Christmas on Candy Cane Lane

by Sheila Roberts

  Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow, sang the hormones, and it was all Tilda could do not to yell, “Shut up!”

  “No cooking, either, so you’d better make everything now while you can,” Carol advised.

  “Good idea,” Tilda said, and swiped her charge card. It was also a good idea to get out of here and away from Devon Black. “Thanks, Carol.”

  “Merry Christmas,” Carol said as Tilda skedaddled on out.

  Devon didn’t say anything.

  Back home, Tilda unpacked her grocery bag. She opened the M&M’s and snitched a few. Then she melted some butter in the microwave, set the oven to preheat and started putting together her cookie dough. Cookies first. Then she’d make the cupcakes and run everything over to Mom.

  She’d just finished with the dough when her doorbell rang. She went to answer it, hoping it wasn’t Maddy Donaldson with some new crisis.

  It wasn’t Maddy. She would’ve preferred Maddy. “What are you doing here?”

  Devon grinned at her and held up a package of cupcake liners. “You need these if you’re gonna make cupcakes,” he said, sauntering in.

  “How do you know stuff like that?” Oh, yeah. The girlfriend who taught him how to cook. Among other things.

  “My mom makes cupcakes all the time.”

  There was something about a man mentioning his mom that was like a secret sauce. Pour it over him and suddenly he was completely irresistible.

  But she’d manage to resist somehow. “You had a mom. Gosh, I thought you were hatched.”

  “Hey, chickens are moms, too. So, need help?”

  “No.”

  “You sure? Don’t forget, I’ve seen you in the kitchen.”

  He thought this was the way to her heart? She narrowed her eyes and prepared to lambaste him.

  “Come on, let me do my good deed for the day and help you. And you can make up for being so shitty to me last time I was over.”

  “Uninvited,” she reminded him.

  “You know, sometimes relationships are like cookies. You burn a batch, you try again. It turns out not so bad, and you think, ‘Hey, I’m glad I gave it a second chance.’ Did it ever occur to you we might be like that?”

  “No,” she said irritably.

  He took a step closer, and she was suddenly aware of how solid and well put together he was. “You’re too late on the cookies. I’m almost done,” she said, and turned back to the kitchen. To prove it, she shoved the baking sheet in the oven.

  “Whoa, nice oven.”

  “It’ll get the job done.”

  “Yeah? We’ll see,” he teased. “You might want to set the timer.”

  Oh. Yeah. Now, how to do that? She studied the stove.

  He reached around her and pushed the set-timer button, then chose the minutes and pushed it again.

  “I was going to do that,” she said, but they both knew she was lying. “Okay, I was going to do it as soon as I figured it out.”

  He grinned, even more roguishly than before. “I like a woman who can admit when she’s wrong.” Then his voice softened. “Can you do that, Tilda? Can you admit when you’ve been wrong about someone?”

  He was standing so close, their bodies were practically touching. Was it getting hot in here? “You’re not my type,” she reminded him. Or was it herself she was reminding?

  “Maybe you need to rethink that,” he said softly. His lips were almost on hers. Whoopee! howled her hormones.

  No, no, no. She was not taking up with the likes of Devon Black. He’d said it himself. He was a lover. And she knew what that really meant—a lover and a leaver, as in love ’em and leave ’em. Well, she wasn’t going to be one of the ’ems.

  Even though her black thong was about to spontaneously combust, she stepped away, leaving him kissing air.

  He frowned at her. “You’re a tease.”

  “Yeah? Well, you’re a heartbreaker, so we can call it even.”

  “So, that’s it. You think I’m going to break your little policewoman’s heart?”

  She narrowed her eyes and pointed a warning finger at him. “Don’t you mock me.”

  “Cops are supposed to be brave.”

  “I am brave,” she snapped. “And I’m not stupid.” She marched over to the counter where her bowl of cookie dough sat waiting, then dug the mixing spoon in, pulled out a dollop of dough and slammed it on the second cookie sheet.

