define civil.”

  “You haven’t thrown anything at him recently.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  Her mother patted her on the shoulder. “Really, dear, I’m sorry. But I assumed that in the long run you’d want to have your washing machine fixed.”

  “No, actually, I don’t.” Not if it meant having Rob here, trying to work off his bad behavior.

  Mutti sighed. “I figured it was the least he could do after...”

  Ivy bristled. “There is no least he could do. He left us, Mom. And coming back and fixing a washing machine doesn’t make up for that.”

  Her mother put an arm around her. “I know he hurt you, sweetheart. And this past year hasn’t been any fun.”

  Her mother had no idea. She’d never been left. She and Dad were devoted to each other. Why, oh, why couldn’t Ivy have found someone like her father?

  “But you have to forgive him.”

  “I may have to forgive him, but I don’t have to take him back.”

  Her mother blinked. “Who said anything about taking him back?”

  This was a can of Christmas worms Ivy didn’t want to open. “Never mind,” she said. “Here, hold Robbie a minute, will you?” She dumped her son in her mother’s arms and marched double time to the laundry room. Rob and his wrenches could go find some other washing machine to play with.

  Hannah was seated on the floor in her red velveteen Christmas dress, watching while her father put away his tools. “Daddy fixed our washer machine,” she told Ivy. “He’s gonna take us to see Santa!”

  Daddy didn’t look at M
ommy. He was very intent on shutting his toolbox.

  Ivy was now an exploding pressure cooker. “Go tell Mutti to get your coat,” she said to her daughter, and Hannah happily skipped off. The second she was out of the room, Ivy turned on him. “How dare you?”

  “Hey, I’m sorry. Hannah wants me to take her to visit Santa. What was I supposed to say?”

  “That Mommy’s taking her,” growled Ivy.

  He nodded and stood slowly. “Look, they’re my kids, too.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. She moved to more solid ground. “And who asked you to fix my washing machine?”

  “Our daughter. She told me it was broken. I thought maybe it was a simple fix and I could help.”

  “I didn’t ask you to help!”

  “I know you didn’t, but I wanted to. I know I can’t undo what I did...” he began.

  “That’s right. You can’t.” Fixing a washing machine couldn’t fix a broken heart. There was nothing he could do to make up for the way he’d hurt her.

  Hannah was back again, coat on and ready to roll. She took Rob’s hand and started towing him out of the laundry room. “Come on, Daddy, let’s go see Santa.”

  Darn it all, Ivy didn’t want to share with her undeserving ex. “Baby, Mommy’s going to take you.”

  Hannah frowned. “But I want you to come, Daddy. Mommy, make Daddy come.”

  “Daddy has to be somewhere else,” Ivy said. Preferably somewhere far away, like the moon.

  Hannah’s lower lip began to wobble. “But I want Daddy.”

  Oh, great. Ivy glared at Rob. Look what you’ve done. “If you’re going to cry we won’t go,” she warned.

  “I don’t want to go. I want my daddy,” Hannah wailed, and flung her arms around Rob’s legs, clinging to him.

  He picked her up. “Hey, is this any way to act? Santa’s not going to bring you anything if you’re naughty.”

  “I’m not naughty,” Hannah insisted through her tears.

  “Good. Now Mommy’s right. You need to go with her.”

  He looked so stoical, so noble. Disgusting.

  “You go with Mommy, and on Christmas Day we’ll do something fun. Okay?”