A Family Christmas

CHAPTER TWO

“DADDY? DADDY…”

Lucy’s high-pitched voice woke Evan from a light doze. He reacted before his brain was at full speed, lurching up from the easy chair and stumbling over the ottoman that had skidded out from beneath his feet. The yammer and glitz of a familiar late-night talk show filled the room. Around midnight, then.

Evan shook his bleary head, coming awake enough to stop and listen, hoping that Lucy would settle on her own. As much as he wanted to reassure his daughter’s every fear, the clinginess and anxieties hadn’t abated as he’d been told they would. Her mother, Krissa, had been gone for a year and a half. More. Nineteen months. Roughly a third of Lucy’s life.

Nineteen months and the worry that his fumbling efforts were hurting Lucy more than helping her still sat in Evan’s gut like a leaden weight. With a tired exhale, he found the remote control and Sports Illustrated he’d dropped when he stood, then clicked off the TV.

Lucy’s call escalated to a panicky howl. “Dad-deee!”

Evan’s foot crunched down on a bag of pretzels as he hurried from the living room. But he didn’t stop. “Coming, Lucy.”

Her bedroom door was directly across from his in the modest single-story house. Butterfly night-lights were plugged into outlets in the hall and in Lucy’s room. They’d helped some, but she continued to wake during the night, frightened of dreams, of shadows, of trees, of thunderstorms, of being alone.

Lucy was a small, huddled shape in the bed. Tears glistened in her eyes. Although Evan’s heart went out to her, he kept his tone matter-of-fact. “What’s up, honey? You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“There’s a m-m-monster in the corner.”

And in the closet. Under the bed. At the window.

“You know monsters aren’t real. Why didn’t you turn on your lamp to see?”

Lucy drew in a shuddery breath. “I was too scared to move. The monster would eat me.”

“Go ahead and do it now.” According to the book he’d found in the library, Comforting the Timid Child, he should try to get Lucy to take her own proactive steps to combat the fears.

Reassured by his presence, she pushed aside her covers and leaned over to reach the bedside lamp. He’d bought her a new one recently, easy to turn on by a switch in the base.

Click. Light flooded the room.

“See there?” Evan said. “It’s just a lump on the chair from the extra blanket and your jacket. Hey, little girl! Weren’t you supposed to hang that up?” Lucy was usually orderly. Too much so, he thought. He’d like to see her noisy and laughing, barreling around the house, even breaking things.

But that was how he’d grown up, with three brothers and parents who only threw up their hands in cheerful surrender as they rounded up their sons like bumptious sheep. Raising a little girl like Lucy was a different matter. There were times he felt that he’d never get it right.

“I’ll do it just this once,” he said heartily, taking the jacket to her closet. Lucy watched with big eyes, probably thinking a witch would jump out when he opened the door.

As Evan put the jacket onto a hanger, he felt something in the pocket. He pulled out a piece of stiff paper. “What’s this?”

Lucy held out her hands, suddenly smiling and happy. “My picture!”

He glanced at the small painting, finding it innocuous enough. Yet it had made Lucy forget her fears, at least for the moment.

“Rose gave it to me. She painted it.”

“Ah.” Evan approached the bed, studying the picture more closely in the lamplight. He’d have expected Rose’s artwork to be bold and graphic. This was soft, romantic. She’d painted a stone house, covered with climbing vines and pink flowers, surrounded by trees.

Lucy took the painting. “It’s a fairy-tale house.”

“Did Rose tell you that?”

“I just knowed.”

Evan sat on the bed beside Lucy, putting an arm around her. “And does a princess live there?”

She nodded. “Uh-huh. Tell me a story about her, Daddy.”

He could have handled swashbuckling pirates or even a talking skunk that wore a beret, but princesses and other girly things? He didn’t have that much imagination.

“You tell me,” he urged. “What’s the princess’s name?”

After some thought, Lucy said, “Princess Kristina,” and Evan’s heart gave a thump. The choice, so close to her mother’s name, had to hold significance, even if it was only a subconscious wish.

Lucy went on, unperturbed. “A wicked fairy godmother put a spell on her.”

“What kind of spell?”

“Princess Kristina has to live in the enchanted forest forever. Or a big ogre will chop her head off.”

“Ouch.”

“He’s twenty-ten feet tall. He’s green all over and he has stinky breath.” Lucy giggled. “Like me when I kiss you good morning.”

