by Sylvie Kurtz
Jamie's fearful response seemed to make Logan instantly contrite. "I didn't mean to yell at you, sport. Someone has to watch your mom. Since you know her best, I thought you might want to. Will you make sure she lies down and rests?"
Eyes wide, Jamie nodded.
Logan strode away, shoulders hunched as if they carried a massive burden.
"Come on." She smiled down at Jamie and squeezed his shoulders tenderly. "Let's go check on that turkey."
"How long till we eat? I'm hungry."
"A while longer." The turkey would be overdone, but she didn't care. This whole holiday had a mind of its own this year, and she needed a nap before she tackled dinner.
She led Jamie inside, spied a sprawl of Cheerios on the floor and remembered the bedraggled mutt. The dog sat snuggled in the corner, eyeing her with a guilty expression.
"It's okay, girl," Beth reassured. The poor thing's ribs were clearly visible beneath the loose skin of her dull brown coat. "I should have known one slice of meat loaf wasn't going to be enough. Let me get you something else."
The dog wagged her tail tentatively, then looked past Beth expectantly as if she were waiting for someone else to walk through the door. Was she afraid of Logan? Considering his gruff manner, she didn't blame the dog.
"It's okay," she reassured the dog once more. "He won't be back for a while."
Though it surely was a figment of her imagination, she thought she saw disappointment in the dog's molasses eyes. You really need a nap, Beth.
Jamie dropped his hat, mitts and coat on the floor and crouched next to the animal. After a moment's hesitation he gently patted her head. She licked his hand. He giggled and maneuvered closer.
"Can we keep her?" he asked, fast becoming friends with the dog.
"We'll see."
She gave both of them a snack to stave off hunger until the turkey was done. After checking on the bird, she shuffled her way to the living room.
A maze of boxes, spread out on the living room floor, waited for her. She ignored them and plopped onto the couch. A smiling angel with long white hair poked from the nearest box. She picked it up and straightened the crooked halo. Jim had bought it for her the first Christmas they'd spent together as husband and wife.
Memories flooded her mind. Like an old movie, the colors seemed bleached from the track, leaving everything in black and white. Tears pressed the corners of her eyes. She wiped them away before they could fall. As hard as she tried to keep Jim's memory full and vibrant, she recently discovered parts of him were fading.
Not the love, no that still filled her heart, but the details—his hair's exact shade of brown, the tone of his laughter, which cheek held the deepest dimple. She was forgetting the person who'd been the center of her life since she was eighteen, and the thought petrified her.
But for Jamie's sake, she'd make Christmas happy. She'd promised.
Next week, the Beautification Committee would start putting up the Christmas decorations in town. The parade plans needed finalization, the tree lighting ceremony needed a few tweaks, the live nativity try-outs needed scheduling, and her sweet-tooth booth for the Holiday Fair needed filling. Not to mention she still had her Christmas shopping to finish and finding a safe place to hide her goodies from Jamie would take ingenuity.
She'd be too busy to cry.
She returned the angel to its box, shifted the red-and-blue pillow to place beneath her head, and swung her feet up. Jamie snatched the colorful granny square afghan from the bentwood rocker and tucked it clumsily around her legs. "Thank you, sweetheart."
"Can I watch a movie?"
"Sure."
Boy and dog sprawled in front of the television. As music from Jamie's video drifted toward her, her eyes drooped. With a sigh, she stopped fighting sleep and invited it in. But as images of Jim and Logan mixed one into the other and traipsed across the screen of her lids, she couldn't decide if they were a dream or a nightmare, and in her drugged fog, she couldn't stop them.
Chapter 3
"Where do you want these boxes?"
Logan's deep voice startled Beth. Her attention concentrated on lifting the turkey in the roasting pan, she hadn't heard him come in. She dropped the pan on the opened oven door. Pan juices splattered on her sweater's sleeve, the oven mitts and the only inch of exposed skin between the top of her mitts and her raised sweater cuffs. She yelped.
"For Pete's sake!" He tossed the empty light boxes aside, rushed toward her and, with a kitchen towel, thrust the roasting pan squarely back onto the rack. "If you need help, ask for it."
