Читать книгу Once Upon a Christmas - Pamela Tracy - Страница 11

Chapter Two

It had been a tough week thanks to Monday’s phone call from the principal. And now once again, thanks to a Friday phone call from Caleb’s teacher, Jared was standing in the hallway of Roanoke Elementary.

He checked his watch. He had at least a dozen things to do today, starting with figuring out—since he was here—what props were needed for the school’s Christmas program. The father who had been in charge was now working extra hours and Beth, the woman he was about to see, had asked Joel, her fiancé and Jared’s brother, to help.

Joel had a rodeo, so right now, Jared was it.

But that had nothing to do with his visit today. No, Beth had something to say about Caleb, his youngest, who was responsible for Jared standing in the school’s hallway at four in the afternoon on a working day.

Through a window in the door, he could see Beth sitting at a small table. Someone else’s mom had her back to the door. So, maybe Caleb wasn’t the only one in trouble. Both women seemed overly fascinated by some paperwork spread out on the small table.

He didn’t intend to let any more time pass doing nothing. He needed to gather his boys, find the teacher in charge of the program, talk shop and head home. There was still an hour or two of Iowa daylight, and he had things to do and was already behind. He opened the classroom door and stepped in.

“Jared.” Beth Armstrong—Miss Armstrong to his son, Beth to him—twisted in her seat, looking surprised.

Funny, she’d called his cell phone and left a message requesting this meeting.

Then she glanced at the large clock just over her desk. “Is it that time already?”

“That time and then some,” Jared said, finally figuring out who was sitting with Beth. Hmm, she didn’t have a child in Beth’s class. Had something else happened between Caleb and Cassidy?

His future sister-in-law didn’t even blink, just nonchalantly walked over to where Jared stood. “Sorry, I was looking at pictures of wedding dresses and time got away from me. You know Maggie, right?”

“Away from us,” Maggie Tate agreed as she closed magazines and reached for some loose pictures, “and, yes, we’ve met.”

When Jared didn’t respond, didn’t say that keeping him waiting was okay, Beth grinned. She was getting entirely too good at teasing him. He could blame the fact that she was about to become his sister-in-law, but truth was, he’d known her most of his life. This time, she simply told him something he already knew. “Patience is a virtue.”

“Whoever coined that phrase wasn’t a single father of three with a farm to run,” Jared retorted.

“And I didn’t realize that you were standing outside waiting for Beth.” Maggie finished loading the papers into a canvas bag and made her way to the door. Jared couldn’t help but think her small frame looked right at home in the five-year-old wonderland of kindergarten.

His mouth went dry, and the annoyance he felt at being kept waiting almost vanished.

Almost.

Then, the young woman, her eyes twinkling, spoke again. “Patience is a virtue, have it if you can. Seldom found in a woman. Never in a man.”

Beth clapped her hands, clearly pleased that someone else shared the same opinion.

All Jared could think was, great, another female with a proverb. The only sayings he knew by heart were the ones his father said, and they were more advice than quips. Jared’s personal favorite: always plow around a stump.

He doubted the women would appreciate his contribution.

“Maggie’s helping me find my wedding dress,” Beth said.

“You’re a wedding planner, too?” Jared asked, forcing his gaze from Maggie’s deep green eyes. He had no time for a pretty face. And he was more than annoyed.

“Wedding planner?” Beth looked confused.

“I’m willing to add that to my list of occupations,” Maggie said. “But, at the moment, no. I’m just a shop owner and seamstress trying to keep a customer happy.”

Her shop, Jared knew, was all about vintage clothing, which explained the red velvet skirt. Who wore red velvet? Maybe Santa. Jared suppressed the smile that threatened to emerge. This woman was as alien to his world as, well, as an alien. Her skirt, tight at the knees, reminded him of one Marilyn Monroe had worn in an old movie he’d watched. She’d topped it with a simple white shirt and wide black belt. It was colder today than it had been on Monday. Maybe that’s why she had on a tiny, red sweater.

She’d freeze going out to the car.

Square-toed boots completed the outfit and kept Jared from admiring her legs the way he’d just admired her figure.

Good.

Frilly city girls made no sense to him.

Plus, she looked like she was ready to assist Santa or something.

“When I finished talking with my daughter’s teacher,” Maggie explained, “I checked to see if Beth happened to be alone. I’d brought some samples for her to look at.” Her voice was louder than Beth’s, stronger, and with an accent he couldn’t quite place, but definitely not Midwestern.

“I need to fetch Cassidy before she thinks I’ve forgotten her.” Maggie carefully slid by Jared, grabbed a coat from on top of a student’s desk and hurried toward the exit. “I’ll get going and let you have your time.”

“See if you can find me something like the first one we looked at,” Beth called.

Jared didn’t say anything, just held open the door so Maggie could exit gracefully.

