A Little Christmas Magic

by Sylvie Kurtz

  Jamie interrupted her thoughts. "Knock-knock."

  "Who's there?" she asked, thankful for the distraction. Logan Ward and his obsession with self-punishment were none of her business.

  "Atomic."

  "Atomic who?" But the why of his sadness niggled at her like a cake cut crooked begging to be straightened. She angled Logan a glance. Heat flamed her cheeks when he caught her in the act.

  "Atomic ache from eating too much!"

  She laughed with Jamie. "Do you have room for pie?"

  Jamie pretended to ponder the question and flashed her a mischievous grin. "Maybe just one piece. Or two. I hope Mrs. Parker made her chocolate pie again. I'll get my coat."

  He scampered away.

  "How about you, Logan?" His name tasted strange on her tongue. Not altogether unpleasant, she decided. "Room for dessert? The pie extravaganza at the Fellowship Hall lives up to its name. More pie than any one town can consume."

  For a moment so small she thought she'd imagined it, something warm and volcanic flared deep in his eyes. And if she hadn't witnessed his surliness all afternoon, she might easily have mistaken the look as the kind a man gives a woman who interests him. But on second glance nothing sparked in his dark-gray eyes but a thick slab of ice even the sharpest pick couldn't get through. The figment of warmth had been nothing but her overactive imagination and her loneliness in action. So why the strange sense of disappointment?

  Shaking her head, she gathered her plate and rose. You're really losing it, Beth.

  Logan cleared his throat and took the plate from her hands. "I'd better start on those dishes for you."

  * * *

  "I'll wait for you here," Logan said as he turned off the car's engine.

  "You'll do no such thing. It's freezing out here, and you're not used to the cold. Besides, Jamie can't reach the handle on the front door, and you're the one who keeps insisting I shouldn't use my hands."

  His jaw ached from all the teeth grinding he'd done during the day, but rather than argue and prolong his ordeal, he pocketed the keys and followed her to the town hall. The sooner he got her to eat her blasted pie, the sooner he could get her home again.

  The Fellowship Hall was on the second floor of the town hall building. Beth informed him the narrow, creaky stairs they scaled were more than a hundred years old and gave him more history on the building than he cared to know. The noise of festivities grew with each stair they climbed, souring his already irritable disposition.

  People, a mass of them, were stuffed into the hall. Coats piled the stage at the back of the room. Children raced and yelled and laughed, grating on his already raw nerves. Adults stood or sat in clusters talking, shifting now and then like the image in a kaleidoscope to visit with a new set of people.

  The cloying aroma of sugar overtook the scent of age and wood wax. His stomach protested. Table after table rimmed the perimeter of the room. Pie plates were set close to the wall. Precut pieces from the pies waited on paper plates for sampling. Beth was right. The place held enough pie to feed a third-world country.

  And he wanted to be anywhere but there.

  At least no wreaths or poinsettias or bright lights trimmed the place, only decorative gourds and fake autumn leaves artfully spread from straw horns at each of the tables.

  Jamie discarded his coat at his mother's feet, then raced away to join a pack of boys his age creating chaos in one corner.

  "What kind of pie do you want?" Beth asked as he helped her out of her coat and held on to it and Jamie's. The last thing he wanted was to have them disappear in the mound on the stage. His game plan was to leave as soon as possible, not waste an hour looking for coats.

  "What kind did you make?"

  She blushed, bringing too much warm life to her China-doll skin. "Apple cranberry with a crumb topping."

  "That's fine."

  As she made her way to the pie tables, it didn't take long for someone to notice her bandaged hands. A wave of humans swept her away like a duck riding a wave in a storm. People fussed over her and questioned and curious glances kept darting in his direction. A few brave souls tried to engage him in conversation. He kept it short and snappy and soon interest dwindled. Bits and pieces of conversation floated to him and didn't do anything to set his mind at peace.

  "...Beth's latest stray."

  "He's staying at her place?"

  "No, no, he bought the MacDonald property across..."

