Christmas On Nutcracker Court Page 2

  For some reason, he couldn’t seem to get back into the story he’d created.

  What had possessed him to ask that woman where she and her family were moving? He really didn’t care, as long as they left the neighborhood.

  But the question had just rolled off his tongue, a leftover habit from his former job, he supposed. As a probation officer, he’d had to stay on top of the defendants who were on his caseload.

  He didn’t blame Mrs. Westbrook for ignoring his question, though. And he should be glad she didn’t snap at him for even asking.

  All that really mattered was that he would finally be able to have the peace and quiet he needed to get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep each day.

  Now, focusing on the screen before him, he grabbed the mouse, scrolled up, and reread the paragraph he’d been working on before placing that telephone call.

  Logan stood at the living room window, his breath fogging the glass as he peered at the driveway. He watched Priscilla throw a suitcase into the back of her black Toyota Prius. She was leaving, she’d told him earlier, heading back to the small Texas town that she’d once called home. And if her parting words rang true, she wasn’t ever coming back.

  But Logan Sinclair didn’t need her.

  He didn’t need anyone.

  Max’s fingers were braced on the keyboard, itching to continue, to add a line or two more of introspection. He even closed his eyes and stroked the keys, hoping to get into Logan’s head and let the character speak for himself.

  But Logan Sinclair, the cynical cop who was up to his ears in trouble, wasn’t talking, and Max had no idea why. Logan had certainly gotten himself into one heck of a mess without much help from the author who’d created him.

  So what was the cop feeling now, as his wife backed out of the driveway and sped off, leaving him to face his enemies and the internal affairs department on his own?

  Max wished he knew, but the character, who’d become so real to him over the past four hundred pages, suddenly seemed like a stranger.

  And Max had no one to blame but Mrs. Westbrook.

  Why’d he have to go and talk to her now? Why couldn’t he have made that call before he’d started working this evening?

  He should have known better. Interruptions to his writing process usually stopped him cold, which was why he found it easier to work at night and into the wee hours of the morning, when most of the world had gone to sleep.

  Earlier this evening, after dinner, he’d put on a fresh pot of coffee, hoping a rush of caffeine would stimulate the muse. But even the hearty aroma of his favorite Kona blend hadn’t done the trick.

  The house was quiet, just the way he liked it. Yet, for some reason, the blasted tick-tock-tick of the clock on the mantel seemed to echo off the walls and play havoc with his ability to concentrate.

  As Max glanced back at the blinking cursor that mocked him, he blew out a ragged sigh.

  What if he’d actually been contracted to write this book and had a real deadline looming, rather than the self-imposed one he worked under now?

  He’d given himself a year to write a novel, a dream he’d had since his teenage years. A dream that had continued to build until he hadn’t been able to ignore it any longer.

  Last January, when he’d been a probation officer, dealing with people who’d gotten themselves in legal trouble for one reason or another, his dream of writing the great American novel had grown too big for him to put off any longer. And fictitious Logan Sinclair, a rogue cop with a checkered past, had been on his mind more often than not. So he’d taken a leave of absence from the county and had given himself until the end of this year to finish the book.

  Trouble was, he’d gone through the bulk of his savings and would have to either quit writing and go back to the “real job” or put his house on the market, risking it all for a dream that might never come true.

  Of course, he had a solid proposal for a series of books featuring Logan Sinclair, but the last literary agent he’d queried had suggested that he complete the first book and then let him take a second look at it.

  That response was the closest he’d ever come to having his dream validated by someone in the publishing business, so he’d dug in and started working. In the story, he’d just reached the part that would become the black moment and would lead to the climax and resolution.

  But Priscilla Sinclair had really thrown a wrench into the machinery when she’d decided to leave her husband. Their heated argument, which had taken place a couple of pages back, had come out of the blue and exploded on the page while Max had been deep in the writing zone.

  If the dialogue between Logan and Priscilla hadn’t been so crisp, so real, Max might have considered deleting it and starting over. But their argument seemed reasonable, and so did her leaving.

  He’d read about how this sort of thing happened to writers, how characters came alive and the story took off in a completely different direction than originally had been plotted. So while this didn’t surprise him, it did back him into a corner.

  Max blew out another sigh.

  So why did Priscilla throw down the gauntlet at a time like that? Poor Logan had enough on his plate and could really use some feminine support at this point. He certainly hadn’t needed an ultimatum from her now.

  Why didn’t Logan just tell her, “Good riddance” and be done with it?

  After going through a messy divorce of his own a little over a year ago, Max thought of all kinds of ways to end the scene.

  Priscilla’s car could blow a tire, and she could lose control and slam into a tree. The vehicle could explode upon impact....

  Okay, so he was a little angry with women these days, especially wives who left their husbands. And since he hadn’t foreshadowed those kinds of problems in the Sinclairs’ marriage before now, he’d have to come up with something else.

  He tapped his index fingers on the J and F keys.

  “So now what?” he asked himself.

  Priscilla could realize that she’d made a terrible mistake by leaving the one man in the world who really loved her. Then she could make a U-turn, drive back home, and beg Logan to take her back.