  “I don’t know. I think you’re kind of chicken.”

  She looked over her shoulder. There he stood, leaning against the stove, arms crossed, surveying her with a frown that mirrored her own. “Just because I don’t want the playboy of Icicle Falls messing with my head.”

  “The only one messing with your head is you,” he retorted. Then he smiled. “I was more interested in messing with other body parts.”

  “Ha! That proves it. You’re not serious. A man like you doesn’t understand the meaning of the word serious.”

  His smile fell away. “Yeah?”

  She shook her head and went back to her cookie dough. “Yeah. And we both know it.”

  “You don’t know squat. You haven’t spent enough time with me to know much of anything.”

  “All you want is to get drunk and get laid, and as long as you make enough to party, life is good.” Okay, that was a pretty shallow summary, and she immediately regretted the words. She bit her lip. Too late to contain the harsh words that had come out.

  He flinched. “You’ve got a real mean streak, don’t you?”

  He was right. She did. When did she get so mean?

  “Did you ever stop to wonder if maybe I’m tired of relationships that go nowhere? Tired of being by myself, having nothing to show for my life but a bunch of newspaper clippings?”

  The timer on the stove went off. Saved by the bell. Tight-lipped, Tilda put on the new oven mitt Georgie had given her. Equally tight-lipped, Devon moved out of the way.

  Then he spoke. “Your oven’s not hot.”

  She opened the door. No blast of heat greeted her. She pulled out the cookie sheet and found uncooked mounds of dough with red and green candies peeking out. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Did you turn it on?” he asked.

  She sent him a scorching glare. “What do you think?”

  He looked at the little window at the front of the stove that said 350. Then he looked inside. “Your heating element’s out.”

  “What?” She looked inside, too. Sure enough. Instead of glowing red, the dumb thing was black as a lump of coal. “I just bought this,” she said in disbelief.

  “From Arvid?”

  She straightened and said a cautious, “Yeah.”

  “My brother and sister-in-law bought a stove from him last year. It was a lemon.”

  Great. She’d bought a four-burner lemon and Christmas Eve was right around the corner. “This can’t happen, not now.”

  “Family coming?” he guessed.

  Tilda’s cell phone rang and she snatched it from the counter, wishing she was grabbing Arvid by the neck instead. “There must be something I can arrest him for,” she muttered. Irritation turned to wariness when she saw the called ID. “Hi, Mom. I got your soup.”

  “Tillie.” Her mom’s voice was a cross between a croak and wheeze. “I...”

  “Mom! Are you okay?”

  “I think I better...go to the doc. Having. Trouble. Breathing.”

  Oh, God. “I’ll be right there. I’m calling 9-1-1 now.”

  “What is it?” Devon demanded.

  “My mom.” Tilda’s voice broke. “I’ve gotta get her to the hospital.” She scooped up her keys and ran out the door.

  In less than a minute she was on her way, pedal to the metal. At the far end of Candy Cane Lane,
one of her neighbors was crossing the street. Tilda didn’t let up on the gas. She laid on the horn and the neighbor ran for her life. Tilda roared past her and barely registered the angry, “Slow down!” the woman hurled after her. She made good use of her Bluetooth as she screeched around the corner.

  “We’re on it, Tilda,” said the dispatcher. “Don’t worry.”

  Don’t worry. Yeah, sure. Darn the stubborn old bat. They should have gone to the doctor this morning like Tilda wanted to do. This was the last time she was listening to her mother. Ever!

  She beat the ambulance to the house, raced inside and found her mom on the couch. She looked awful and her breathing was labored. “Guess you were right,” she wheezed.

  “Don’t talk,” Tilda commanded. “Hang on. The ambulance will be here any minute.” Tilda wasn’t much for praying, but that didn’t stop her from hedging her bets. Please, God, don’t let her die.

