10
Thomas had spent all of Sunday wandering the streets, keeping out of the way of Olivia and her guest. Mostly he had spent the time trying to find a way out of the only plan he could come up with to save the town’s pond. But the morning sun would soon be up, and he wanted to get the task over with. The hotel was quiet as he slipped down the stairs, careful to step on the side of each tread to avoid creaks. The night shift employee, Patty, lay curled in the corner of the couch, asleep. Thomas gently closed the front door as he left. Today would either rank among his worst day, or be the beginning of something better.
The man he needed to see lived several miles up the mountain on the opposite side of town from Olivia’s pond. A dirt road rimmed the base of the mountain, and Thomas looked for the once-familiar trail. He found a thin path, surprised that any of the trail remained. But then, the old man had to come to town occasionally for groceries or, perhaps, to get his hair cut.
The path wound around large granite boulders where thick tree roots spliced the hard rock into car-sized sections. It wouldn’t take much to send the whole side of the mountain down in one big avalanche. He had seen it often enough, after a big rain or heavy snow…or dynamiting for a road.
A half hour up the trail, he unbuttoned his jacket and pocketed his work gloves.
Most of the mountain was covered with old-growth oak, maple and red spruce. In the summer the ground under the towering branches would host ferns, rhododendron, and mountain laurel. Blackberry bushes grew thick in some places.
A winter wren perched its small body on the limb of an old oak, opened its long beak and began a high-pitched twittering. A hermit thrush added to the melody, its voice slower and more specific.
Off to the side of the trail, slender limbs deep within an azalea bush rustled. Soon a song came from the depths of the branches. A warbler for sure, but he had no idea which. He wasn’t really a bird-man, but Keith, on his crew, delighted in identifying the various birds they encountered as they worked.
Thomas loved the mountains. He loved nature and the predictable-unpredictability of creation. Most of his life he had tried to push away any feeling of kinship with the land, but it was there each time he began a new road project. The sense of belonging both frightened and warmed him.
As the trees thinned, the top of the mountain towered skyward. Just short of his destination, he ran a hand across a jagged boulder, now chest-high, but at one time it had hovered over his head. The natural indent on the top was filled with dry leaves and pine needles. A tiny oak sapling rose from the detritus. For a second, he felt sorry for the rock. There was no youthful boy to clear the concavity and pretend the hole was a car seat. He considered removing the seedling but stopped. Let nature have its way.
He rubbed the back of his neck as he viewed the old man’s home site. A hundred feet in the distance, the cabin was supported on footings made from stones collected nearby. The frame was covered in lapboard planks from trees felled on the land. The original part of the house contained a sitting room and bedroom, with a low-ceilinged bedroom upstairs. A one story addition with a porch had been added to the side, creating a large kitchen and massive pantry.
Thomas stared at the porch, remembering his mother washing and rinsing clothes in two large washtubs. The metal tubs were still propped against the back wall, butted against a stack of firewood. The rockers were gone. Smoke curled from the chimney.
Thomas blew warmth into his cold fist before climbing the two steps to the porch.
The wood-framed door flew open. “I thought I told you to never come back here.” The old man, staring through narrowed eyes, pointed a rifle at Thomas.
Thomas stepped back. “I want to ask you—”
“You want my land. I know what you want.”
“You know about the road.”
The man chewed his cheek. “Makes no difference to me if the road comes or not. It’s not my concern. Now get off my mountain.” He waved the tip of his gun toward the path.
Thomas wanted to leave the old man to his anger. But he had promised himself, he had promised his boss, and he owed it to Olivia to try. He shoved his hands into his jacket pocket. “If you don’t care about the road, why did you come to the council meeting?”
The man looked across the open yard, toward the workshop in the center of the clearing. His body sagged, age and gravity suddenly pulling hard on his substance.
“You said the road doesn’t matter, and yet you came to the meeting.” Thomas tensed.
The man looked at Thomas with cold, hard eyes. “It wasn’t to see you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I didn’t think so, but why?”
“I wondered if your ma came with you.”
Thomas ground his teeth together. “She died three years ago.”
The man’s mouth slacked open. “How?”
“Cancer. Same as her mother.”
The man lowered his rifle and jerked his head toward the door, indicating for Thomas to follow him.
~*~
On Monday morning Olivia regretted taking Sunday off, spending the day ice skating and chatting with Donna in front of the fire. Thomas had left early Sunday morning and hadn’t returned until well after supper, when he barely acknowledged them before going to his room. She hadn’t convinced him to save the pond. Her heart ached, but she had other things to worry about.
It was only four days until the annual Christmas party, and Olivia was behind schedule. Christmas music streamed through the kitchen speakers and the spice-scented candles were lit. In spite of her efforts to force a sense of peace, the flower nail rolled awkwardly between her fingers and icing came out of the flat petal-tip in spurts rather than a smooth stream.
Even her mind refused to cooperate. She hated Thomas, so why did his face keep appearing in her mind, and why did she long to stroke his cheek? So maybe she didn’t hate him. She hated what he was doing.
