Cass sank to the floor, the happiness she’d felt only a few minutes ago fading so quickly she couldn’t bring it back. The gingerbread man was so much like her life since Paul had become ill, every part of it broken so completely it couldn’t be put back together again. She would sweep the cookie up and then wipe the floor with a damp cloth to make sure she got all the residual crumbs, leaving an empty spot.
That’s what she was trying to do by coming home to Christmas Town, finding a job, and moving into this enchanting little house—fill the empty spot left by too many losses. Too much pain.
She leaned against the edge of the arched doorway between the kitchen and the living room, slid to the floor, and wrapped her arms around her knees. She hadn’t cried when her mother died—Mary Richards’ passing had been a blessing—and there hadn’t been time when Paul died to cry much then, either. There’d been the estate to settle and the move to Indiana in addition to worry over the girls. Somewhere in that long and foggy time of loss and grief, Cass Logan had lost her way. As nice as both this house and Eli Welcome were, they weren’t home, and she didn’t know how to find it, didn’t know how to navigate around the empty spaces. She covered her face with her hands. And she wept.
~*~
Maggie had come to Eli housebroken, but she had a nocturnal bladder. An episodic sleeper himself, Eli had been dismayed at first, but he’d grown to enjoy the middle-of-the-night strolls behind the house—he’d written himself out of more than one corner by thinking his way through it with his dog.
He was surprised that the lights were on in the cottage. Cass had looked exhausted when he’d gone back to his house six or seven hours ago. She’d said she was an early riser, but he didn’t think three a.m. qualified.
He stood in the middle of the small clearing at the front of the porch, the again-falling snow gathering on his feet. If he were still a pastor, he realized, he’d know what to do. He’d pray and wait a while to be sure there was nothing untoward going on in the vicinity, and if he still felt concern, he’d knock on the door. But he wasn’t Cass Logan’s spiritual go-to guy. He was her boss and her landlord and he should walk away.
But he couldn’t. It was as though that sensation he’d felt in his arm when they first touched hands was still there. Warming and exciting and waiting, although he had no idea for what.
In the end, Maggie took the decision out of his hands. She hefted her slightly portly self onto the little house’s front porch and barked importantly at the door.
It opened a minute later. Cass was wearing sweats, but they were covered by a Christmas fabric apron with “Mom’s Gingerbread is Best” embroidered around its hem in red. Her face had been scrubbed free of makeup and her curly hair tumbled loose behind a wide headband. Her eyes were red around the rims, their expression both empty and haunted. She looked older than she had a few hours ago, but no less appealing. No less at all.
She didn’t say anything, just knelt to pat a wiggly Maggie. He looked at the top of Cass’s head, at the highlights shining in the glow from the porch light.
“When my wife died,” he said, apropos of nothing at all, not moving any closer, “I used coil-bound notebooks and the pen she always used and I wrote and wrote and wrote, because I couldn’t concentrate on anything else. It’s how Cyrus Wisdom came into being.” He gestured toward her apron. “Is baking your Cyrus?”
“I don’t think so. Or if it is, it’s not working very well.” She raised her gaze to meet his and smiled, the expression so quick he thought maybe he imagined it. “Not destined to be a bestseller by any means.”
He hesitated, pulling his coat closer about him. Wasn’t she cold? “If it hadn’t been for friends, I’d have been drummed out of ministry because I couldn’t produce a viable sermon. I resented every healthy parishioner I had and developed an unhealthy fondness for Jack Daniel’s and cigarettes. I didn’t really like cigarettes, but Elnora smoked them and they reminded me of her. I liked the Jack for itself.” He still did occasionally, but like his E. W. Doherty identity, it was something people didn’t like being connected to Pastor Welcome.
“I like wine,” she admitted, “but my parents were teetotalers and Paul didn’t drink, either, so liking it frightens me. I buy it in those little four-packs at the grocery store and I make sure the carton lasts me all week.” She hesitated and reached behind her for the doorknob. “Would you like a glass?”