  As if in answer to her amateur prayer, she heard the siren. It got closer and louder, and then James Jensen, Harv Correll and two other medics were on the scene. In they came with their jump kit and oxygen kit. Tilda had spent plenty of time around medics over the years and usually managed to stay calm and cool in the face of blood and pain. But this was different. This was Mom.

  “You took long enough getting here,” she told James.

  He ignored her pissy greeting and instead focused on Mom. “Let’s have you sit up, Mrs. Morrison,” he said, and Harv took out a stethoscope and listened to Mom’s breathing. With that done it was time for questions. What meds was she on? Did she have emphysema? Harv put a nasal cannula on her face while another medic took her blood pressure.

  The team worked with precision and efficiency, and Tilda almost calmed down until it was decided that Mom would get to take a ride in the ambulance.

  Tilda was ready to take a ride, too, but James said, “Why don’t you follow us in your car? That way you’ll have a ride home from the hospital.”

  “I want to go with her.”

  James laid a hand on her arm. “Til. She’s going to be fine. Okay?”

  Tilda wanted to cry like a big baby, but she bit her lip and nodded.

  She easily kept pace with the ambulance. Once at the hospital she insisted on sticking by her mother’s side. Only after the doctor had examined her and she’d been hooked up to an IV with fluids and antibiotics did Tilda’s heart rate start to return to normal.

  By the time her mom was settled in a room and Tilda had talked with the doctor, she felt as if she’d been mugged in a dark alley and left for dead. Mom was going to be okay. She’d have to stay in the hospital for a couple of days, but the doc had assured Tilda that she’d be able to come home for Christmas.

  It was such good news, Tilda nearly burst into tears. “Thanks,” she said in relief.

  “Don’t let her overdo it,” he cautioned.

  Tilda was going to make certain Mom never so much as got off the couch. Which meant she was on her own for cooking the turkey. Oh, well, she could figure it out. No need to bug Mom. She’d just look it up on the internet.

  “She’s had a real scare,” the doctor said. “Now would be the time to convince her to quit smoking.”

  Tilda resolved to go over to the house and round up all the cigarettes. Mom would be too weak to go off to get more.

  She took the elevator down to the lobby, leaning against a corner and taking a deep breath. Mom was going to be okay, thank God, the cigarettes were finally going bye-bye and Christmas Eve was going to be great. The elevator door slid open and she stepped out wearing a smile.

  Until she saw Devon Black slouched in one of the chairs in the waiting area, watching for her. He uncurled himself and came over.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Thought I’d hang around in case you needed anything.”

  There it was again, the hint that Devon Black wasn’t such a loser. That he was, in fact, a nice guy. And probably a masochist, considering the fact that he was hanging around after what she’d said to him back at the house.

  She almost didn’t know what to say after having been such a jerk. “Thanks,” she mumbled.

  “No problem.”

  “About what I said...”

  “Forget it.”

  That sounded like a good idea to her. She nodded and started for the door.

  He fell in step with her. “How’s your mom?”

  “She’s going to be okay. She’ll be home by Christmas.”

  He nodded. “Good. By the way, I put your cookie dough in the fridge. That seems to work.”

  Which was more than she could say for her stove. “I have to cook a turkey,” she blurted. Okay, where had that come from? Word association? Broken stove, Christmas dinner, turkey.

  “You can order a precooked one from the Safeway deli. Pick it up on Christmas Eve and you’re good to go.”

  So he wasn’t such a great cook, after all. “And you know this how?”

  “I saw the flyer for it in the store.”

  Now, there was the way to cook a turkey. “I think I’ll do that.”

  “I’ve got a stove that works. Why don’t you bring over your cookie dough and finish your cookies at my place? I have some Hale’s Pale Ale.”

  They were in the parking lot now, but Tilda knew she was really standing at a crossroad. She didn’t know what was more tempting—cookies, beer or Devon Black. Part of her wanted to go all domestic goddess, wander down the road to stupid with a man who was not what she was looking for but exactly what she wanted. If she went over to Devon’s, it would be like going into a dangerous situation without backup. She was wrung out, vulnerable.

