She felt a tingling in her hand, as if it wanted to reach out and take hold of Mike’s. She felt a weakening in her determination, as if it was saying to let him be a friend. She felt remarkably uncautious all of a sudden. However, she was strong enough not to let any of that affect her.
“That’s all right,” she said carefully. “I can get pretty grumpy before breakfast at times, too.”
“Speaking of breakfast, the Pickle Festival starts off with a pancake breakfast at the firehouse. Want to go down there for some?”
A little voice whispered that it would be much safer to send him down there and have breakfast here by herself. But then she’d have to make it…
“It’s to raise money for the local animal shelter,” he said.
“I’d love to go,” she said quickly. As an animal lover, she had no choice. “Let me get my purse.”
A few minutes later, they were leaving the house. Mike offered to drive, but when he said it was only four blocks away, Casey suggested they walk. It was a gorgeous day—a little nippy, but the sun was pleasant and there was almost no wind.
“This is a nice neighborhood,” she said. It felt so warm and welcoming. About half of the houses were decked out with pine garlands and wreaths and red bows for Christmas. All it needed was a real snowfall to make it perfect. “So when are you putting up your decorations?”
“I don’t go in for all that,” he said.
“Oh.” She understood that, she supposed. A single guy living by himself had other things to do with his time and money. Still, it was a shame. The house would so lend itself to holiday decorating. Garlands along the porch rail, twin wreaths on the double front doors and colored lights in the pine trees in—
”How’s the research going?” he asked.
“Fine.” She put aside her decorating schemes. “There’s a lot of material in the attic. I suspect this history is going to write itself.”
The four blocks passed as if they had been only one. Between telling him about the photos she’d found, laughing about the various pickle-shaped signs advertising festival events and ignoring the growing warmth from his nearness, she barely noticed the passing time until they got to the firehouse. Mike was jovially greeted from all sides, and Casey stepped aside slightly, not wanting to give anyone the wrong impression.
“So you’re Myma’s author lady?” someone said to her.
“You writing about Simon?” someone else asked.
In the next five minutes, Mike must have introduced her to twenty people and she must have confirmed a dozen times that she’d been hired to write the family history. In the middle of a discussion with an elderly woman named Mrs. Kinder, Mike disappeared from Casey’s side. She told herself she hadn’t expected him to stay; this hadn’t been a date, after all. And he certainly hadn’t wanted to give anybody that impression. But then he was back again, with tickets to the breakfast.
“We’d better get in line before all those flapjacks get eaten up,” he said, taking her arm. He gave the old lady a nod. “You come over and tell Casey all your stories some afternoon. You know more about the family than Myrna does.”
“Ha, butter me up,” Mrs. Kinder said with a wave of her hand. “I know some stories about you, too, young man, and don’t think I won’t tell them.”
“But do you know the really good ones?” he asked.
“Who does know the really good ones?” Casey asked him once they got into the food line.
“Only me,” he said. “So they’ll be forever hidden.”
“And you won’t tell me even one for the history?” she asked. “How about one about your first girlfriend?”
“Somehow telling one for publication in a family history doesn’t seem like a good way to keep it a secret.”
After they each got their plate of pancakes and cup of coffee, they found places at one of the long tables set up where the fire trucks normally were stored. It was easy to see this was a community affair. Young mothers with babies sat watching older kids running up and down the aisles. One end of a table was filled with old men laughing and talking over coffee and sections of the newspaper, while a group of old women sat at the other end, talking over knitting. Casey wondered what it would be like to live in a place like this, where everybody knew you and was part of your life. She’d grown up in Fort Wayne, which wasn’t large, but wasn’t a small town, either. And now she lived in Ann Arbor.
She was perfectly happy with the way things were. She was. It was what she wanted. So why did this seem so appealing?
Mike was talking to someone at the next table, leaning back and discussing the local high-school football team, when Casey found herself listening to a nearby conversation.
“Why is she here?” the woman next to Casey asked.
“She’s really got some nerve,” another agreed.
The two women were glaring at someone now manning the coffee table. This woman was young, probably Casey’s age, and average looking—medium height, medium brown hair pulled into a ponytail, but with a nice smile. Why wasn’t she welcome here?
“Poor Mike,” someone else said.
“That’s Darcy,” the first woman said, leaning close to Casey.
Darcy! She looked nothing like Casey’d expected. Somehow she’d thought blond and gorgeous and dressed in tight, slinky clothes. Darcy looked nice.
“She dumped him, you know.”
Casey nodded and looked back at Mike. He was still laughing with the others, but as she watched, he finished up his coffee. His smile was bright and natural; he hadn’t seen Darcy yet. Maybe he didn’t have to know she was here. Maybe Casey could keep him laughing and having a good time.
“Want more coffee?” she asked as she got to her feet. “I was just going to get more myself.”
He frowned at her cup, which was still more than halffull. “Don’t be crazy. I can go and get—”
“No, I’ll get it,” the woman next to Casey said, grabbing Mike’s cup from his hand. “Was it regular or decaf?”
Mike got to his feet and took it back from her. “What is going on?”