“Pee-ew! That’s bad.”

“Really bad.”

“Is the princess scared of the ogre?” Lucy’s favorite movie was Shrek, so the story might go the other way.

“Oh, yeah. Really scared. ’Cause he’s gonna chop her head off, ’member?”

“Right. But maybe the ogre is a nice guy inside.”

“No, Dad. He’s mean. Very, very, very mean.” Lucy made a growling noise. “He scares the princess so much she has to stay in her house all the time. She never gets to go home to see the king and queen.”

“They must miss her a lot.”

Lucy nodded over the painting.

Evan decided it was time to quit. The story wasn’t heading in a direction conducive to sleep. “There has to be a way to break the spell. Do you think that maybe a prince will come to defeat the ogre?” No, better to encourage her by having the princess rescue herself. “Or maybe the princess will find a way to become the ogre’s friend. But for now, the princess is safe inside her house.” He took the picture and propped it up on Lucy’s table lamp. “You can tell me more of the story tomorrow night, Luce. I want you to get some sleep.”

She breathed a quiet sigh. “Okay.”

“Slide down.”

She burrowed deeper under the covers and he gave her a snuggle before rising from the bed. He checked the curtains—they had to overlap so no monsters could peek in—and went around to peck Lucy’s forehead before shutting off the lamp.

Her voice stopped him at the door. “Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“I like Rose. She can draw real good and—and—”

Evan waited. Lucy’s fingers clutched the edge of the blanket. Her pale hair lay across the pillow, as fine as any princess’s. His heart swelled, and he vowed once again to protect her from as many ogres as he could.

“Rose isn’t afraid of the woods,” she said.

“No, she certainly isn’t.” He thought of Wild Rose Robbin, lurking in the forest shadows. An ogre or a princess? Time to find out for sure, with his daughter’s interest so captured.

“We were going to color in the leafs…” Lucy’s voice was fading.

“Shh, now.” Evan left the door halfway open. “Sweet dreams.”

ROSE CLOSED the Buck Stop at midnight, exiting through the back door where she’d left her bike against the tar-paper wall. Although she used her mother’s car during the winter and bad weather, the bike was her favorite transportation. The autumn months were particularly precious for her, with the crisp air and falling leaves and the need to hold on to each day for as long as possible. She was old enough to regret how often she’d wished her life away. Particularly a certain nine-month span of time…

In retrospect, it was hurtful to remember how slowly she’d believed the days of her pregnancy had passed, and how fiercely she’d longed for it to be over and done with so she could escape her pain. She’d had no clue.

But she’d been barely seventeen. So confused, and raw with the horror of what had happened to her. She hadn’t known how her perceptions would be altered by the baby boy she was sure she didn’t want.

Rose wheeled the bike past the rutted gravel of the convenience store parking lot, onto the paved road. There wasn’t much traffic at this time of night. She had a headlamp and reflector patches, so she was safe to ride on the road, even in the dark. In fact, she preferred it. She was never as free as when she coasted along in the darkness with no eyes upon her except the glowing circles belonging to the porcupines and raccoons staring at her from the trees. She could breathe. She could fly. The couple of miles to town sped by.

Usually she tried to keep her mind blank during her bike rides. On this night, she found herself thinking about Evan and Lucy Grant. She knew very little about him—them. What she’d learned now that she was paying attention had only roused her curiosity further, but she couldn’t see herself asking around to learn more. That would be obvious and embarrassing.

Her older brothers, Jake and Gary, had laughed and teased mercilessly when they found out she had a crush on Rick Lindstrom of the hotsy-totsy Bay Road Lindstroms. Later, in private, when she’d been spotted in Rick’s convertible and the gossips were slurring her name, sure that Rick was only interested in one thing, Jake had warned her away. He’d said that Rick was playing her.

She hadn’t listened. And look where that had gotten her—alone and brokenhearted.

Evan Grant would be another mistake. He wasn’t as far out of her league, but he was an upstanding citizen, in a position of influence, expected to hold to high moral standards. Regardless of the pity invite, he must have some idea of her reputation. Even if he was willing to buck expectations, she wasn’t.

She always learned her lessons the first time. Her father had only had to hit her once before she knew to keep quiet and out of his way. And that one horrid encounter in the woods near the cottages had been enough to send her away from home for more than fifteen years….

Her head filled with bad memories, Rose reached town before she knew it. The streets were vacant and quiet. The only businesses open at this time of night were the bars, thriving even without her father’s patronage. Black Jack had closed them down on frequent occasions before coming home to roar at his wife and children.