  "... no snow tires—"

  "—all-season radials work just as well, if you ask me."

  "No one asked you."

  "...a dog, no kids..."

  "...from Texas."

  "...What does he do?"

  "Don't know. She didn't say. But if things are on par, he's just another fixer-upper..."

  And he stood there in his corner frowning, hating every minute of the evening. Just what he needed, the whole town meddling in his business.

  After what seemed like an eternity, a teenager with dreadlock-bedecked blond hair sat at the piano on the stage and banged out a few chords to draw the crowd's attention. A sturdy matron, who looked about sixty, clambered onto the stage and toddled to stand next to the piano. She patted the long brown curls of her outdated flip hairdo and smoothed the lapel of her bright-red jacket.

  "Hello!" The microphone shrieked with feedback. Someone adjusted it for her. "Is that better? Great. I trust everyone has helped themselves to pie."

  She nodded and smiled regally, like a queen to her benevolent subjects.

  "Louder, Mildred. We can't hear you back here."

  "Turn up your hearing aid, Carl."

  A chuckle ran through the room.

  "I'd like to call your attention to the table by the main doors," Mildred continued, pointing her manicured fingers vaguely toward the back of the room. "The Beautification Committee has placed sign-up sheets for volunteers. We would really appreciate a good turnout to make this the best holiday season ever."

  A grumble traveled through the crowd.

  "Now, now. With the SuperMart going up next door, we have to do all we can to keep our town together."

  A fist went up and pumped the air. "Darn right we do. Remember to 'Wrap It Up Locally.' It's gonna benefit us all."

  A murmur of agreement swarmed through the room.

  Mildred patted her hair again. "All right, with business out of the way and pie in our bellies, all that's missing is the right note to get us all in the holiday mood."

  Mildred turned to the kid at the piano. "Ready?"

  The kid nodded and struck a few chords.

  Then they did the worst thing of all.

  They sang.

  Christmas carols with sleigh bells and Santa Claus and enough merriment to choke a dozen reindeer.

  And just when he thought he couldn't take another second more of this holiday cheer, Beth came toward him with a protesting Jamie by her side, and a part of him breathed easier.

  "I wanna stay!" Jamie whined, dragging his feet.

  "I'm sorry, Logan." Her regret showed in the softening of her powder-blue eyes. "I shouldn't have brought you here."

  "I didn't even get any pie," Jamie continued.

  "We'll get some at home."

  "Bobby—"

  "That's enough, Jamie." She handed the boy his coat and took hers from Logan's arms. "Let's go home."

  And though he knew she belonged there in all that community and glee, he could have kissed her for walking away from it all to free him from his torment.

  * * *

  Logan stuffed his hands deep in his jacket pockets and buried his chin in his jacket collar to keep out the cold air. The crunching of his boots on the snow created the only sound disturbing the quiet of the night.

  He'd forgotten how much he liked that sound. He'd been seventeen the last time he'd felt snow beneath his boots. His grandfather had died that spring, and his mother had sold the cabin in New Hampshire without listening to her son's objections. With it had gone some of his fondest
childhood memories—hockey on the pond, fishing in the summer and his grandfather's love. He'd never known his father, and his mother never tired of letting him know she worked two jobs just to keep food on the table and a roof over his head. She didn't have time to love him, only to resent him.

  He stepped high over the downed rail in the fence bordering his property. He took a few strides forward, then turned back to secure the rail into its hole in the post. Not that it would stop Jamie from trespassing. A quick glance at Beth's house brought regret. The lights he'd cursed while installing shone a bright beacon in the dark night. With determination, he turned his back on the festive spectacle, resuming the dour track of his winter memories.

  When Julia had come into his life, he'd thought he would finally have his dream of a real family, but she'd come from a loveless background, too, and hadn't known how to give what she'd never received. He'd been twenty-two and still full of hope then. He was going to change her mind, change the world, make a difference. What a crock!

