This Holiday Magic

by Celeste O. Norfleet

  With Kelly standing on a step stool and Keisha perched on one of the counter stools, they began an assembly line of measuring, dumping and stirring as Renee read out the directions for their first cookie recipe.

  “Andrea used to love baking,” he said. “That’s why the kitchen is fully outfitted.”

  “Who’s Andrea?” Keisha asked before Renee could shake her head to stop her.

  Trey look embarrassed, but Kelly answered the question with a child’s guilelessness.

  “She was my mom,” the girl said. “But she doesn’t live here anymore. She’s an angel and looks out for me from Heaven.”

  Renee and Trey shared a glance that spoke volumes.

  “I’m sorry,” she mouthed to him.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “We talk openly about it.” But he quickly decided to change the subject. “So, are you two all settled in your new place?”

  “We’re getting there,” Renee said as she cracked eggs into a small bowl. “You want to whisk, Keisha?”

  “What’s ‘whisk’?” Kelly asked.

  “A whisk is a kitchen tool used to whip eggs or other ingredients,” Renee said.

  “See?” Keisha held up the metal whisk. “Want to try it?”

  Kelly paused for a moment, studying Keisha, and then nodded. Keisha demonstrated. “Just whip your hand around till they’re nice and frothy.”

  Kelly took a turn at the bowl, and eggs sloshed over the side.

  “Uh-oh,” Kelly said, casting a worried glance first at her eight-year-old teacher and then at him.

  “It’s okay,” Keisha said. “It’s your first time. Keep practicing.”

  Renee lifted a brow as if surprised by Keisha’s gentle instruction. Trey noticed that, too, as he watched the girls much like an approving father. He was pleasantly surprised that the foot-stomping pouty-mouthed girl he’d seen from his office window had been transformed into a helpful tutor for his daughter. Maybe Aunt Henrietta was expanding her gracious-hostess seminars to all of the neighborhood kids.

  Kelly relaxed and found a rhythm for whisking the eggs. A moment later, Trey’s gaze caught Renee’s and he winked at her.

  A blush rose on her face, a reaction that intrigued him greatly.

  While the first batches of cookies baked, the girls disappeared upstairs so Kelly could show Keisha her room.

  “This was a great idea,” Renee told Trey. “Thank you for inviting us. With my work schedule and Keisha’s, er, after-school activities, we really haven’t met any other neighbors.”

  “I’m glad you came.”

  And he was being honest about that.

  “I had my doubts,” Renee said. “Keisha has been, well…problematic lately. I think the stress of the move and a new school got to her more than I initially thought.”

  “I’ve seen a couple of moments in the driveway,” Trey admitted.

  Renee winced. “Yeah. Then you know what I mean.”

  “I can’t believe how well they hit it off,” he said.

  Instead of looking pained, Renee looked relieved. “I’m glad she’s made a friend. Frankly, I was starting to worry.”

  Renee looked around at his spacious kitchen with its top-of-the-line appliances, double ovens and granite countertops. “Your kitchen is lovely.”

  “Thanks,” Trey said. “It’s actually what sold us on this house. That and the extra bedroom. The kitchen had just been completely remodeled.”

  “How many bedrooms are here?”

  “Five,” he said. “Most in the neighborhood have just three or four. When my wife and I bought the place, the plan was to fill every room with a kid or two and then build an addition if we needed more space.”

  “Wow.”

  Trey laughed. “Is that horror in your eyes I see? We both came from large families. Of course, we didn’t know that she wouldn’t be here or that Kelly would have to grow up without her.”

  “Do you mind if I asked what happened?”

  He shook his head in the negative. “A drunk driver slammed into her. He, naturally, walked away with just a couple of scratches. Andrea died at the scene. It was the worst day of my life,” Trey said. “Kelly was almost two and cried for her mother constantly. I was thirty-one and had no clue how to raise a child on my own. We both muddled through, though.”