"I don't need help. I'm perfectly capable—"
"Yeah, with two hands swaddled and a body pumped full of painkillers, you're perfectly capable of hurting yourself."
"I can do it myself..."
Realizing she sounded like a two-year-old, she let her voice drift and sagged next to the open oven. Heat swirled around her face and she the scent of burning turkey wings overwhelmed her.
The pain pill she'd taken earlier had already worn off. A headache had taken up residence, pounding a jungle beat along her temples. Her hands throbbed. Because she'd overslept, the turkey was overdone and nothing else for her Thanksgiving meal was prepared.
This whole day was turning into a giant disaster. How was she going to make it through Christmas if she couldn't get the season started right? And now, to make the whole situation even more unbearable, hot tears gushed down her cheeks.
"Aw, no. Don't cry." Logan crouched next to her, put his hands tentatively on her shoulders and snapped them away just as fast. "I can't stand tears."
"I'm not crying. I never cry." Using the back of one oven mitt, she wiped the salty stream from her face.
He removed the mitts from her hands. "And I suppose this wet stuff staining the poinsettias on your mitts is steam from the turkey."
She rested her back against the cabinet behind her and sighed. "It's ruined."
"What?" He reached up and closed the oven door.
"The turkey. It's overcooked. It'll be dry. Gourmet chefs aren't supposed to mess up Thanksgiving dinner." What was wrong with her? A little chicken broth and some gravy could rescue the meat. But she couldn't seem to get out from under the dark cloud positioned over her head, and she babbled on like an idiot. "Jamie's hungry. I don't have any dog food. The turkey's ruined and nothing else is ready. We're going to be late for the pie extravaganza."
He closed his eyes and his head fell forward. Once again, she had the impression he was counting to keep his temper in check. And once more she got the feeling from the stern set of his face, from the twitch of his jaw muscle and the narrowing of his eyes that he'd rather knock on hell's door than stay in her home.
And worse than that, she wanted him to stay. Him. A stranger. A man. In her kitchen.
With the pain strumming her palms and Thanksgiving falling apart around her like a ruined soufflé, she suddenly realized she didn't want to be alone. And a surly stranger seemed a much better alternative than disturbing Eve's plans with Gus. Eve already did too much for her.
"It's only a meal," Logan said.
"It's Thanksgiving."
After a silence that seemed to last forever and a glare that made her feel like the world's biggest idiot, he said, "What do you need done?"
For a moment she couldn't speak. She could only stare at the enigma of a man crouched before her. She was being selfish. He'd just moved two thousand miles. He was tired. And he probably had a ton of boxes to unpack. "Nothing. You've done enough already."
"And just how are you planning on cooking this grandiose meal of yours?"
"I'll manage." She lifted her hands. "This isn't your fault."
He clenched his jaw.
"Isn't someone waiting for you?" she asked, searching for a way to give him an easy out. "Don't you have somewhere to go for Thanksgiving?"
"Don't you?"
She'd refused, as she did every year, at least a half-dozen invitations. She couldn't explain to him how i
mportant it was for her to be home where the happy memories lived. It was as close to Jim as she could get—this time of the year and all the little traditions they'd started together. "It's our special time, mine and Jamie's. We always eat at home together."
For an instant his haunted eyes swirled with emotions, and his sadness touched off chords of recognition deep in her soul. Her hands reached for his and covered them, feeling their chapped cold even through her bandages. He snatched his hands from beneath hers and rose abruptly.
She sprang up and found herself staring at his jacketed chest. Not exactly what she had in mind, but she didn't want to have to crane her neck to look into his eyes.
"What was I thinking?" she said. "Of course you don't have anywhere to go, you just moved here. So you'll stay with us." She whirled around reaching for the drawer in which she kept her table linens. With something concrete to do, some way to repay her new neighbor for his kindness, she brightened. "I'll set an extra place."
"No."
"What?" Looking over her shoulder, she raised both her eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. "You have someone else you need to bellow at today?"