  The dream had proved a mirage. Julia had cried when she found out she was pregnant and hadn't stopped crying even after their child was born. He'd known then his dream would forever remain an illusion. But he'd been determined his daughter wouldn't suffer the way he and Julia had. He'd spent his days showering Samantha with love and time, hoping she would never notice the shaky foundation on which their family stood.

  Family.

  Watching Beth and Jamie together, longing had surged forward once more. Must have been the combination of hot food and her warm kitchen. He hadn't eaten a meal like that since... since he couldn't remember. He hadn't felt so much warmth in forever either. And instead of gratitude for her compassion at the pie extravaganza, he seethed with renewed anger.

  Damn the woman anyway. Hadn't he predicted she'd be trouble from the moment he'd seen her perched on that ladder with all those bright decorations around her?

  He hunched his shoulders and kicked at the snow. What had possessed him to share a meal with his neighbors? To drive them to their blasted pie-gorging event and subject himself to all those curious stare and whispered questions?

  Hunger, came the answer.

  He didn't like the thoughts forming in his mind and tried to blast them into nothingness. But the more he tried not to think of Beth, the more his addled brain filled with images of her.

  Logan. The echo of her voice still reverberated in his mind. He wasn't used to hearing his name said without rancor or regret. And when she'd said his name at the table, he'd felt the sharp pangs of a man's hunger for a woman's touch.

  But thinking along those lines was dangerous. Deadly. Someone like her couldn't offer him what he needed, and he couldn't give her anything at all.

  He turned the corner of his house, glad to be back at his cold home where he could nurse his misery in peace. The sadness of the house had appealed to him—the gray exterior, the equally dismal interior, the creaky stairs and all that age-dulled woodwork in need of refinishing. The sheer amount of physical work needed to whip the place into shape would keep him too busy to feel.

  On the first step to his front door, he stopped in his tracks.

  There, waiting for him, was that damned mutt again.

  As if he were her long lost master, the dog shot up and wagged her rear. She had a Spaniel's tail, a terrier's short-haired, dark brown coat, ears that couldn't decide if they wanted to stand up straight or flop over, and the most insipid grin imaginable on an animal.

  "Oh, no!" He reached the dog in two steps. He tried tugging on the hair around her neck to get her to move. "Go on. Shoo!"

  The thing couldn't weigh more than twenty pounds, yet she refused to budge. In a change of tactics, he moved to the rear end and pushed. The dog hunkered down her claws, making it impossible to shift the beast. "I've reached my limit of goodwill today. Go home where you belong. Go to Beth's. She'll take you in."

  He grabbed the scraggly mutt by the middle, but when he tried to lift the animal, she snarled at him and threatened to bite. "Fine. See if I care. You're not coming in. That's final. And it's going to get mighty cold out here."

  The dog cocked her head, making her eyes melt the way only dogs could. "Forget it. I haven't got an ounce of charity left."

  He opened the door, strode into the house and slammed the door behind him. From the empty front parlor, he peeked outside. The dog lay near the door, nose buried in the intersection of her back and front feet, tail covering the whole like a pitiful blanket.

  Why should he care if the stupid dog had confused him for someone he wasn't? The dog wasn't his. She wasn't his responsibility.

  He trudged to the kitchen on the other side of the hallway. Boxes still lay haphazardly on the floor, but he didn't pay them any attention. He picked out a screwdriver from his toolbox and attacked dismantling the cabinets. He'd have to sand the front panels before he could cover the walnut stain with clean white paint. The faux-wood counters would need replacing. The gaudy harvest-gold and avocado-green wallpaper would have to go. And he'd have to refinish the hardwood floor—the kitchen's best feature.

  While his mind ran along the long list of tasks he'd have to do to modernize the house, he swiveled to reach for the first cupboard door and caught a glimpse out the front bay window.

  Across the moonlit snowy landscape shone Beth's seafoam-green house. This wouldn't do at all. Tomorrow, he'd install blinds.

  But like a masochist, he couldn't tear his gaze away from the warm lights shining from the upstairs windows. Was she tucking Jamie in for the night? Did Jamie fuss over baths the way Samantha had? How many stories could he con Beth into reading him before falling asleep?