  Not gonna happen. She shook her head.

  “Bad timing on my part?” he guessed.

  Bad idea. Period. “Look,” she began.

  He held up a hand to stop her. “Let’s just leave it as bad timing. I hope your mom feels better soon.” With that he saluted her and walked off to his car.

  She got into her Jeep and drove back to her house, where she filched some of the cookie dough he’d put in the fridge. She wished he’d stop doing nice stuff like that. It didn’t fit his image and it was confusing her.

  Right about now, an M&M’s cookie would really help her think.

  Let’s go to Devon’s, chanted her hormones.

  We are not going to Devon’s, she informed them. But she could use some company. What was Ivy doing tonight?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Remember, it’s not about what you do or where you go but who you’re with.

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

  Missy had managed to fit Ivy in for an afternoon color touch-up. She’d hated to leave the shop when it was so busy, but she’d decided that taking care of her hair would put her in a better frame to take care of business.

  Or not. Missy had gushed like a geyser about her fabulous honeymoon. “We stayed at the most gorgeous place in Hawaii. The food was the kind of stuff you have in superfancy restaurants. We even went to a luau. And the sunsets. Wow.”

  Oh, yes. There was something about watching a sunset with the man you loved. Ivy and Rob used to sit out on the back deck with a beer on the long summer evenings and watch the sun set behind the mountains, painting the sky gold and pink, and turning the mountains lavender.

  “Never mind the sunsets. Tell her how good the sex was,” teased Courtney, who’d been managing to keep up a conversation with her own customer, as well as Missy’s from her neighboring station.

  Missy had blushed. “That, too. I’m so happy.”

  “And I’m happy for you,” Ivy had said. Which she was. If anyone deserved a good life, it was Missy Monroe. But Ivy realized she was also a little jealous. She didn’t need to go to Hawaii, but s
he sure could use some love.

  You have love, she’d reminded herself. You’ve got your family, your friends and your kids. She could have Rob’s love again, too. At least that was what he claimed. But there was no guarantee that if she took him back he wouldn’t get restless and dump her all over again. Who wanted to risk that kind of pain?

  You have to move on, she’d told herself. Be grateful for what’s good in your life. Don’t think about sunsets and sex.

  Once Missy had finished up with Ivy’s hair, she’d handed her a mirror so she could check out the back.

  “Thanks. It looks great.” And, indeed, it did. There was something about getting her hair done that always lifted a woman’s spirits, and Ivy had found herself wishing she had somewhere to go after work besides home.

  Except, by the time she got home from work, she wouldn’t want to go anywhere but to the couch. No wonder Rob had left, she’d thought as she went back to the shop. All she did was work. When had she turned into a boring stick in the mud?

  She remembered the night before. That had been very unboring. But not in a good way. Ugh.

  Now it was five o’clock, and she was ready to leave Nicole to handle the post-tree-lighting shoppers, and then close up at seven. She was barely out the door when her cell phone rang.

  “Ivy, I’m sorry to bother you when you’re at the shop,” said Maddy Donaldson.

  “That’s okay,” Ivy told her. “What can I do for you?” Now, why had she gone and said that? A person should never ask Maddy what she could do for her, because at Christmastime, Maddy always wanted something.

  Sure enough. “Well, we seem to be short a Mrs. Santa Claus for tonight and I was hoping you could take a turn.”

  On a Saturday night after being on her feet at the store all day? What was Maddy smoking?

  “If you could go out for an hour or so, say from seven to eight, it would be so helpful,” Maddy hurried on. “I wouldn’t ask, except this bug that’s been going around has knocked out a lot of our volunteers. I’d do it myself but I’ve got a commitment later in the evening.”

  Ivy knew she’d be pooped when she got home. “I can’t. Sorry, Maddy.”

  “I just thought that since your husband has the kids this weekend... I did see him coming for the kids yesterday, didn’t I?”