He turned to follow their guilty glances and looked over at the coffee table. As they watched, several other people were getting refills. And showing their loyalty to Mike, from their body language. Casey wanted to cheer, but another part of her couldn’t. How horrible Darcy must be feeling.
“Aha,” he said, and turned back to Casey and the others. “Hope you guys aren’t planning a life of deceit. You’re pretty bad at it.”
He moved his folding chair out of the way and walked up to the coffee table. It seemed that all conversation in the hall died, that every eye in the place was on him. Two older women were getting coffee, and reeking disapproval from every pore. They moved slowly aside when they saw Mike coming, as if they were thinking of blocking his way.
Mike stopped in front of the table. Darcy’s face was stiff; Casey could feel her uncertainty from across the room. But then Mike spoke and Darcy smiled, then laughed. She poured Mike his cup of coffee, then said something to make him laugh. He reached out—Casey thought for his cup of coffee—but took Darcy’s hand instead as he continued to talk. Then he let go, leaned across the table to kiss her briefly, before taking his cup.
As soon as he turned around, so did everyone else. They all started talking and laughing, so loudly the place felt about to explode. Mike walked back through the suddenly animated crowd to his place across the table from Casey. She watched him approach, then turned her gaze to Darcy. People were stopping to talk to her. The smile on her face was surely enough to melt the ice and snow outside. Mike sat down.
“That was very nice of you,” Casey said.
He shrugged and sipped at his coffee. “It was no big deal.”
“Not everyone would feel that way.”
“Not everyone knows what went on between us.” He pushed his cup of coffee to the middle of the table. “You ready to go?”
“Yes,” she said. “But we can’t. Not yet.”
His eyes asked the question.
“If you rush out now, it’ll undo all the good you just accomplished,” she said. “If you want to be a hero, you’re going to have to suffer a bit longer.”
“Who said I wanted to be a hero?”
“Hey, you could have let me go get the coffee for you.”
His eyes darkened as they locked with hers. “Why’d you offer to go?” he asked. “I know why everyone else acted that way, but why you?”
Good question, but she had no good answer. “I don’t know,” she said.
“You would have for Melvin,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure I like being in the same category.”
“I’m not sure why.”
But he ignored her statement. “Why did Myrna send you?”
She was confused. “To write the family history.”
“That all?”
Chapter Five
Mike’s father, Stephen, with his wife, Joy, and three kids, Kate, Monica and Brad, arrived at the house just after Mike had left for the parade, so Casey made his apologies and gave them the map he’d left.
“I told you I should’ve driven the whole way,” Kate said. “If we hadn’t stopped to change drivers, we would have made it on time.”
Stephen just smiled at the girl. “But we did make it on time,” he said. “We’ve got a good twenty minutes to walk downtown before the parade starts, so we aren’t late.”
“Are you going to the parade, too?” Joy asked Casey. “Why don’t you walk down there with us? Mike said you’re new in town.”
“New in town and new to pickle festivals,” Casey agreed as she got her coat. “I’d like the company. Thank you.”
“They have chocolate-covered pickles here,” Brad told her as they walked down the front steps. He looked about five—just the age that would find the idea of chocolate-covered pickles appealing.
“I think I’ll pass on them,” Casey said.
“They’re yucky,” Monica agreed. She had to be seven or eight. “But they’re fun to bring in your lunch and offer to friends.”
Brad and Monica skipped on ahead toward the downtown area, followed by Stephen and by Kate, who was trying to convince her dad that they—well, she—should drive there.
“Let me guess,” Casey said to Joy as they trailed after the others. “Kate just got her license.”
“Kind of obvious, isn’t it? She’s even worse than her brother Rob was at that age.” Joy grinned at Casey. “So how are you and Mike getting along?”
Casey gave the other woman a strange look as their feet crunched on the bits of snow on the sidewalk. “Fine,” she said. “How should I be getting along with him?”
Joy shrugged as they crossed the street. “Hey, I’m just the messenger. Myrna called this morning and wanted a report.”
“A report of what?” Casey asked. “How the family history is going? Pretty good, though I’ve really just started.”
“I think Myrna was more interested in you and Mike.”
“Me and Mike? There is no Mike and me.”
“Maybe Myrna hopes there will be,” Joy said. “How well do you know her?”
“Why does everyone ask me that?” Casey said with a laugh. “How well should I have known her before taking on this job?”
“Well, her psychic advises her every move,” Joy said. “And she told us that Madame DeMarco saw great unhappiness easing with your coming here. So of course Myrna decided that had to mean Mike was going to fall in love again.”
Casey thought of how Mike had gone to Darcy’s defense this morning. She would have to guess that there was no falling in love again in his future. He was still in love. Not that it mattered to Casey. She had other goals. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat.
“Maybe it means I’m going to solve the riddle of Simon,” Casey said.
“The ghost?” Joy looked eager. “Do you really think there is one?”
Casey nodded. “He’s been around twice,” she said, then frowned. “And Mike’s chased him off at least once.”
“What a party pooper!”
“That’s what I say.”
