A Small Town Christmas Part 5

"They both make messes?" he guessed.

"That is not funny, and it's not funny that the girls are growing up without their nana."

"The girls have been gone a week, and you've talked to them on the phone every day."

"It's not the same as having them here." Sarah threw up her hands in frustration. "What is the point of surviving parenthood if you don't get to enjoy being a grandparent? And what's the point of having all this baking knowledge if I don't have someone to share it with?" She turned back to the sink and scowled out the kitchen window at the gray sky hanging over the lake.

"You share it with me," Sam said, hugging her from behind. "In fact, it's kind of nice to have the house all to ourselves, dontcha think? Like being newlyweds again," he added, a hand sneaking up toward her breast. "I might get to see more of my wife now that she's not always running off to babysit and bake cookies."

Sarah squirmed away. "You are not listening to a word I'm saying."

"Yeah, I am," he insisted. "But maybe we're headed into a new phase. Let's just relax and see where it leads."

She crossed her arms. "I already don't like where it's leading." She was going to be a stranger to her grandchildren at this rate.

Sam frowned. "So, go find some kid to bake with. Aren't you looking for ways to pay it forward? You shouldn't have trouble finding a kid somewhere in this town who likes oatmeal cookies," he added, pulling the half-read copy of the Heart Lake Herald from the kitchen table and making for the living room.

"Where are you going? What happened to doing the dishes?" she called after him.

"I'm saving you the trouble and firing myself," he called back.

"You are not funny. Not even remotely." She abandoned the dishes and left the kitchen. If he thought she was even going near a dish on her day off he was delirious.

But what was she going to do? She decided to work on her quilts. She went to her craft room and pulled out the fabric she'd bought at Emma's shop.

Fabric wasn't the only thing she'd gotten. Quilting was a hungry hobby that ate lots of money. She'd also purchased batting, a cutting mat, fabric-marking pencils, a quilting hoop, a quilting thimble, safety pins, and a rotary cutter. But it had been worth the cost. The girls would have special quilts to curl up under and remember their nana. She sighed and set to work measuring and making her squares. Emma had suggested starting with something simple, so Sarah was putting together two twin-sized quilts made with the traditional four-patch blocks. She should have them done by Christmas.

But Christmas of what year? Two hours later, she straightened up, cracking half a dozen vertebrae in the process, and looked at the pile of squares in front of her. "You're making progress," she told herself. Slow progress, but that was the way of all artistic creations. Whether they were made from flour, sugar, and eggs or out of fabric, works of art took time.

They also gave a girl an appet.i.te. She needed fortification. She went to the kitchen in search of coffee and a cookie. She could hear the sound of hammering coming from the garage, which meant Sam was working in his shop.

She filled a mug and wandered over to the living room window. The early-morning clouds had moved on and now the sun was out and making the lake sparkle like a gigantic sapphire. When she was a child her parents had owned a cabin on the water. They sold it after the first permanent residence made its appearance, trading the place in on some property at the ocean. But Sarah always loved the lake, and when she and Sam married, they moved there. They couldn't afford to be on the water, so they wound up across from it, and because the houses on her side of the street were slightly uphill, they still got a view. The neighborhood was friendly and the street was quiet, except for the occasional noisy barbecue. And she and Sam were usually present for those, contributing to the noise, so who cared?

Today Anna Grueber was out walking her schnauzer, Otto. Across the street the Morioka boy was raking leaves. And a U-Haul moving van was pulling up in front of the corner lakefront rambler that she and Sam had considered buying. They'd been too slow, so she'd heaved a mental shrug and reminded herself that she was perfectly happy with her lovely view.

Still, she'd been curious to see who beat her to the punch. She'd heard the new people were supposed to move in after the first of November. They must have fudged the moving date a little. She craned her neck for a better look.

Another car pulled up behind the U-Haul-an old beater of some kind. American made. Sam would know the make and model in an instant. Out spilled two young men who looked to be somewhere in their thirties. Another young family. Great. But where were the women?

The U-Haul cab door opened now and out stepped a middle-aged man. He was short and square with salt-and-pepper hair and was wearing jeans and a leather bomber jacket. He walked over to one of the young men and clapped him on the back, and for a moment all three stood surveying the house. Where were the women?

The men sprang to life, opening the moving truck, letting down the hydraulic lift. She tried to get a better look at what might be inside and banged her forehead on the window. Maybe the missus was coming in another car. Maybe she'd be showing up any minute and wondering what kind of neighborhood she'd moved into.

This was a perfect opportunity to keep the small-town spirit alive. Sarah hurried to the kitchen and pulled out the recipe for her coveted huckleberry coffee cake from the old, wooden recipe box that had been her mother's. Then she got to work.

She was pouring batter into the pan when Sam ambled into the kitchen. "Looks like we've got new neighbors," he said, peering over her shoulder into the bowl.

"Did you meet them?"

He looked at her like she'd suggested something ridiculous. "No. They're trying to get moved in."

"You could go offer to help."

"Nah. Looks like they're almost done." He dipped a finger in the batter.