  “You’ve done a great job,” Renee said. “But I’m curious about something.”

  He leaned against the dishwasher, his legs stretched out in front of him. “What’s that?”

  “Her hair. It’s always gorgeous, especially on Sundays. You do hair?”

  Trey laughed so loud he almost choked.

  “Of all the things I imagined you might ask, that’s the last thing that would have been on my list.”

  Renee shook her head in amusement. “What were you thinking?”

  His dark eyes took her in, his gaze pausing at her mouth and then traveling slowly down her body before returning again to her face. “Uh, just some other things,” he said. “For hair, I can manage one pulled-back ponytail or one fat French braid with a ribbon or barrette on the bottom to keep it in place. No, I definitely cannot claim any hair skills. I have an aunt who owns a salon. Her name is Patricia, but everybody calls her Tiny. Kelly goes there every week. All I have to do is make sure it’s neat for school.”

  “Hmm,” Renee said. “Do you think I can get the number? I’d like to check prices and see what I can manage for myself and for Keisha.”

  “No problem,” he said, giving her a look that seemed to be part of another conversation entirely.

  “Is it a little warm in here?” Renee asked.

  The oven timer buzzed.

  Trey pushed away from the dishwasher. “That’s our cue for the first batch.”

  “I think we permanently lost our sous-chefs.”

  “Let them play,” he said. “We can manage alone.”

  Chapter 2

  Renee was sure that Trey Calloway had more than cookies on his mind. She did, too.

  She watched as he pulled out the first and then the second cookie sheet from the oven.

  “There are some trivets in there,” he said, nodding toward the island.

  Renee found them in the drawer and put them on the side counter where he then placed the cookies for cooling.

  “The marmalade part is easy,” Renee said. “We can leave that for the girls to do.”

  Trey put the dirty bowls in the dishwasher and pulled out two clean ones for the next batch of cookies. He then produced an elaborate-looking corkscrew. “Can I interest you in a glass of wine?”

  She nodded.

  He selected a bottle from a built-in wine rack. “Cabernet Sauvignon okay?”

  “Sounds good,” she said, pulling up one of the high-top stools and settling on it.

  “So where did you guys move from?” he asked as he pulled down a couple of glasses, then opened the bottle.

  “Durham,” she said. “I wanted Keisha in a place that had more stability than a third-floor walk-up in a sketchy neighborhood.”

  “Well, welcome to Shangri-la, more formally known as the Cedar Grove subdivision. This neighborhood in Cedar Springs is about as sleepy as it gets without actually being Mayberry. Our nearest competition for nothing going on is the Holly Grove neighborhood.”

  “That’s exactly what I wanted. No questionable neighbors like the six registered sex offenders who lived within three blocks of our building. And no TV satellite trucks bearing reporters eager to tell the sad stories of blighted residents.”

  “Ouch,” Trey said.

  She looked at him askance. “Oh, dear, please. If you are one of those, please, please, please be the meddlesome TV reporter rather than the sex offender.”

  He smiled and sho
ok his head. “I’m neither.”

  “I sense a but.”

  “But I have a cousin who is one of those satellite TV truck ‘this just in’ types,” he said, holding the wine bottle like a microphone before pouring for them both.

  He put a glass of the rich Cab in front of her and then picked up his own glass.

  “To new beginnings,” he said in toast.

  Renee smiled. “I like that.” They clinked glasses and then sipped the wine. “This is good,” she said.

  He winked. “At one point I wanted to be a sommelier.”

  She lifted an eyebrow at that. “Really?”

  He grinned and shook his head as he leaned against the island and toward her. “No. I just like that word. Sommelier,” he said again, giving it the French pronunciation and a waggle of his brow.

  “You’re a mess.”

  “How’d you pick Cedar Springs from Durham?” he asked. “There are some nice places in Durham and the whole Research Triangle area. How did you choose this sleepy little hamlet?”