Ferry Street was already filling up when Casey and the Van Horne clan arrived. People were lining the sidewalks, and some of the older folks had brought folding lawn chairs to sit on, looking rather wedged into them in their bulky winter coats. In the middle of the block, a flatbed trailer was being used as a stage, with red-and-green bunting hanging from the edges.
“Let’s take the other side of the street,” Stephen said. “It’ll be warmer in the sun.”
It was also more crowded, but not unpleasantly so. People milled about talking while young children dodged around them on the sidewalk or chased each other in the empty street. The two youngest Van Home children ran off to play while their parents were busy pointing something out to Kate.
Casey checked out the street. It was a postcard-perfect replica of a Midwestern small town, lined with small storefronts, none higher than two stories, and all festooned with Christmas decorations. The streetlights were hung with gold tinsel and stars; Christmas carols were being played over a loudspeaker system. It felt so safe, so much like home—though it was nothing like her home. She thought suddenly about what Joy had said—that Mrs. Jamison was thinking of something other than a family history when she’d sent Casey here.
Casey supposed the older woman could have been matchmaking, but it seemed unlikely. Mrs. Jamison hardly knew her, and if she did, she’d know that Mike was not her type.
“Kids,” Stephen called. “Get off the street, the parade is about to start.”
Monica and Brad, along with scores of other children, scrambled off the street to join the older people lining the sidewalk. Sirens echoed from down the street, where Ferry dipped down to the river, and after a moment, Mike’s state-police cruiser crested the bluff. After that came a large fire truck, followed in turn by a line of antique tractors. The townspeople all knew the people in the parade, waving to them and shouting good-natured insults.
A lawnmower precision drill team of elderly women came into view, followed by a herd of goats, and then Miss Michigan was striding down the street, a very tall, leggy young woman.
“I’ll never be like that.” Kate sighed.
The teenager, slightly shorter than Casey, was going to be a beautiful woman, but small like her mother. Right now, though, it was obvious she would sell her soul to be a six-foot beauty queen.
“Yeah, you’re lucky,” Casey replied. “You’ll be able to wear heels to your senior prom.”
Kate laughed.
“Casey! Hey, Miss Crawford!”
A group of young people in black vinyl jackets were marching down the street. Dubber lagged behind, waving enthusiastically at Casey.
“Hi, Dubber,” Casey shouted.
“You certainly have a spirited young friend,” Joy said, laughingly.
“He’s a sweet kid,” Casey replied. “He’s always around to lend a helping hand. I don’t know what I would have done without him.” She returned his wave one last time as Dubber and his group marched on.
A line of antique cars came over the top of the bluff and laid claim to her attention. Then there were groups of Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts and Campfire Girls, some 4-Hers leading animals and some little kids from a day-care center dressed as pickles. Proud parents walked along the sides, taking pictures. Casey smiled at an especially small pickle. This must be such a great place to grow up.
A rescue vehicle came next, and that was it. The parade was over. Casey sighed with a slight feeling of regret. She had enjoyed its unpretentiousness.
“We’re going over to the historical society,” Joy said to Casey. “Monica wants to see the Christmas-tree exhibit. Want to come along?”
“I don’t know,” Casey said. “I might just—”
“Miss Crawford? Miss Casey Crawford?”
Casey turned. A young girl dressed in the same black
uniform jacket that Dubber had worn in the parade stared solemnly up into Casey’s face. The girl’s brown hair hung in a single thick braid down her back. Up close, Casey could see that the jacket was for a martial-arts club.
“My name is Tiffany. I’d like a few minutes of your time, please.” The girl appeared to be about Dubber’s age, ten or eleven, yet there was a certain adultlike quality in her voice. “Could we walk over to Panozzo’s? I’ll buy you a deep-fried pickle.”
“A deep-fried pickle?” Just the thought of it was almost enough to spoil Casey’s appetite. This place really went pickle crazy.
“You’ll like it,” Tiffany assured her. “Besides, pickles are healthy.”
“All right.” Casey had no idea who this kid was, but maybe she had stories about the ghost. She seemed a little young, but then everybody seemed to know who Casey was and what she was doing here. She hurried across the street after the girl.
“Take that table over by the window,” Tiffany said as they entered the small restaurant. “I’ll get our pickles.”
Casey obeyed, but only because she was too curious not to. She sat at the small, Formica-topped table and watched the crowd outside disperse slowly. Tiffany returned quickly with two small paper plates, each containing a breaded, deep-fried pickle. Casey’s stomach curled up in a ball and whimpered when she looked at the green-brown wedges lying there, but she picked up a pickle wedge, closed her eyes and bit into it. She couldn’t believe that people really ate these things.
“Well?”
Casey opened her eyes to find Tiffany staring at her. She chewed a moment longer and then, after swallowing, nodded and said, “It’s okay.”
“Just okay?” Tiffany asked.
“Just okay. What is it you want to talk about?” Casey asked.
“I want you to stay away from Jason Randall.”
Casey put her pickle down. “Who?”
“Most people call him Dubber,” the girl explained. “But what he’s called don’t matter none. What matters is that you stay away from him. He’s my man.”
Christmas Magic Page 7