  But that was too cheesy for the book he was writing.

  Hemingway, who’d been curled up beside the desk, began to stir and stretch his lanky body. The dog, which by all outward appearances was one part wolfhound and three parts mutt, had once been a stray in the neighborhood before becoming a pet.

  Max liked to think that he’d merely sympathized with the overgrown pup and had taken him in, but he really hadn’t had much of a choice in the matter. The crazy dog had plopped down on Max’s front porch and stayed as if he’d had squatter’s rights.

  The dog yawned, then got to his wooly feet, padded to the entryway, scratched at the door, and whined.

  Max really ought to let him out into the backyard, but the main entry was just a few steps away. So at night, it had become a lazy habit to let him pee in the front.

  “Okay, okay,” Max said, as he pushed back his desk chair, stood, and made his way to the entry. Then he opened the door and waited while Hemingway trotted down the steps, across the lawn, and over to the big elm in the center of the yard, where he liked to hike his leg.

  Nutcracker Court was quiet this evening, but Max sensed he wasn’t the only one outdoors. In the glow of a streetlight, he spotted a long-haired, bearded man standing near the curb in front of Helen Pritchard’s darkened house.

  Helen, a divorcée in her midfifties, had left early this morning to join her family on a three-week Mediterranean cruise. Max knew that because he was supposed to be watching the old Victorian while she was gone.

  The lights were off, as they should be. But what was that guy doing out here at this time of night?

  Before Max could quiz him, a woman with platinum-blond hair crossed Helen’s lawn and joined the man on the sidewalk.

  Max didn’t like the thought of vagrants milling around the neighborhood, especially when m
ost people were sleeping. He had half a notion to chase them off, but realized he wouldn’t have to do it, once Hemingway noticed them.

  But the dog seemed oblivious to the strangers and continued to sprinkle each bush in the front yard, marking his territory.

  When Hemingway had made his rounds, he glanced out into the street, finally taking note of the couple.

  Go get ’em, Max thought, expecting the dog to take off like a shot and make a big racket. But Hemingway merely loped toward the man and woman as if he’d just recognized long-lost friends.

  “Hemingway!” Max called. “Get back here.”

  Clearly forgetting the hand that fed him, the dog joined the couple in the street.

  Max grumbled under his breath, then made his way down the sidewalk and across Nutcracker Court. He didn’t have to go far, because the shabby man met him halfway.

  “How’s it going?” the stranger asked, his blue eyes zeroing in on Max as though they’d met before.

  “All right.” Noting that the man’s long gray coat was frayed and torn at the collar, Max returned his focus to the guy’s bearded face. “Can I help you?”

  “Actually . . .” The woman, who was wearing a light pink sweatshirt with HOME SWEET HOME embroidered on the front, smiled. “We’d like to help you.”

  “I don’t need any work done around the house,” Max said, figuring they were looking for odd jobs. “And if you need food or shelter, you might check out the Parkside Community Church. They have both a soup kitchen and an outreach program for those in need.”

  “My name’s Jesse,” the man said. “And this is Maggie.”

  Max merely nodded, his skeptical nature holding back any semblance of a smile.

  “How’s the book coming along?” Jesse asked.

  Max tensed. How would this guy know he was a writer? If the living room blinds had been open, he might have thought the two had been spying on him.

  Either way, Max chose not to answer his question and offered a prompt for the two strangers to move on. “It’s a cold night to be out on the streets.”

  “Yes, it is. In fact, we’re just heading for the bus stop.” Jesse placed a hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “Have a good evening. And merry Christmas to you and yours.”

  Max waited until they both disappeared into the shadows, then he grabbed Hemingway by the collar and led the dog home. As he did so, he glanced over his shoulder to take one last look at the couple to make sure they’d continued on their way.

  Apparently so, he decided.

  After more than fifteen years as a probation officer, Max usually had a second sense about troublemakers with lame excuses. And while he had half a notion to call the police and have those two checked out, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.

  Hopefully, that wasn’t a big mistake.

  Chapter 2

  As dawn cast its morning light over Fairbrook, Susan Ferris carried a cup of honey-laced breakfast tea to her desk, took a seat, and started up the computer.

  Less than a year ago, she used to sleep until nine or ten, but that was before Hank passed away. Now, try as she might, she could never seem to find a comfortable spot on that king-sized mattress. But she supposed that was to be expected after nearly twenty years of marriage.

  When the beeps, blips, and groans finally stopped and the computer was up and running, she signed into her e-mail account, then waited until her in-box displayed the new messages.

  There were only three this morning, but the one from Helen Pritchard jumped out at her.

  That was odd. Helen, who lived on the other side of town, had left yesterday morning for a three-week vacation. And Susan had been the one to drop her off at the airport.

  After landing at La Guardia, Helen planned to meet up with other family members and spend the night in Manhattan. Then they would board a cruise ship, cross the Atlantic, and visit Europe and the Mediterranean before flying home.

  Even as late as yesterday morning, while the two friends shared a cup of tea before taking Helen’s luggage out to the car, Helen had again asked if Susan wanted to go along. “I don’t like the idea of you spending Christmas alone,” she’d added. “It would do you good to join us.”