  Before she could answer, the girls bounded into the kitchen.

  “The cookies smell good!” Kelly said.

  Trey pushed off the island, set his glass down and turned toward the fridge.

  “First batch is up,” he said. “I thought you two had ditched the operation. We have vanilla and chocolate soy milk and I picked up a quart of whole if you prefer.”

  “We want chocolate!” Kelly chose for both of them. “And I was showing Keisha my doll collection. I have one of each,” she added for Renee’s benefit, “but I love Addy the most.”

  “One of each what? And who is Addy?”

  Trey pulled chocolate-flavored soy milk out and reached for two glasses. He poured Kelly’s half-full but put barely an inch in Keisha’s glass for a small taste.

  “See if you like it,” he told her.

  “I like chocolate milk,” she said.

  Trey poured more into the girl’s glass so each child had an equal amount.

  Renee was setting up the ingredients for the next round of cookies.

  “Addy would be one of the American Girl dolls,” Trey said, answering her unaddressed question. “It’s a line of dolls with historical characters. Addy is the black girl from the Civil War. Most of them represent the 1800s, but they also have some from historic decades in the twentieth century. And a new one recently came out.”

  “Don’t forget Kaya,” Kelly said. “Her name is a K like mine.”

  “Far be it from me to forget,” Trey said. “My credit card takes a hit every time a new one or accessory comes out.”

  “Who’s Kaya?” Renee asked.

  “She’s the Indian girl,” Kelly supplied. “She’s from 1764 and is from the Nice Purse tribe.”

  Trey bit back a grin. “She’s Native American and that’s Nez Percé, princess.”

  “Oh, yeah. I keep forgetting. Nez Percé,” she said, echoing her father’s pronunciation.

  “The collection is a great way to get girls interested in history. There are American Girl books and…”

  “This milk is nasty!”

  Three heads turned toward Keisha, who was at the end of the island, holding the glass out from her with her face scrunched up in aversion.

  “Keisha,” Renee said sharply. “What did we talk about?”

  Keisha frowned, but didn’t say anything else as she put the glass on the counter and pushed it away from her.

  “I’m sorry,” Renee told Trey. “I’ll finish that.”

  “No worries,” he said as he placed the glass in the sink, reached for a clean one and filled it with white whole milk. “Here you go.”

  Keisha smacked her lips together as if trying to get the taste of the chocolate milk out of her mouth and then reached for the glass.

  “You don’t like soy milk?” Kelly said.

  Keisha wrinkled her nose.

  “It’s made from soy beans,” Kelly helpfully offered.

  “Bean milk! Ewww. Who wants milk made out of beans?”

  “Keisha, you’re a guest here,” Renee scolded.

  “Well,” Trey said, filling the silence that dropped over the kitchen. “How about you two finish up those button cookies. They should be cool enough now for the marmalade. We’ll get started on the chocolate-chip batter.”

  Neither girl moved.

  “I want to pour the chocolate chips in,” Kelly said.

  “All right,” Trey said.

  “You and Keisha need to get on marmalade duty while those are still soft,” Renee said. “I put the marmalade and two spoons over there for you.”

  The girls went to the counter, Kelly dragging her step stool with her.

  Renee and Trey watched them work for a moment. Keisha showed the younger girl how to make the small dents in the cookies and how much marmalade to add.

  “They seem to be getting along well,” Trey said.

  Renee glanced up at him as she measured out flour. “You sound surprised.”

  “I mean, well, they’re just really getting to know each other.”

  “I’ve been worried about Keisha making friends,” Renee said, her voice low so it didn’t carry to where the girls worked. “Coming into a new school after everyone else has already settled down for the year is hard.” She paused. “It can be hard for grown-ups, too,” she added, giving him a look that said she might be interested in a grown-up kind of playdate.

  “Then that toast to new beginnings was more than appropriate,” he said. “How about going out with me? Just the two of us.”