Donna licked a red glob off her fingers. “What do you call this stuff again?”
“Royal icing.” Olivia attempted to pipe rose petals around the maraschino cherry again.
“For something that should be yummy, it isn’t very good.”
“It doesn’t have to taste good, it just has to look good.” Olivia scraped another botched rose off the flower nail.
Donna stared across the table. “I know your heart isn’t in the Christmas party.”
“What? You think just because one rose isn’t up to par, I can’t do it?”
“I’m not talking about the roses. I’ve seen you make them in your sleep. But I was thinking, if this is to be the last Christmas party, you need to go out in a big way.”
Imagining Christmas without the hotel, without the pond, without East Kansas was painful enough. But the real pain centered in the knowledge that generations of her family had managed to maintain traditions. Now it was her turn, and she’d failed. She tossed the icing bag onto the table and strode out of the kitchen.
The hotel’s main living room looked the part of Christmas. Olivia ran her hand over familiar couches and tables, trying to calm stretched nerves. Donna followed and perched quietly on the corner of one of the couches.
Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains and created a sparkling dance among the ornaments on the nine-foot blue spruce. Later she would turn on the strings of lights tucked among the branches, but not now. “You see this Santa?” Olivia touched a four-inch glass decoration. “It belonged to my grandparents. It has been on the tree every Christmas for sixty years.”
“And it still will be. You’ll have a Christmas tree; it just won’t be here.”
“I need that Christmas miracle everyone talks about. But for now, I have to make five dozen roses and put them in the freezer, ready for cupcakes.” She went back to the kitchen with Donna following.
The small break hadn’t helped, and the petals refused to form around the cherries. Her mind whirled as she twisted the nail in her hand, icing smearing in unsuccessful ribbons aroun
d the cherry. Thomas hadn’t come down from his room, unless he’d left the hotel very early in the morning. More research on the town, perhaps? The council meeting was tonight. She sighed, wishing she knew what he was up to. Frustrated, she dropped the icing bag on the table. “Come on Donna. I have maid service to do.” Maybe the change in activity would clear her mind.
“Oh, yeah. Stripping beds. My favorite.” Donna followed Olivia out of the kitchen.
11
Thomas hesitated before stepping into the cabin. He wasn’t physically afraid of the man; the danger was emotional. Fifteen years ago when he’d walked out the door, he believed he would never walk back in. And now, here he was.
Wandering around town the past couple of days, several folks told him that Christmas miracles happened in East Kansas. Maybe being invited into the house where his mom had been raised was his miracle.
Since this hard-shelled man lived alone, Thomas expected the place would be a shambles, but the kitchen was clean. The table and four chairs remained close to the door just as he remembered, while the same wood countertops lined the back wall. Open shelves held the chunky white dishes from his childhood. Three one-gallon mason jars contained what they’d always held—deer jerky, dried sassafras root, and hulled beans.
“Tell me about your ma,” the old man said. He propped the gun by the door and moved toward the table but remained standing.
“She wanted to stay.”
The man’s face reddened. “She never wanted to be here, even as a young girl. All she talked about was the great life she would have in the city.”
“She would have stayed and taken care of you.”
“I didn’t need her to take care of me.” Spittle blew from his lips. “She was headstrong, not a bit like her own ma.”
“She had me to consider.” Thomas tried to tamp down his anger. “She didn’t want me to grow up without knowing how to use indoor plumbing or having electricity, but you refused.” His words streamed like venom. “You thought she wasn’t worth changing your ways.”
“She said I killed her ma,” the man shouted back.
“She told me you never took your wife to the doctor until it was too late.”
“I didn’t know she was sick.” The old man slumped into a chair at the table and mumbled. “I didn’t know she was sick.”
Well, they had that in common. Thomas hadn’t known, either. He’d come home after six months on the road and found his mother emaciated, her rosy cheeks gone. She’d argued as he’d taken her to the doctor, declaring nothing was wrong; he was wasting his money. She’d died four weeks later. He stared at the old man, his grandfather. “My mom died of cancer, just like her mom.”
Wood in the stove shifted. The man rose, opened the hinged door, and added another log. He stared at Thomas. “So why did you come here?”
“I need to build a road˗”
“You can’t have my land.”
“You know what the pond means to the town.”
“I know what that old mud hole means. I helped dig it.”
“Let me run the road around Holbert Peak.”
“No.”
“What are you keeping all this land for? You’re an old man—”
“Not for you.”
Thomas strode to the door, eager to leave. “I’m trying to save a meaningful part of the town.”
“You want to save the pond for Miss Olivia Miller.”
“Yes.” He jutted out his chin. “What’s wrong with that?”
The man laughed, the sound ringing both sarcastic and sad. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”
“She’s a terrific person, something you would know if you took the time.”
“Oh, I know more about Olivia Miller than you think.”
“Such as?”
“For a start, she’s your sister.”
Air pushed from his chest. “You liar!” Before he could stop his fist, he punched the man in the jaw, knocking him to the floor.
~*~
Olivia knocked on Thomas’s door. “Maid service.”