“Will it help you sleep?”
“It might.”
“Then by all means, I’d love a glass.”
They sat in the living room because every surface in the kitchen was covered with gingerbread people. “You’ll never get lonely,” he assured her. “Are they edible?”
“They are now. Not so much in a few days when I spray them with acrylic.” She handed him a plate with two of the spicy treats on it.
They sat across from each other on the two loveseats that comprised the seating in the living room. They talked about Cyrus’s next move in the manuscript in progress now that he’d finally gotten out of the morass Eli had made of Chapter Five.
When their glasses and his plate were empty, he got to his feet. “Thank you. I’ve enjoyed this.” He looked over at where Maggie lay curled beside Cass. “She can stay if you like.”
She stroked the dog’s silky head. “If she wants to and you don’t mind.”
He hesitated. “I have a favor to ask.”
Her eyes were drowsy when she raised them to his, and he thought maybe she’d sleep now. Not that he’d ever wanted to bore anyone, but he did think it might be one of his most advanced skills in ministry.
“Would you drive me to the hospital and pick me up when I have my surgery Monday? I thought I’d be able to drive home, but the surgeon laughed in my face. I didn’t think that was very professional of him, but he did it anyway.”
The expression in her eyes went from sleepy to guarded, and the corners of her mouth tucked in for a couple of beats before she nodded once, then again, the second time decisively. “Of course. Is anyone going to be at the house when you come home?”
“No, but I’ll be fine. It’s a very quick surgery. I won’t need aftercare.” But now he understood that guarded look, the frown before she agreed to be his driver—she’d done her time at bedsides; she didn’t want to dance attendance at the one of someone she scarcely knew. “Honestly, Cass, I won’t, though I won’t want to work, either. You can have the rest of the day off or you can spend it on the shameless promotion every writer hates but we all have to do.”
She smiled at him, even though the shadows stayed in her eyes. “We’ll see. As Cyrus Wisdom would say, we'll cross the road when the chicken gets here.”
Chapter 4
After Eli left, she was able to sleep. Soundly. Until nine thirty, when she woke with a start and realized she was an hour and a half late for work on only her third day on the job.
And she was being watched.
She stiffened, wishing she had a more frightening weapon at hand than the cell phone on the nightstand, and turned her head toward the open door. Where Maggie sat patiently.
“Oh, my goodness.” Cass jumped out of bed. “What a good girl you are!”
Maggie barked in agreement and sprinted toward the front door.
Ten minutes later, with the dachshund prancing at her feet, Maggie unlocked the back door of Eli’s house with the key he’d given her. If he wasn’t up yet, she could spend the rest of the morning working on his website and graphics for the bookmarks he wanted to order.
He came into the kitchen the same time as she did, dressed only in faded jeans.
It had been a while since Cass had given much notice to such things, but she’d have had to have been blind not to notice that he looked really nice without a shirt. His stomach was flat and firm, a claim she couldn’t make about her own, and his arms were well muscled. The tan she’d attributed to skiing must have come from a different source, because his chest and what she could see of his back were as bronzed a
s his face and hands.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Her heart was beating like a trip-hammer. “I’m late.”
“I am, too.” He pulled a sweatshirt over his head, and she noticed for the first time that he wore a pacemaker. Her father had, too, until his final heart attack the year she’d been at Bowdoin. “My alarm clock was with you.”
“She slept late, too.” Cass gestured toward the hallway that led to the office. “Why don’t I get started?”
“Because you probably haven’t even had any coffee yet, much less breakfast. If you can fry eggs without breaking the yolks, we’ll add that to your job description. I’ll do the bacon—unless you prefer ham. There’s some of that in there, too.”
She gestured feebly at his chest—since she knew the pacemaker was there, it was as though she could still see it in the folds of the fleece. “Should you eat like that? I can make you some oatmeal.”