Rose pedaled faster and faster, until she reached Blackbear Road, a country lane that led north out of town. A few farmhouses and newer ranch homes dotted the landscape. A big dog rushed down a driveway, barking as Rose whizzed by.

The road sloped down toward the river. Finally she slowed and turned onto the driveway of her home, such as it was. The sign announcing Maxine’s Cottages was faded and worn, as it had been for as long as she could remember. There wasn’t much reason to replace it. Very soon the business would fold.

Almost nothing would make Rose happier. Her mother could call her ungrateful all she wanted, but Rose had been anticipating the day as a righteous reprisal ever since she’d moved home.

For now, she did as her mother wanted, and Maxine refused to close the cottages. Business had slowed to a trickle even before Black Jack’s death; now it came one drop at a time. These days, even the type of rough-and-tumble sportsmen they catered to expected more comfort and conveniences than the spartan stone cottages offered. While Rose did what she could, little money had been put into upkeep over the years and the place had deteriorated into a shabbiness that was a painful contrast to the natural beauty of the peaceful river setting.

Maxine’s Cottages consisted of a central home and office surrounded by eight one- and two-room cabins perched along the Blackbear River. Rose lived in the farthest cottage, all her worldly possessions contained in its one room, with space to spare.

Before going home, she stopped at the main house to check on her mother. It was a duty she bore with equal parts of exasperation and sympathy. Maxine Robbin had led a hard life—married to a hell-raiser at sixteen, often in bad health, scraping by for a living, putting up with Black Jack’s temper. The only break she’d ever had was when an uncle had died and left her the cottages.

The door was unlocked. Rose scraped her shoes on the rubber welcome mat before entering. The Robbins’ house was not much bigger than the rentals—two bedrooms, a kitchen and an L-shaped combination living/dining area, with the cubbyhole office at the front. Rose’s brothers had shared the second bedroom. She, the youngest and reportedly an unexpected mistake, had been given a daybed in a curtained-off corner of the living area. Small wonder that as a girl she’d spent all her daylight hours outdoors—and even the nighttime ones whenever she was able to sneak out.

At the sound of the door, Maxine’s querulous voice rose from the back bedroom. “Is that you, Rose? I dropped my clicker and I can’t find it. I’ve been lying here in misery, with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling. Why you had to pile my bed with all these extra blankets and pillows is beyond me.”

Because if I hadn’t you’d be calling me back to complain about the hard mattress or the cold draft. Rose stopped outside the bedroom door and took a deep breath, wishing for the patience needed to deal with her mother.

Black Jack’s dominating personality had turned Maxine into a mealy-mouthed complainer. Her voice was like a mosquito—an annoying high-pitched whine that went on and on for so long a body began hoping for the sting that would end it. Remembering that Maxine had been swatted down more often than any person should have to be was how Rose made it through each long day.

Rustling sounds came from the bedroom. The mattress creaked. “Ohhh. It hurts so much I can’t get out of bed. My arthritis is acting up.”

“I’m here.” Rose slipped into the bedroom and began straightening the blankets and picking up pillows. She found the remote control in the folds of the comforter and set it on the bedside table. “How was your evening, Mom? Did Alice stop by?”

“She brought a store-bought coffee cake that tasted like gravel. Came carrying tales, of course. You know Alice.” Maxine shrugged bony shoulders. She’d always been a petite woman, but illness and worry had shrunk her to a wizened, sallow shadow. At fifty-six, she was old before her time.

She droned on about Alice’s gossip, finishing with, “As if I give two hoots what the ladies of the book club or the guests at Bay House have gotten up to.”

Rose smiled to herself as she continued straightening the room. One of her mother’s remaining pleasures was a good gab with Alice Sjoholm, who was kind enough to look in on Maxine when Rose was at work. But it simply wasn’t in Maxine’s makeup to admit to any enjoyment.

“At least Alice is someone to talk to,” Maxine said. “I get zilch outta you.”

“I have nothing to talk about. You know that not much happens at the Buck Stop. It’s a drudge job.”

Maxine snorted. “That scarred hermit Noah Saari was coming into the store and you never said a word until I heard from Alice that he was courting some fancy gal at Bay House.” Maxine tilted her head, eyes narrowing at Rose. “You always were a Miss Butter-Won’t-Melt-in-Her-Mouth. Such a sneaky child, running off into the woods and keeping secrets.”