His body tensed and she backtracked to cover up her faux pas. Tablecloth in hand, she headed for the table. "Besides, you're right. With my hands bandaged like this, I can't carve, and Jamie's too young to attempt the job."
This excuse was as close as she could come to asking for his help once more. His assessing gaze made her feel like water dropped onto a hot griddle. Carefully, with measured movements, she spread the cloth over the table, giving the task all of her attention. Anything to get away from him and to focus on something less intimidating.
"What do you need done?"
His response held no warmth, but his glacial tone didn't bother her. His answer consumed some of the tension his silence had erected. She hadn't realized she held her breath until she had to dole it out in order not to sigh her relief too loudly. To avoid his barbecuing gaze, she swiveled to the counter. "Let me find my list."
Then her body couldn't contain the excess energy percolating in her muscles, and she popped like the bubbles in a boiling pot of water. "I was going to make Duchess potatoes—"
"What? You don't think I can handle Duchess potatoes?"
She stopped midstep and stared at him mouth open. Was he kidding? Or had she managed to hurt his feelings once more? From the serious set of his face, she couldn't be sure. "I'm sure you can handle anything you set your mind to, but for simplicity's sake, mashed will have to do."
As she moved around the kitchen opening cupboards and plucking ingredients, her voice tripped almost as fast as the spastic movements of her body, and neither could keep up with her breakneck thoughts. It was crazy. It was nuts. It should feel odd, out of place, to have someone like him in her kitchen. Today of all days. But somehow it didn't.
"The squash casserole needs reheating," she rambled. "Then there's the fall vegetable medley to prepare. I made rolls yesterday. The cranberry mold should be set by now. Let me see—"
Logan grasped her wrist midflight and pulled her toward a chair. "Sit. Your fluttering is driving me crazy."
She plopped into the chair. "Well, I—"
"Don't you know how to relax?"
"You're one to talk!" she answered with a snort. When he freed her wrist, she placed her hand over the trace of unexpected heat his fingers left behind.
He unzipped his bulky ski jacket and pulled it off his shoulders. When he turned around to drop it onto a chair, she gasped and one bandaged hand flew to her mouth. His dark-green flannel shirt hung on his frame like a big brother's hand-me-down. A much bigger brother. "When was the last time you ate?"
He gave her his best glower yet, but so shocked was she by his thin frame, she barely noticed.
"Do you always meddle in other people's business?" He headed for the counter where a five-pound bag of Yukon Gold potatoes waited. "How many do you want peeled?"
"Six. Here let me get you—" She interrupted herself halfway to the two aprons hooked behind a door. "Never mind." He definitely didn't look like an apron-wearing kind of guy. Not with that lean male strength so raw and potent and close to the surface even in his underfed state. An image of him in frills popped into her head and the absurdity of the picture made her laugh out loud.
"What's so funny?" he asked sharply without looking at her.
"The thought of you in a frilly apron."
He grunted his unamused answer.
She'd never before known anyone who seemed so lacking in a sense of humor. The thought of him in an apron held some appeal after all. With his hard edges softened by the ruffles and a smile on his lips, he would paint an endearing picture. Her cheeks flamed. To cover up her embarrassment, she zigged to the fridge and pulled open the door.
Somewhere between the clinic and the potatoes, she'd ceased to fear Logan. He might present himself like a bear with a grudge, but below the prickly front, she sensed he hid a troubled soul. When she saw his too-lean frame, she knew she had to help him. With what, she wasn't sure. If nothing else, she could feed him until some meat reappeared on his bones. A few good meals might even sweeten his sour disposition.
She piled containers from the fridge in one arm. A plastic bowl teetered and clattered to the floor.
"That's it." He slapped a half-peeled potato and the peeler on the counter, grabbed the contents of her arms and banged them on the table. He grasped her shoulders and marched her back to the chair. "Sit and don't move."
She bounced back up. "I can't. It's not in my nature to watch someone else work and do nothing."
Keeping busy—active, as her mother called it—was her legacy from two parents devoted to community service. And her saving grace after Jim's death.