“What if he’s still asleep?” Donna murmured, standing behind her holding a stack of fresh linen.
Olivia huffed. “He’s not the kind of guy to stay in bed half the day.”
“Remember last year…”
Olivia grimaced at the memory. “Some people are late risers. Thomas isn’t one of them.” She slid the key into the lock. Let him sleep his life away, what did she care? Why defend a stranger who planned to destroy her family’s legacy? It might be nothing more than a pond to him, but it represented a seasonal tradition that bound the town together, a gift from her family to all the folks, past and future, who called East Kansas home.
She slid the door open slowly, giving him one last chance to call out. Hearing nothing, she entered.
“He’s not here,” Donna whispered, peering over Olivia’s shoulder.
Olivia released a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. “I told you he wouldn’t be.”
Entering occupied rooms never bothered her. The guests knew the days she would be changing sheets and giving them fresh towels, so they had a chance to tidy up if they wanted to. Most people only stayed at the hotel a day or two, so the actual times she had to provide maid service were few. In contrast to her usual calm, her heart knocked in her chest. Maybe it was his scent that lingered in the empty room, something spicy and manly, that distracted her. He had pulled the bedspread over the pillow, an unequal amount of soft fabric draped along the side. His navy-blue travel case lay open on the bed, the toothpaste tube jutting from the unzipped top. A worn duffel bag lay on the floor, its sides bulging at odd angles.
Olivia pushed aside her distraction. “Lay the sheets on the chair. Can you gather his towels for me while I strip the bed?”
They fell into the easy routine established over time. Olivia folded the bedspread and blanket over the foot of the bed and loosened the sheets, releasing his scent. She resisted the urge to pull the bedding to her nose.
As she moved toward the head of the bed she noticed a photograph propped against the lamp on the night stand. It reminded her of the old Polaroid pictures her dad used to take when she was a child. Curious, she leaned over for a better look.
She gasped and pulled back.
Olivia knew who the man was, and he wasn’t Thomas Baker.
12
Hot angry breaths wreathed Thomas’s face as he huffed his way down the broken path. He would grab his maps and duffel bag and head home. Shuster could have this contract; he could find someone else to lead the crew and finish the job. He bolted through the hotel door and skidded to a stop.
Olivia, her eyes red and swollen, sat on the sofa facing the door.
Donna leaned against the rounded leather arm.
Their expressions shot daggers through his chest.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Olivia murmured.
So much for his secret trip up the mountain. Thomas had to explain before he left. He owed Olivia that much. “I wasn’t sure if the old man would agree to help.” He couldn’t bring himself to call the man Grandfather. He avoided looking at Olivia, confused by her tears and still burning over the man’s accusation that he and Olivia were siblings. He knew his father. He had even met the man once. His mother had given him the same name, Thomas Baker, perhaps longing for a future that she’d never pursued. He glanced toward the stairs, eager to pack and leave.
“What old man? What are you talking about?” Donna asked.
“My trip to see the old man, Mr. Goodman.” He almost choked saying the name. Not much good in this Goodman.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Olivia murmured again. “You let me act like a fool.”
Did he have to ask her permission to go up the mountain? Her blotched face and slumped shoulders tugged at his heart, but he had to be tough. Nothing would come of showing his feelings except pain, and he already had enough misery to last a lifetime. Besides, the deed was done. He had gone to see th
e old man and lost. It was over.
She held up a photograph, the one he’d kept close to his bed for the past fifteen years.
His eyes widened. “How did you—”
“It’s posted at the end of the hall the days we change the linens and put out fresh towels. I can’t afford help, so I do it myself. Donna helps when she’s here.” Olivia said. “Did you change your name when you came here so I wouldn’t recognize you?”
Her disappointment wasn’t about his trip up the mountain, but something much worse. “Olivia—”
“So who are you? Are you Thomas Baker, or are you Larry?”
“Olivia—”
“How could you do this to my friend?” Donna shouted.
“Please! Let me try to explain.” Thomas dropped into the chair across from the couch. How could he tell them without looking like a fool, that a decade and a half ago he had fallen in love with a feisty, gangling girl with black hair and braces? He turned to that woman, all grown up and more beautiful than he’d ever imagined. “Olivia, first of all, my name is Thomas Laurence Baker. The Thomas Baker is after my birth father. My middle name was given to honor my grandfather, Laurence Goodman.”
Olivia stffened. “You’re the old man’s grandson? You never told me.” She sniffed and rubbed the tissue under her nose. For as long as she could remember, her family had avoided Laurence Goodman. She wasn’t sure why, and there was no one left to ask. And now, he was the grandfather of…Larry…Thomas. She tried to sort it out, but the past and present snarled together in a mass she couldn’t separate. “That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t say anything when you first came to town.”
“The summer my mom and I arrived in East Kansas, she asked me to go by Laurence instead of Thomas. She was trying to win her father’s love and hoped using his name would help. I never liked Laurence, so I called myself Larry.”
Christmas in East Kansas (Christmas Holiday Extravaganza) Page 4