"I know you didn't wash your hands," she scolded.

"Germs are good for you," he retorted, and stuck his batter-dipped finger in his mouth. "When will this be done?"

"In about a half hour," she said. "But don't get excited. It's not for us."

"It figures," he said, his voice frosted with disappointment. "Let me guess. It's for the new neighbors."

"I thought it would be a nice way to welcome them to the neighborhood."

"And to get inside the house and see what's going on," Sam teased.

"Ha ha, very funny," she said, pretending to be offended. "And that's not why I'm making this."

"Right," he said with a knowing nod.

Okay, so she did want to get in and see what was going on with the new neighbors. But she also wanted to be nice. Taking a little something to new neighbors was exactly what the Have a Heart campaign was about. It was a sure way to keep that smalltown friendliness.

So forty minutes later she was crossing the street, filled with friendliness. It was a perfect fall day. The air smelled like freshly washed earth . . . and coffee cake.

A delivery van from the nearest Macy's was parked at the curb now, and two men were unloading a recliner. She followed them up the walk. The front door stood open. From inside she heard the sound of male laughter. No women yet? Hmmm.

The deliverymen disappeared inside, and as she approached the front porch she heard a velvet voice that sounded like a radio DJ say, "Just put it over there. That's great."

She hesitated on the porch. Maybe this wasn't a good time.

Oh, that was silly. It was always a good time to deliver a gift. She rang the doorbell.

A moment later one of the young men was at the door. He was slim and cute, all-American fresh looking, the kind of boy a woman wanted for a son.

"Hi," said Sarah. "I'm one of your neighbors. I thought you might like something to eat."

"h.e.l.l, yeah," he said, eyeing the cake. "Hey, Dad, there's a woman here for you."

The older man came to the door. He had a smelly cigar in his mouth, and that made Sara think of George Burns. Except with his slicked-back hair and fake tan he looked more like George Hamilton.

He took a chew on his cigar and checked her out. "Well now, what have we got here? Is this something for me?"

The way he was looking at her made Sarah wonder if he was referring to her or the baked item in her hands. "Coffee cake," she said, holding it in front of her like a s.h.i.+eld. "I figured you and your wife and family might be hungry."

His features took on an att.i.tude of faux regret. "No wife, I'm afraid. It's just little old me."

"Oh." If she'd known that, she wouldn't have come hurrying over here with her coffee cake, looking like a fowl on the prowl. She shoved it at him. "I'm Sarah Goodwin. My husband and I live in the green house over there," she said, pointing.

"That green one? Nice house. I'm Leo Steele. Nice to meetcha. I'm glad I moved into a friendly neighborhood. A guy gets lonely." With that voice he should have been on the radio.

"Well, you'll love it here," said Sarah. "All the neighbors are very friendly."

"Yeah?" He smiled around the cigar, and words from an old poem suddenly popped into Sarah's mind. "Step into my parlor," said the spider to the fly.

This man probably had a different definition of "friendly" than she did. She took a step back, nearly falling off the porch. "Well, it was nice to meet you. If you need anything my husband will be happy to help you."

He pulled out his cigar and pointed it at her with a George Burns smirk. "Don't be a stranger. You and your husband."

"Thanks," she said for no logical reason. She turned and fled home.

Sam was getting ready to run by the station when she got back. "So, did you get the skinny?"

"He's single," she announced. That didn't quite sound right. "No wife."

"No new neighbor to gossip with," Sam teased. "b.u.mmer."

"Yeah, b.u.mmer," she said. She'd probably better direct her random acts of kindness in a different direction.

SEVEN.

It was six P.M. and the night was blacker than a witch's hat. Bare-branched tree skeletons clawed at the sky. Somewhere a dog howled.

Not that anyone noticed. At the annual Heart Lake Goblin Walk, even a banshee would have had a hard time making itself heard above the din of music, laughter, and childish squeals coming from the crowd prowling Lake Way and all its tributaries. Parents and grandparents escorted little princesses, superheroes, and skeletons on their hunt for treats while costumed shop owners stood outside their shops with giant bowls of candy and trinkets. Both the fire and police departments were manning booths, giving away stickers and flyers on fire safety.

"Aren't you so cute," Emma cooed over a little princess who had stopped to dip into her witch's cauldron for a packet of M&M's. "Did your mommy make your costume?" she asked, smiling at the woman holding the princess's hand. A potential fabric customer-she hoped she wasn't salivating too obviously.

"Her grandma in Oregon made it," said the woman. "I don't have time to sew," she added in a tone that implied sewing was only for people who didn't have a life.

Before Emma could think of a reply, the princess and her mother the queen vanished. They were replaced by a group of sugar-buzzed superheroes. One of them vacuumed up Emma's candy supply as though he were collecting food for his last meal. The others quickly followed suit. Neither of the two dads in charge of the group said anything. That was probably because they were too busy checking out a woman on the other side of the street in a Catwoman outfit to pay attention to what the kids were up to.

Oh, well, Emma decided. There was her good deed for the day. She wondered how Jamie was doing.