“I really am sorry,” Beth said. “Time got away from me. And I do need to talk with you.”

Jared folded himself into the small orange chair Maggie’d just vacated. A fragrance that didn’t belong to five-year-olds or their teacher lingered—that jasmine smell again. He waited while Beth went to her desk and rummaged through a stack of papers.

Jared did his best not to hurry her. Unfortunately, the seconds ticked on and Jared started imagining all the suggestions she had for him. She probably wanted him to work with Caleb more. Jared got that, and would love suggestions, especially when it came to time management and incentives.

He stared at a bulletin board with a group of Christmas trees, stickers acting as ornaments, all bearing the names of Caleb’s classmates.

Caleb’s ornament read C-A-B. The B looked ready to fall down. Jared’s youngest son hadn’t bothered with the L or the E.

“Caleb behaving? I’ve asked him every day since Monday. He claims his light’s been green.”

Jared understood the traffic light system. Green meant Go, everything good. Yellow meant Pause, we need to think about this day and perhaps discuss how it could have been a bit better. Red meant no television, or no video games, or no LEGO bricks, depending on which kid decided not to obey the rules.

Beth didn’t answer, but finally found whatever she was looking for and came to sit down with Jared. She laid a few papers in front of him. “Caleb is trying very hard to behave but he complains a lot about his stomach hurting. He asks to go to the bathroom often.”

“He does that at home, too,” Jared admitted.

“Behavior is not why I called.”

She took a breath, and suddenly Jared got worried.

“It’s still very early,” Beth said softly, “and maybe if I hadn’t been around since Caleb was born, I’d wait. But, the music and PE teacher have both come to me with concerns, also. Jared, it’s not that he’s misbehaving, but he’s having trouble focusing, not just your typical trouble, either. Caleb can’t wait his turn, he bursts out with answers and he’s unable to sit long enough to complete a single paper.”

For a moment, Jared had trouble wrapping his mind around what Beth was saying. Yes, of his three boys, Caleb was the most energetic. Okay, downright wild at times. Jared saw that and somewhat blamed himself. After his wife, Mandy, had died four years ago, Jared had buried himself in the farm. For the first year, he’d walked around in a black fog. The three years that followed were a transitional period. He should have been paying more attention to Caleb.

But Caleb was still very young, only five.

“I think you need to schedule an appointment with your family doctor, see what he thinks. Honestly, Jared,” Beth continued, “I’m hoping it’s just immaturity, but if it’s not, I want to get help now so that first grade and beyond are easier. We might need to think about having some testing done and maybe seeing a developmental specialist.”

“Developmental specialist?” Jared’s tongue felt twice its normal size. Judging by his inability to say more than one or two words, he felt more like an observer to this conference than a participant. He shook his head and wished—like he wished almost every day—that Mandy were here instead of him, making these decisions when it came to this part of parenthood. Mandy always seemed to know what to do.

“Jared?” Beth said.

He looked at her, desperately trying to think of a response. “I think Caleb is fine,” he finally said. “He can count to a hundred. He’s been able to add and subtract single digits since he was three. You’ve trained my brother well. He’s been helping all the boys with math while they work at Solitaire’s Market.”

“I know, Jared,” she said softly. “Caleb likes numbers.”

He scooted back the chair and stood. “Do you have anything else you need to tell me?”

She looked at him, and he saw in her eyes so many shared memories. She’d been his late wife’s best friend and truly loved his sons.

“Caleb’s a charmer, but you already knew that.”

Jared nodded, wanting more than anything to get out of this room where everything was in miniature and the dominant smell was no longer jasmine but crayons, glue and children. He needed to get home, back in the field, where he could wrestle his oversize tractor and surround himself with the land, McCreedy land, and the rich smell of dirt that would not forsake.

Beth stood and held out yet another piece of paper, this time not one with Caleb’s scribbles. “It’s the developmental specialist the school recommends, just in case.”

“I didn’t even know the town was big enough to have a developmental specialist.”

“It’s not big enough,” Beth said. “You’ll have to go to Des Moines.”

“That’s over an hour.”

And still Beth held out the paper. He took it because he’d neither the time nor the inclination to argue. He went into Des Moines maybe once every two or three months. “I’ll think about it,” he finally said.

“You know,” Beth said thoughtfully, “you might want to talk to Maggie. She’s a friend and she’s told me to give her name to any parent needing help. Her daughter Cassidy’s just two years older than Caleb and has problems with focus, too. She’s already walking the path you’re about to travel.”

“I work best alone,” Jared said.

As he closed the door behind him, he heard her utter one word.

“Liar.”

* * *

Maggie pushed her chair away from the kitchen table and rested her elbows on the windowsill. She could feel the cold coming through the pane but she didn’t care, at least not enough to move. Tiny slivers of aged gold paint flecked onto the sleeves of her pink sweater. She did care a bit about the moisture gathering in the center of the pane. It meant she needed to replace the window.