“It’s Saturday,” he reminded her. “It’s my wild and crazy day.” He scrubbed a hand through his silver hair, making it stand on end, and it was all she could do not to smooth it. She’d never touched his hair, and she wondered if it was as soft and warm as it looked. “You don’t have to work today, you know.”
“I only worked till noon yesterday,” she reminded him. “But yes, I can fry eggs and make coffee.”
They made breakfast together, seventies music playing in the background. Maggie was so interested in having two people in her kitchen that she left her own food to get under their feet as they worked.
“Biscuits? Homemade?” Eli set the oven for the temperature Cass stipulated and stared in awe as she mixed, flattened, and cut biscuit dough. “Another thing to add to that job description. How are you with fried chicken?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I gave it up when Paul got sick. He loved fried foods, but they made him deathly sick even before the gastric cancer was diagnosed.”
“How sad for you both.” He slid the cookie sheet of biscuits into the oven. “Ten minutes?”
She nodded, cleaning the flour mess from the island. “I love your kitchen.” Its size reminded her of the big kitchen out on Two Sticks Farm, but this one had been renovated with new appliances and every gadget she’d ever longed for. It still looked old, with its cast iron farm sink and white-painted cupboards, but the wood floor was smooth and shiny and the fireplace on the dining area end was clean and functional.
“Me, too—it’s one of the reasons I bought the house. Feel free to use it anytime.”
They bumped heads putting things in the dishwasher and Maggie barked in a short “behave yourselves” fashion that made them both laugh. And then Eric Clapton’s voice filtered into the room, singing “Wonderful Tonight.” Memory washed over her, leaving heartache in its stead. “I love that song.”
Eli nodded. “What’s not to love?” Just like that, he swept her into his arms and danced her around the island, the table and chairs at the end of the room, and through the hall to the office.
Just as they’d looked before he put on his shirt, his arms were strong and warm and he smelled wonderful. Not perfumey or even soapy, but the clean, fresh scent she always associated with Maine.
Other than hugs from male cousins and friends at Paul’s and her mother’s funerals, Cass hadn’t been in a man’s arms since her husband’s illness had made physical contact painful for him. She’d missed it, but until she felt Eli’s slightly bristly cheek against her temple and his arm firm and certain at her waist, she hadn’t realized just how much.
When the song ended and they stopped dancing—standing before the French doors that led outside, she tried to make herself draw away. He was a handsome, intelligent, single man, and she was a single, too-lonely-for-her-own-good woman, which should have made them a good combination. But, if being her boss wasn’t deterrent enough, he was also a man with a heart condition who was having surgery Monday.
Chances were good he was going to require some care. The kind she no longer had it in her to give. She was fine for driving him to the hospital and bringing him home, but that was the beginning and end of it.
Just like the dance in the kitchen had to be both the beginning and end of a completely lovely little lapse in time and judgment. Cass swallowed hard and smiled up at him, hoping her mouth didn’t look all trembly and weak the way she felt inside. “Thank you for the dance,” she said, and pulled away, moving to put the space of the island between them as she checked on the biscuits. Thank you for making me feel more whole than I’ve felt in years.
Chapter 5
Cass cooked Thanksgiving dinner for the girls and herself. It was good to spend a holiday together without illness as an unwelcome guest, and they enjoyed the day, but Amy and Lia had places to go in the evening. They both offered to stay and keep her company, but she shooed them on their way with plenty of leftovers. “You might meet men who want to be my sons-in-law, so go!”
“Mom, we can stay,” Lia insisted. “We don’t mind at all.”
But the memory of the long last goodbye with the girls’ grandmother was still too fresh. Cass had spent the last year of Mary Richards’ life with her out of respect and devotion she’d owed the woman who raised her, even after that person didn’t really exist anymore. Cass had said, at least a hundred times, that she “didn’t mind at all.”