  The genuine concern had warmed Susan’s heart. “You’re a wonderful friend for thinking of me like that, but I’ll be okay. Besides, it’s a little late now, don’t you think?”

  “No, it’s not too late. I have a private room on the ship that sleeps two, so you can easily purchase a ticket. And you already have a passport, which we can pick up on our way to the airport, along with a nightie and some undies. You can purchase anything else you need while we’re in New York.”

  “You’re forgetting that your plane leaves in less than three hours. And the flight is probably sold out.”

  “Wrong again.” Helen’s eyes lit up, and her lips stretched into a grin. “I checked last night. There are still plenty of seats left.”

  At that point, Susan had placed a hand on her friend’s forearm and chuckled. “You’re amazing—and such an orchestrator.”

  As usual, Helen had thought of everything.

  “Don’t tell me you can’t afford it,” Helen had countered as she’d tapped her index finger on one of the more colorful brochures she’d spread out on the kitchen table. “I know Hank left you in great financial shape. Please reconsider. It’ll do you good to be away on your first holiday alone.”

  Susan found it tempting, of course, but she’d held her ground. Even if she was willing to run home, pack quickly, and ask Lynette or Rosa to look after her cat, the answer was still no.

  But she wouldn’t share the real reason for her refusal with Helen. If truth be told, she would have been a little uneasy around Helen’s many relatives, especially when she’d always dreamed of having a family of her own someday. A dream that, sadly, seemed to have died with Hank.

  At that very moment, just as if the cat had been able to sense Susan’s loneliness, it jumped on her lap and made a couple of circles before curling up in a big furry ball.

  Snowflake was Susan’s baby now. And while it wasn’t quite the same as having a real child, she supposed a cuddly pet would have to do.

  But enough of that. If she let those yearning thoughts creep up on her, she would fall into a big blue funk that would last most of the day. And with Christmas coming, it was going to be tough enough to stay upbeat. So she clicked on Helen’s e-mail.

  As the note opened, she saw that the other Diamond Lils had each been included and had received a copy, which wasn’t surprising. The Lils, as the women in their weekly poker group often referred to themselves, had become close friends over the years.

  In fact, it was the Lils who’d come together and helped Susan deal with Hank’s loss last January. Rosa Alvarado, who attended Parkside Community Church, had practically handled the funeral arrangements single-handedly. And they’d all taken turns preparing meals and forcing Susan to eat.

  So why had Helen e-mailed the group when they’d already said their good-byes on Thursday afternoon?

  She’d also sent it last night, which meant she’d had to access the Internet from her hotel room in New York.

  “Uh-oh,” Susan said aloud, hoping it wasn’t bad news.

  Hi, Lils—

  I was in such a fog as I packed for my trip that I forgot to mention that my cousin, Mary-Margaret Di Angelo, will be house-sitting while I’m gone. And since Maggie doesn’t know a soul in Fairbrook, I was hoping you would take her under your wing and make her feel welcome.

  I know I can count on you!

  Bon Voyage!

  Helen

  Susan sat back in her chair. Helen had never said anything about needing a house sitter. If she had, Susan would have volunteered.

  Nor had she ever mentioned a cousin named Maggie.

  Snowflake mewed and turned her head, as if she thought it was unusual, too.

  But knowing Helen, she’d probably gotten a little scattered while packing, just as she’d said.
So Susan typed in a quick reply.

  Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll stop by to check on Maggie this afternoon. You can count on me to make her feel welcome.

  Have a great trip!

  Susan wasn’t sure how the others would respond. Rosa was pretty busy these days.

  Too busy, if you asked Susan. It seemed that her husband volunteered for every charitable organization in town, and poor Rosa did her best to keep up with him. Right now, they were knee-deep in the planning of Christmas Under the Stars, a holiday program held each December in Mulberry Park.

  Lynette Tidball had more time on her hands, though, so maybe she would be able to join Susan at Helen’s this afternoon.

  Either way, she would make her mango-coconut cake to take as a welcome-to-Fairbrook gift for Maggie. She hadn’t baked since last December, which wasn’t surprising. She hadn’t felt like doing a lot of things after Hank died.

  But today, she actually looked forward to whipping up that cake batter and smelling it bake in the oven. People always raved about the taste and often asked her to give them the recipe, but there was no way she’d ever share it.

  Her Aunt Pat had felt the same way. After Pat’s death, Susan had the chore of packing up her belongings, keeping things that had sentimental value, and sending the rest to Goodwill. But then she’d stumbled across her aunt’s recipe box and realized she’d struck gold. So now the secret was hers.

  When Susan had responded to all three of her e-mails, she returned to her bedroom and slipped her bare feet into the furry pink slippers Hank had given her two Christmases before last. They were getting old and frayed, but she just couldn’t bring herself to throw them away.

  After making her bed, she padded into the kitchen to check her pantry for the necessary ingredients and to make a list of what she’d need to purchase at the market. It would be nice to have something to focus on other than herself today, as well as her longing to find a husband to replace the one she’d lost.