“I wonder why,” Rose muttered.

“Eh? What’s that?”

Rose sniffed the air. The ashtray on the bureau was wiped clean, but when she checked beneath the tissues in the wastebasket she found black residue and several stubbed-out cigarettes.

“Mom.” Rose let out a big sigh. “You’ve been smoking again.”

Maxine went into instant-whine mode. “I’m all alone. I get nervous at night.”

“You know you can’t smoke with the oxygen tank in the room. You’ll blow yourself to smithereens!”

“Then take it out of here.” Maxine gave the tank beside the bed a disdainful glance before she drooped into a familiar, imploring pose. “Don’t yell at me, Rose. Shouldn’t I be able to do what I please, now that your father is gone? Bless his soul.”

Rose knew quite well that her mother was using emotional blackmail. Even so, she couldn’t seem to stop the rush of pity that often became capitulation.

Maxine had an advanced stage of emphysema. She could still get around, though she often preferred not to, and her doctors had said that with vigilant care she might have years to live. A stronger person would have become determined to enjoy their remaining time, but Maxine was too cowed to fight. And she’d soon realized that the illness was a surefire way to keep hold of her only daughter and manipulate Rose to her bidding.

Maxine’s wants were simple enough, if wearing, so Rose usually found herself complying. She believed that her mother deserved some happiness. Even if it was a twisted, bitter sort.

“I’m not yelling, Mom. I’m worried.”

Maxine smiled. “What goes around comes around.”

Avoiding that, Rose found the pack of cigarettes hidden under her mother’s pillow and stuck them in her jacket pocket. “It’s the cigs or the oxygen,” she said, overriding Maxine’s complaints. She glanced around the room, which had changed little in twenty years. Same with the entire house. Black Jack’s boots were still parked under the bed and his fishing hat hung on the back door. She itched to get rid of them, but her mother refused that, too. Any sane person would have wanted to shed herself of reminders of a sorry life, but not Maxine.

“Should I help you to the bathroom before I go?” Rose asked.

“I suppose.”

Rose gave Maxine her arm and escorted the woman to the adjoining bath. She was quite capable of getting there on her own, but Rose had learned it was easier to help out now than be called on in the middle of the night.

After her mother was resettled in bed, Rose put a brisk tone in her voice. “All right, then. I’m leaving. Are you all set for the night?”

Maxine fussed with the bedclothes. “Can’t think of anything I need. But I can always ring.”

Rose stifled a groan. She had no telephone in her cottage, but there was an old farmhouse bell hanging at the front door, put there so arriving guests could ring for help when no one was in the office to check them in. Maxine seemed to take pleasure in rousing Rose at least once a night with the clanging.

“It’s after midnight,” Rose said. “I need a good night’s sleep.” For a change.

“So do I.” Maxine shifted in bed. “I can hardly get an hour’s sleep without waking up wheezing and coughing. But you don’t hear me complaining.”

Yeah, right. Rose plumped the pillows, smoothed back her mother’s hair, once black as her daughter’s but now heavily laced with steel-gray, and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Night, Mom.”

“Night, Rose.” Maxine patted her arm. “You’re a good daughter. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The praise was perfunctory. Yet it worked. Rose had been given so little praise in her life that even crumbs seemed worthwhile. Her chest tightened as she pulled away.

She paused at the door, wanting to speak from her heart but not knowing how.

And of course Maxine couldn’t leave well enough alone. “Your brothers never call,” she moaned. “And you could run away again at any time. What would I do then? I’m so afraid of being left on my own.”

“That’s not going to happen, Mom. I’ve promised to stay. Now go to sleep.” Rose flicked off the light and hurried away before her mother saw the tears of frustration welling in her eyes.

She dashed them away, swearing at herself as she left the house and grabbed her bike by the handlebars. When would she learn?

She was the one who was on her own.

“And I like it that way,” Rose said out loud to the whispering pines and the black rushing water.

But for the first time in a long while, she wondered if she was lying to herself.

THE NEXT DAY, Evan had no practice scheduled and was able to pick Lucy up from her sitter’s early. They decided to make a trip to the library, one of Lucy’s favorite places in Alouette. Not being a big reader himself, Evan worried that his daughter was spending too much time with books when she should be outdoors in the fresh air. But he couldn’t argue with the benefits, or the pleasure it gave her.