One more thing on her list.

Just a month ago, Roanoke, Iowa, boasted a distant sea of green, orange, red and yellow leaves that Maggie could see from her second-story window. The sight of so many trees, some stretching over residential streets, never failed to take her breath away.

Because the view belonged to her.

Today, the trees stretched their empty, dark limbs like waiting fingers saying, Where’s the snow? We’re waiting.

It was her town. Just like the trees, she intended to put down roots, grow, thrive, make a home, never leave.

Please let this be a forever kind of place.

Even now, in the predawn light, her town was waking up and starting its day. Just like she was doing.

Across the wide street was a drugstore. It had the old-timey chairs but the only thing the owner served up was Thrifty ice cream. Maggie dreamed of a soda fountain. Next to it was a hardware store that Maggie avoided because the only things she liked to fix simply needed a needle and thread. Then there was an antiques store she couldn’t resist. The owner, one Henry Throxmorton, was unlocking the front door. He had a newspaper under his arm. She’d never seen him smile, but she knew his wife was sick a lot. Maybe that was why.

Just two days ago, Maggie had found in Roanoke’s Rummage—an awful name for an antiques store if you asked Maggie—the pair of red cowboy boots she’d been looking for. Looking unloved and extremely dusty, they’d been on the bottom shelf of a bookcase. There was no rhyme or reason to how Henry arranged his store. But, had they been on display, maybe some other enterprising mother would have found them.

All it took to make them look almost new was a thorough cleaning with saddle soap and then applying a cream-based polish of the same color. They were already wrapped and under the Christmas tree.

On the same side was also a small real estate office. Maggie sometimes dawdled by the front where there were pictures of homes for sale. The ones with big lawns attracted her the most, but she didn’t really do yard work. The ones with no backyards didn’t appeal at all.

Looking at the photos also exposed a curiosity Maggie had finally acted on. Her mother had been born in Roanoke in 1967. Could one of the houses have been her childhood home? Maggie didn’t have a clue. All she remembered of her mother was a woman who smoked cigarettes and cooked a lot of noodle soup.

Maggie hated noodle soup.

Life had handed Maggie’s mother an itinerary that she didn’t intend to follow. It included the destinations marriage and motherhood. The only reason Maggie knew about Roanoke was her mother’s birth certificate. Natalie had been seven pounds, six ounces, and twenty-one-inches long: a live birth, Caucasian. She’d been born to Mary Johnson. Either Mary had chosen not to put down a name for the father or she hadn’t known who the father was.

So, some help that was. In Roanoke, Johnson was the second-most popular name, nestled between Smith and Miller.

Moving to Roanoke to find a connection to an errant mother was akin to looking for a needle in a haystack and made about as much sense. But Maggie had two choices. Stay in New York with Dan’s mother or strike out on her own.

She didn’t regret her choice and there was nothing wrong with living above one’s place of business. It was very convenient in fact. But Cassidy needed a backyard, a place to run, a swing set, the dog she kept asking for. No, not the horse. And Maggie wanted her own bedroom.

Maybe in a few years.

Maggie shook off the daydream. This morning was a school day and tonight was a holiday party at Beth’s church. Cassidy had begged to go, had already planned what to wear. Maggie had too much to do to dawdle in front of the window any longer.

After brushing off the paint—she really needed to do something about sanding and repainting—she scooted back to her computer and started to push away some of Cassidy’s school papers. Why they were on Maggie’s desk, she didn’t know. Cassidy’s stuff seemed to have a mind of its own and liked to spread to every nook and cranny of their tiny apartment.

Cassidy’s letter to Santa was under a page of math homework, and it looked like her list had grown to three. Underneath the word puppy was added baby brother.

Great, another item that couldn’t be purchased at a discount store. Cassidy needed to start thinking of affordable alternatives or the red boots would be it.

If only the red boots could bark and be named Fido.

While Cassidy slumbered, Maggie—sitting next to the old wall heater and thinking about turning on the oven—updated the store’s records on her computer. Under her breath, she reminded herself that any small business needed four years to establish. Right now, thanks to her alteration business, she made enough to pay the bills and a few, very few, extras. Oh, it caused some late and restless nights, but with the economy the way it was, Maggie was just glad she had a way to make a living. So what if she went to the library instead of the bookstore. So what if they ate hamburgers instead of steaks.

Maggie had enough money for the essentials.

The used red cowboy boots under the tree were proof of that. She’d priced new red boots. Not this Christmas. Good thing hugs were free.

Finally, at seven, Maggie turned off the computer and headed for the kitchen to make breakfast. Cassidy still slept and Maggie wouldn’t wake her until the blueberry pancakes were ready, one large circle for a face, two small ovals for ears, then banana slices for eyes, a strawberry nose and raisin teeth.