  Logan twisted away from the window and concentrated on the stubborn screws holding the brass hinge in place. He rammed the screwdriver into the screw's head and wrenched with all his might. A night spent toiling at woodwork would cure the tightening spiral of his crazed mind.

  He didn't want Beth in his life. He certainly couldn't handle having Jamie around to remind him of what he'd lost. No, he needed to be completely alone.

  But even the relentless physical exertion couldn't drown out the fierce buzzing of his thoughts and, after an hour of trying, even his nightmare-filled sleep seemed a pleasant option.

  He shuffled to the front door and checked the lock. A peek outside the window showed him the dog still there, shivering madly, a soft, pitiful whine yipping in frozen intervals.

  Swearing, he unlocked the door and yanked it open. "Okay, you win. In you go." He marched her to the laundry room, took a towel from the pile on the washer and placed it on the floor.

  "Don't think this is permanent. Tomorrow you go."

  As he closed the door, he could have sworn the mutt wore a smile of triumph.

  He dragged himself up the stairs, cursing his wretched fate. First the kid, then the woman, now the dog. "You're turning into a regular doormat, Ward."

  He snapped on the bathroom light and reached for the toothbrush in his toiletry kit.

  Things could only get better. He had no reason to see Beth or her son again. Tomorrow he'd take the mutt to the pound and be done with her. Then he'd have the blessed isolation he wanted.

  Yeah, things could only get better.

  Chapter 4

  "I'm ready, Mom." Jamie, clad in his favorite blue polar fleece pajamas, bounced on his bed. "Read me the Christmas bear story."

  With a determined movement Beth reached to the bookshelf and pulled out Jamie's request. Her hands hurt and she wanted nothing more than to swallow another painkiller and curl up in bed. But Jamie expected this ritual, and she didn't want to disappoint him. "Okay, but only one story tonight. It's late."

  "Awww." But his protest was halfhearted. As he snuggled against her, his eyelids already drooped.

  She read the story and slipped out of his bed to settle him in the for the night.

  "Why is he such a Grinch?" Jamie asked, stifling a yawn.

  "Who?"

  "Logan."


  "It's Mr. Ward to you. I don't know."

  Jamie stretched his arm to reach his stuffed panda bear on the night table beside his bed. "Is his heart two sizes too small like the Grinch?"

  "I think maybe he just forgot how to use it." She tucked the blanket and comforter around both Jamie and the bear.

  "Do you think he'll be my friend?"

  That didn't seem too likely. "I don't know."

  "Knock-knock." Jamie's laugh, so spontaneous and free, never failed to warm her heart. To hear his laughter ring through the house, she'd do anything—even sit through the obnoxious knock-knock jokes that had become part of their bedtime ritual.

  "Who's there?" she asked.

  "Butch."

  "Butch who?"

  "Knock-knock." Another fit of giggles escaped Jamie.

  "Who's there?"

  "Jimmy."

  "Jimmy who?"

  "Butch your arms around me and Jimmy a kiss!"

  Laughing, she complied to her son's request and retucked the covers around him.

  "Knock-knock," she said.

  "Who's there?"

  "Donnalette." She snapped off the bedside lamp.

  "Donnalette who?"

  "Donnalette the bed bugs bite!" Using her fingers as mock biting bugs, she tickled Jamie. She couldn't help smiling at his laughter.

  She bent down and gave him a kiss. "Good night, sweetheart."

  Jamie yawned again and closed his eyes. "Good night, Mom. Can we get a tree tomorrow?"

  "We'll see."

  She paused for a moment at the bedroom's doorway and looked at her son's sleeping form.

  Jamie loved life—everything about it. Except maybe her culinary experiments, but she suspected even those protests were more show than real. His adventurous spirit gave him a knack for finding trouble, but she'd learned long ago that worrying didn't keep bad things from happening, it only hampered enjoyment of the precious people who could be taken away at any time.