She supposed she would always be somewhat sorry that she had indeed minded. She’d minded a lot. She’d always regret that she hadn’t been able to do more for her mother. Make her more comfortable. Make her happy.
“She doesn’t like me,” she’d whispered once to Mary’s retired-nurse neighbor who’d given her occasional respite.
“It’s not you,” the woman had said, holding her tortured gaze, “and it’s not her. It’s the disease.”
Maybe.
“You know what?” She hugged the girls, until their arms went around each other, too, and they’d become the powerful triumvirate they’d been when Paul was ill. “I’d mind. I need to be a whole lot more decrepit than I am before I start making demands on your time. You two have horses to whisper to about your clients and a shelter to run. I’m going to read a good book, bake some cookies, and congratulate myself because I’m not going shopping tomorrow.”
“You’re not?” Amy’s eyes widened with disappointment. “Lia’s not, either—she says she’s too busy at the shelter.” She scowled at her sister. “You’ll both miss riding the escalator at Dockery’s and waiting in line for a table at The Tea Pot.”
Cass gave her a push. “They’ll be there after Black Friday. I’ll go then.”
She was restless after the girls left. She’d eaten too much, for one thing, and had more than her standard single glass of wine. She wished, not for the first time, that she’d let Lia talk her into taking a rescue dog. As tiny as the cottage was, it seemed to echo with her aloneness.
Memories of feeling confined to the Indiana farmhouse with her mother assailed her, and she had to take deep breaths to stay calm. “Let’s take a walk, get some fresh air,” she used to suggest. Mary would agree, but she panicked every time they left the porch. Pity and frustration waged war in Cass, but pity won, and she stopped insisting.
In the last year of Paul’s life, he used to tell her to go out for a while—he’d be fine. But he wasn’t fine, so she never left him unless someone else was with him.
But nothing confined her now. Even as guilt over the relief in the back of her mind niggled, she put on her coat and boots and the soft scarf she’d knit herself.
Maybe a section of yarn in the quilt shop. The old urge to have her own business gave her a nudge, and she laughed at herself as she stepped outside.
Eli’s car was parked beside hers in the driveway of the house. She knew he’d had dinner with friends. She’d wanted to invite him to join her and the girls, but something had held her back. She hoped he’d had a good time.
Maggie must have seen her walk past the French doors, because the little dog’s barking was loud and immediate. E
li opened the doors and let her bound out. “Walking?” he called.
Cass nodded. She hoped the rush of gladness she felt at seeing him didn’t show on her face, but the heat in her cheeks told her it probably did.
“Want company?” He laughed down at his dog. “Besides Maggie’s, I mean. I think you have that whether you want it or not.”
“Sure. Bring her leash, though. I want to go to the green and see how the decorations are coming. You know they’ve already started.” Maggie was turning in delighted circles at her feet, so she knelt to pet her. By the time she straightened, her blush would surely have receded.
~*~
When he’d been a pastor, Eli had never felt like an outsider. Exactly. It was true he’d always been the guest—no one expected single ministers to host things—but he’d never felt like a third wheel even when he probably was one.
However, as people learned he was E. W. Doherty as well as Pastor Welcome, they seemed to look at him differently. While he supposed he didn’t blame them, it did leave him feeling strangely bereft.
When he was with other writers, he was just one of them and he was totally at ease. But the only one of his writer friends who lived nearby was Dean Galloway, a travel writer who was engaged to Christmas Town resident Callie Banning and settled down here.
He’d had Thanksgiving dinner with the family of the minister who’d been his assistant for five years—the one who replaced him. The food and friendship had been good and the conversation entertaining. But the other pastor and his new associate had had church things to talk about, congregational concerns Eli was no longer privy to. Nor should he have been, but it had felt odd, being excluded from the lives of people he still cared deeply about.
He hoped the Logans had had a good day. If the pumpkin pie Cass brought him the evening before was any indication, the food was great. Her daughters, he knew from experience, were good company, too.
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