Valentine Square didn't have the mob that the shop owners one street up were facing, but they were getting a steady trickle. Just enough to make Jamie feel guilty every time she considered taking her Tootsie Rolls and packing it in.

"Are we having fun yet?" called Roxy Reynolds from her post in front of the card shop. She stood chatting with her a.s.sistant and Monique, the owner of Whisper, the lingerie shop, who was wrapped up like a mummy. Monique could barely move, but Jamie was willing to bet she was at least warm.

"Oh, yeah," Jamie called back.

"If you think this is fun, you're whacked," said Clarice, Jamie's part-time help, as she refilled the bowl. She had dyed her hair orange in honor of the holiday and was all dolled up with fake blood, her face painted corpse white. "Okay, that's the last of the candy. When it's gone, you're done. And speaking of done . . ."

"I know, I know," said Jamie. "You can take off. Have fun in Seattle."

Clarice grinned. "We will. Borg is sure to win the costume contest tonight. He's going as a chick magnet, with a big, s.h.i.+ny red magnet around his neck. It even glows in the dark. So do other parts of him," she added with a smirk.

"TMI," said Jamie, rolling her eyes. "Get out of here already."

Clarice skipped off like a giant kid. Come to think of it, at barely twenty, that was what she was.

Jamie couldn't help smiling. Next to Christmas, this was the best night of the year for kids, both big and little. She used to love Halloween. She still did. It was the one night of the year when the monsters were pretend.

She greeted a well-rounded woman escorting two girls and a little boy wearing a Frankenstein mask who looked more like a beach ball with legs. All three kids carried king-sized pillowcases, which they had barely filled. She guessed they'd go on to raid Heart Lake Estates after doing downtown. Jamie offered her plate of fudge to the woman and the bowl of cheap candy to the kids. The beach ball dove right into the bowl.

The girls were no fools. They s.n.a.t.c.hed the fudge. "That's good," said one, and helped herself to another piece.

"Don't be a pig," scolded the woman, who also took a second helping.

Hmmm. Oink, oink. But pigs made good customers. "If you think that's good you'll have to come by sometime and try my truffles," Jamie said.

"Do you give samples?" asked Miz Piggy.

Jamie suspected this woman could easily sample her right out of business. "Sometimes," she said evasively.

"I'll have to come check them out," the woman promised, and took a third piece of fudge. "Thanks."

Maybe she should have just given the woman the whole plate and been done with it. Oh, well. What did she expect? She was offering free chocolate. Who could resist that?

A little ghost of wind swept under her gypsy skirt, raking her legs with icy fingers and making her s.h.i.+ver. If she'd known she was going to be so cold she'd have bought some long underwear. Thank G.o.d this ended at seven. She and Emma had a date with a bowl of candy corn, a scary movie (or so Emma claimed), and some drink called a Vampire's Kiss that sounded like it involved enough alcohol to stock a liquor store. Maybe they should have had the alcohol before the Goblin Walk. It would have helped her stay warm. She sneaked a look at her watch. Six o'clock. An hour left to go. Ugh.

Next time she checked her watch she still had forty-five minutes left to stand out in the cold. Time wasn't exactly flying. It wasn't even marching. It was just strolling by, taunting, "Neener, neener," with each icy breeze that tickled her skin. She was so not doing this again. She didn't care if it was good for business. They didn't get as many people down here anyway.

She looked across the way. Roxy and Monique were packing it in, turning tail on the approaching stream of trick-or-treaters and ducking into their shops. Jade Forrester, who owned Jade's Jewels, hadn't even bothered to show. That left only her, and she didn't have the heart to close up. She sucked it up, pasted on a smile, and braced herself for the next wave that came at her in a wall of noise.

It was almost like some giant amoeba, she thought, just one big, noisy cloud of masks, robes, and reaching hands. The blob surrounded her. It took, squealed, and then moved off down the street, making her think of dragons parading through San Francisco's Chinatown on Chinese New Year. Somewhere toward the end of the tail, however, she distinguished a sound that wasn't happy. Crying.

She peered past a noisy clump of teenage boys trying to hide their age and size under bedsheets to see a wilted little fairy with chestnut curls dragging a plastic pumpkin full of candy and looking like she'd witnessed the end of the world.

Jamie left her candy bowl for the boys to raid and hurried to the little girl. "Sweetie, are you lost?" Of course she was. "Where's your mommy?" Well, duh. Like the kid would know?

"I want my grandpa," the child sobbed.

Lost children weren't exactly Jamie's specialty, but she did know enough to call the cops. "Here," she said, putting a hand to the child's back and propelling her toward the store. "Let's go see if we can find him."

The little girl moved right along with her, which was good in a way, because Jamie could get her to safety and hang on to her. But this kind of cooperation made her wonder if the little girl's parents had ever warned her against talking to strangers. "What's your name, sweetie?"

"M-M-Mandy," the child sobbed. "I want my grandpa."

"I know. We're going to find him. What's your grandpa's name?"

"Grandpa."