  She smiled. “I’d like that a lot. What did you have in mind?”

  “How about you pick a place? Anywhere you’ve been wondering about?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” she said. “I hear Trance is a great place.”

  He nodded but with apparent hesitance. “Give me your number and we can set it up for next week.”

  * * *

  “They’re rich,” Keisha said about an hour later. They had returned to their house, put the cookies and their bags on the kitchen table and shed their coats.

  “Who? Help me put these things away,” Renee said, handing Keisha bags of both flour and sugar.

  “Kelly and her father.”

  “What would make you think that?” Renee asked.

  As they put away the leftover cookie ingredients, Keisha explained. “Kelly showed me the catalog. Those dolls cost like a hundred-fifty each! And you know where she has them all set up?”

  Renee had no idea but knew she was about to find out.

  “In her playroom. She has two rooms—one for sleeping and one for playing, with a big bathroom between them. That’s what rich people have. Houses like that,” Keisha added in case Renee wasn’t following.

  “Sweetie, just because Kelly has a room for her toys doesn’t mean they’re rich. It means that they’re organized. Instead of having toys all over the house or using a basement as a playroom, they’re just in one of the upstairs rooms. Their house is much bigger than this one,” she said.

  Keisha nodded. “Exactly. Because they’re rich.”

  Renee put her hand on the girl’s head, then tugged at one of the braids. She wasn’t going to explain to the child what Trey had said about buying the house with his wife to fill it with children.

  Renee didn’t know anything about Trey Calloway’s finances, but she suspected he was an overindulgent parent rather than an independently wealthy one. She knew the Cedar Grove neighborhood wasn’t a wealthy one. It was solidly middle-class, just like its twin, Holly Grove. Residents were working professionals, most in their thirties, forties and fifties; families with kids in school or starting college. The fact that Keisha equated the trappings of middle class with being rich was yet
another reason Renee was glad to have made the move out of Durham and to Cedar Springs.

  “Your uncle Petey is rich,” Renee said.

  Her best friend had indeed made a bundle as a video-game entrepreneur. If things had worked out between them long ago, maybe she and Keisha would be rich, as well. But Renee knew that if she and Peter had ever hooked up, there would be no Keisha in her life and she would be poorer because of it.

  “No, he isn’t,” Keisha countered. “He lives in an apartment building, just like we used to.”

  Renee smiled. There were apartment buildings and then there were apartment homes. Peter Shepherd owned the six-floor building and claimed the penthouse floor as his personal residence. The three bottom floors of the building had two apartments each before hitting the higher-rent whole-floor units. Even if there had been any vacant units on the lower floors, Renee would have needed a salary three times the size of her current income as a manager at a retail store to even be considered for residency in that building.

  “Well, the next time we’re over there,” she said, “I’ll have Uncle Pete explain to you the different kinds of rich.”

  Keisha produced one of her “if you say so” looks that had become all too common in recent weeks.

  “Can I have another cookie?”

  Renee glanced at the wall clock, then nodded. “You have an hour before it’s lights-out.”

  “Okay,” Keisha said, reaching toward the tin with the chocolate-chip cookies. “But, Mom?”

  Renee’s heart swelled. “Yes, sweetie?”

  “That milk over there was nasty.”

  * * *

  Later that night—long after cleaning up the kitchen and putting Kelly to bed with a story, Trey went to his home office to get a little work done. As his computer powered up, lights from outside threw patterns across the partially closed blinds.

  It was nearly eleven, not that late for a Saturday night, but it was the second time he’d noticed his next-door neighbor getting late-night company.

  Even though he knew it was childish, not to mention none of his business, he went to the side of the window to peep outside.

  Before the vehicle’s headlights winked out, he saw the hood ornament of a late-model Jaguar. A moment later, he saw Renee Armstrong silhouetted in the side door and a man bend low as if to kiss her. No additional lights came on in the house as the man shut the door behind them.