"Get used to it. If you insist on using those hands, the stitches will pop open and get infected." He brought his face a mere inch from hers, stared at her like a ghost-story teller around a crackling camp fire. The color of his eyes swirled like smoke over a mystery. She licked her lips against the sudden heat engulfing her. He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. In spite of herself, she shivered. "Then they'll have to chop your hands off. A chef needs hands to work, doesn't she?"
Without giving her a chance to answer, he whipped back to the potatoes and attacked them with a vengeance.
Well, of all the nerve! She crossed her arms under her chest, squirming with unsettling tension. "Oh, and are you planning on being around every time I need to use my hands?"
He chopped the potatoes with more force than needed and dumped the pieces into a waiting pot, splashing water onto the stove's top.
"Should I call you every time I need a meal prepared, a box lifted, a..." She couldn't think of anything to add. "A shower?"
Uninvited images of his hands soaping her wet body sent a shiver of longing deep inside her. Why? His stiff, mechanical movements offered nothing to swoon over. What was wrong with her? She took the vial of painkiller from her sweater's pocket and examined the label. It made no mention of hallucinations as a side effect.
She fingered the ridges on the bottle's child-safety cap and sighed. She missed Jim, that was all. He'd always made the holidays special—which made his absence today all the more painful and noticeable.
But Logan wasn't Jim. They were as different as a winter blizzard and summer sunshine. She couldn't confuse the presence of one for the feelings she held for the other. No good would come of it.
"Do your hands hurt?" Logan's voice brought her back to the present. She glanced at the pill bottle.
"No." They hurt like heck, but she wanted to enjoy her holiday meal—for Jamie's sake—and not spend it in a drugged fog. She shoved the bottle back into her pocket. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't take out my frustrations on you. It's just hard..." She shrugged and concentrated on the dried slush marks on her tile floor.
He grunted and went back to his task.
She watched her somber neighbor move about her kitchen, handling her Calphalon pots and pans w
ith the delicacy a drill sergeant might show boot-camp rejects, wielding her Henckels knives with the finesse of a hunter field-dressing a deer. No wonder he was so thin. He probably ate from tin cans and cardboard boxes. How else could she explain his unfamiliarity with the proper use of kitchen equipment? Yet something in his manner also showed he wasn't completely clueless about cooking. She tamped back the new set of questions forming in her mind. I don't want to know.
The dog kept poking her head in the kitchen, big brown eyes darting from Logan to her. As soon as either caught the mutt in the act, she retreated into the living room.
While Beth instructed Logan on the dinner preparations, Jamie switched videos. The words and music of Dr. Seuss' How the Grinch Stole Christmas drifted into the kitchen. Her fingers toyed idly with the silverware piled on the table and her gaze studied Logan's back.
Cuddly as a cactus? That fits. Charming as an eel? Make that an electric one. His heart an empty hole? But why? Garlic on his soul? No, not garlic, but sadness. The kind of deep sadness that could turn off the sunshine in anybody's eyes.
She knew. She'd been there.
Logan turned and caught her staring. Blushing, she busied setting the table, feeling as guilty as the dog had when she'd poked her head into the kitchen. What was the mutt's interest in Logan, anyway?
"What else?" He stared at her as if he'd wanted to ask a different question, and she found herself wishing he had.
"That's it. We're all set." She fiddled with a napkin, but his intense gaze didn't lessen. "I'll, um, go get Jamie to wash up."
Despite a rocky start, the meal didn't turn out half as bad as she'd expected. After consuming a hefty portion of her own, the dog trolled the table like a shark and begged shamelessly for handouts. Neither she nor Jamie could resist those liquid eyes. But although the dog spent most of her time next to Logan's chair, he ignored her. And with each mouthful he took, she found her curiosity about her new neighbor deepening.
Jamie kept the conversation lively, if one-sided. His laughter, along with the bright red-green-and-gold napkins and burning candles, gave the kitchen a cheery atmosphere. Logan didn't speak unless spoken to. He ate with concentration, if not gusto, never looking at either her or Jamie directly. Almost as if he were shielding himself from the pleasure a simple meal could afford him.