It was a tradition that Maggie knew would end all too soon as her little girl grew up. Just when Maggie picked up a spoon, the doorbell rang.

Maggie quickly glanced at the calendar on the refrigerator. Two reminders were penciled in.

The only pickup Maggie had today was Rosalind Maynard. She’d wanted Maggie to find a 1930s denim chore jacket for her husband. They were getting their photo made for their seventieth wedding anniversary. Apparently, Rosalind’s husband came from a long line of farmers. His parents had also had a seventieth photo taken way back when, and George Jr. wanted to look like his dad, even down to the jacket.

It was the second notation that made Maggie frown. Yesterday, Jared McCreedy had called. He wanted to talk. She’d agreed, and she’d said any morning was good, but she hadn’t planned on this soon.

No, not possible. This morning was too soon for it to be Jared.

She hoped.

Quickly, Maggie hurried down the stairs and skidded, barefoot, across the cold, wooden floor. Maybe she could open the door, usher in Mrs. Maynard, grab the jacket, ring up the sale, usher out the customer, and still get her kid fed and to school on time.

Only it wasn’t Mrs. Maynard.

Jared McCreedy stood on the threshold, three boys by his side and cap in hand. He didn’t say a word when she threw open the door. He pretty much just stared.

His son Caleb wasn’t so shy. “Wow, I think you like pink.”

“Hush,” Jared said.

Hiding a smile, Maggie stepped back and let the entire clan in.

“Pink is a good color,” Maggie said to Caleb, “which is why I’m wearing it. I call this my Jane Fonda look.” Granted, leg warmers were very seventies, but she did own a vintage store, so she could get away with it.

“I like red,” Caleb admitted.

An older boy shook her hand, the only McCreedy she hadn’t met personally, and then sat on a chair right by the entry and whipped out some sort of handheld gaming device.

“That’s Ryan,” Caleb announced. “He’s in fourth grade.”

Matt looked around suspiciously. “Where’s Cassidy?”

“Upstairs asleep.”

“It’s time to go to school.” Matt was completely aghast.

“I was just making her breakfast when you rang the doorbell. We’re fast eaters and dressers.”

Matt, way too mature for a second grader, clearly had more to say on the subject, but Jared jumped in. “We don’t need to be keeping you. I saw your lights on, we were running early, and I don’t know what I was thinking stopping by unannounced. I’m so sorry. I can stop back by once I’ve dropped the boys off at school if that’s okay. I got up at five and thanks to the party tonight at church, I have a whole list of things to do. That’s no excuse, though. I simply forget the rest of the world can sleep in.”

It had been a week since she’d last seen Jared. He still managed to have that my-time-is-too-valuable-for-this look on his handsome face, but right now there was a hint of something else, maybe humbleness.

“I get up at five, too, Monday through Friday,” Maggie responded. “It’s when I do the books. That way my evening belongs to Cassidy.”

Jared shook his head. His dark hair, combed to the side, didn’t move. He opened his mouth, but instead of addressing Maggie, he looked past her and said sternly, “Caleb, those stairs do not belong to you.”

Halfway up the stairs Caleb paused indecisively, but before the little boy could make a decision, a loud thump, the sound of something breaking and then a howl came from above.

“Cassidy,” Maggie breathed.

The only McCreedy who beat her to the apartment’s kitchen was Caleb.

Cassidy stood in the middle of the room crying. Pancake batter splattered her pajama bottoms, the floor, the counters, the refrigerator door and even the ceiling. The bowl was in pieces.

“Now that’s a mess,” Matt said from behind her.

Jared’s snort could have been dismay, agreement, or it could have been him holding back laughter. Maggie couldn’t see his face.

“Don’t move,” Maggie ordered. Quickly she stepped amid the batter and shards, lifted her howling child under her arms and carried Cassidy into the bathroom. Flipping shut the toilet lid with her foot, Maggie stood her daughter on top and asked, “Are you bleeding?”

Cassidy continued howling.

Maggie knew neither cajoling nor scolding would have any effect. So, in a matter-of-fact voice, she reasoned, “Matt, from your class, is here. Do you want him to tell your friends that you’re a crybaby?”

Cassidy stopped.

“Now,” Maggie went on, gently wiping the tears from Cassidy’s face, “are you bleeding?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

Cassidy searched desperately for some blood.

After a moment, Maggie nudged in a patient but firm voice, “Where do you hurt?”

The fact that Cassidy had to stop and think proved what Maggie already knew. Cassidy wasn’t bleeding and she wasn’t hurt. She was scared and embarrassed. The best cure for that was not a bandage but a hug.

Hugs were free.

A minute later, Cassidy was in her room changing into her school clothes and Maggie was in her kitchen trying not to stare as a tall cowboy, too tall for this tiny kitchen, cleaned up pancake batter.