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Authors: Judy Duarte

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BOOK: Christmas On Nutcracker Court
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Lynette seemed to take her at her word and kept eating, but not Maggie. “If it's bothering you, maybe we can help.”
“It's no big deal. It's just that . . . Well, Barbie, my sister-in-law, called me earlier this morning.”
“I thought you got along well with Hank's family,” Lynette said between bites.
“I did. I
do
! In fact, Barbie asked me to join her and her parents at the annual holiday party at Lydia's House, and I agreed to attend.” Susan knew that Lynette would understand. But what about Maggie?
“Are you uneasy about celebrating Christmas with Hank's family?” Lynette asked.
“It'll be tough,” Susan admitted. “This will be the first year without him. But it's not that. It's just that I've never really been to Lydia's House. And I'm not sure if I'll feel comfortable there.”
There. She'd said it. She looked down at her plate, focusing on a piece of zucchini covered with ricotta cheese and marinara. She ought to spear it with her fork and shove it into her mouth, which would make it impolite to speak if Maggie or Lynette quizzed her further.
Should she have to explain what Lydia's House was? Or would Maggie already know? The woman seemed to be so charity-minded that it might not need an explanation.
“So why did you agree to go?” Lynette asked.
“Because . . . Well, I never understood why Hank refused to go in the past, and I always thought that he should. But I figured he had his reasons.” Susan fingered the edge of her napkin. “I think I can handle one afternoon as a guest. But when Barbie called today, she asked me to be in charge of the cookie decorating table and to help her with the games.”
“And that bothers you?” Lynette asked.
“To be honest, I'm not sure what to say or how to act with them. It's . . . well, it's out of my comfort zone, I guess.”
“Why?” Maggie asked. “They're just like you in a lot of ways, vulnerable, loving, kind. They laugh when they're happy and cry when they're hurt.”
“I'm sure you're right.” Susan offered the woman a smile, but didn't think she'd understand.
But the truth was, she'd come to believe that Hank had been afraid to have a child because they might have one like his brother, Ronnie. And since Susan was no longer able to have Hank's baby, that fear shouldn't concern her.
Yet it did. She was getting older, and the odds of having a child with a genetic defect of some kind were higher for her.
And being at Lydia's House was going to give faces to her fears.
Chapter 8
Rosa had no more than cleaned the soup kitchen and driven home, when she was faced with fixing dinner—and not just for her and Carlos. She'd volunteered to make an extra chicken casserole to deliver to the Dawsons, a couple who belonged to their small group at church.
Rosa and Carlos had grown close to Sam and Claire over the past year. And since Claire had just given birth to a new baby girl and was in the hospital, Rosa had volunteered to make dinner for Sam and their daughters, eleven-year-old Analisa and Emalee, who was almost two.
Fortunately, Rosa had cooked the chicken this morning, so now all she had to do was add some chopped vegetables, rice, and broth.
Her knees and her back ached like crazy, though, so she was going to have to take some painkillers if she wanted to get the job done. She'd just have to tell Carlos that he needed to deliver the meal this evening by himself. She was going to lie down as soon as she got it in the oven. But at least her only obligation was dinner. She'd managed to get out of looking after the children while Claire was in the hospital—but just barely.
Several weeks ago, while their small group had been having refreshments, Carlos had told the Dawsons that he and Rosa would be happy to watch the older girls when Claire went into labor. Rosa had nearly choked on the brownie she'd been eating. But she'd been spared when Gail Jamison—bless her heart—had volunteered at the same time.
“I'd love to have the girls,” Rosa had quickly chimed in, “but I'll bet they'd be happier with Gail.”
And that was a fact. Gail looked after her three-year-old grandson while her daughter worked, so she had plenty of toys and a child-friendly house and yard.
Claire had agreed, thankfully, and Rosa had breathed a sigh of relief. Not that she didn't love children, but with her bad knees, she'd never be able to keep up with a two-year-old. She'd hated to embarrass her husband by admitting in front of the group that his offer to handle the childcare would be too much for her.
What was she going to do with Carlos? If that man got wind of any kind of need in the church or the community, he nearly broke his neck trying to take care of it himself.
Rosa knew she'd probably never get Carlos to slow down when it came to his charity work, but hopefully he'd start consulting her before volunteering her time or services.
It was Rosa, however, who'd offered to fix dinner for the Dawsons tonight, so she couldn't complain about that.
As she greased the baking dishes, she realized that she probably ought to touch base with Sam and let him know when he could expect the evening meal to arrive. So she washed her hands, then went to the built-in desk near the kitchen nook, where she opened the address book and looked under the
D
s. When she spotted Sam and Claire's name, she called their number.
Sam answered on the third ring.
Rosa didn't bother introducing herself since she knew Sam would recognize her voice. “Hi, Sam. How's everyone doing today?”
“We're great. The baby was a couple of weeks early, so she's a lot smaller than Emalee was. But the doctor's not concerned.”
“Good. And Claire?”
“She's missing the older girls and eager to come home.”
“I remember feeling that way.” Rosa and Carlos had three children, although they were all grown and gone now.
Goodness, if truth be told, she still felt that way. Their oldest, Susanna, was the only one of the kids with a family, but they lived in Colorado. They usually came to Fairbrook for the major holidays, although that wasn't going to happen this Christmas. Susana's husband lost his job three months ago, and they couldn't afford to make the trip.
Christmas wouldn't be the same without any children in the house, but there wasn't much Rosa could do about it. She and Carlos were strapped this year, too.
“I'm making a chicken casserole for your dinner this evening,” Rosa told Sam. “Carlos will bring it to you when he gets home from the church. He's changing out the lights in the choir room.”
“Claire and I sure appreciate your kindness.”
“You're more than welcome.”
They said good-bye, and Rosa hung up the phone. As she turned to the stove, a wave of dizziness struck, and she grabbed the counter to steady herself.
It didn't last very long, thank goodness, but she still took a moment to sit down at the kitchen table until it was gone.
She wasn't sure what it meant—if anything. But she probably ought to make an appointment with Dr. Kipper. She glanced at the clock on the oven door and saw that it was nearing five. She'd have to call now, since the office would be closing soon. But quite frankly, she didn't dare get up just yet. She needed a few more minutes to rest.
About the time she began to coax herself to stand and drag herself over to the desk so she could make the call, Carlos came in.
“How's it going, honey? Is the meal for the Dawsons about ready?”
“It will be.”
He paused for a moment and studied her. “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”
“I'm sure it's nothing. I'm just tired. But you're going to have to deliver the casserole to Sam's house. My knees are killing me.”
“No problem. After dinner, maybe you should take some aspirin and get off your feet.”
She planned to.
“By the way,” he said, “the Christmas Under the Stars committee is meeting again tomorrow evening at the church. I told them we'd bring the refreshments.”
There he went again. The man was a saint, but sometimes Rosa thought he was going to be the death of her.
“Would you mind if I picked up something from the bakery?” she asked.
“I guess not. Why? Don't you want to make cookies or something?”
“I'm not going to have time to do it myself. The soup kitchen is keeping me pretty busy.”
“I guess you're right,” he said. “Do whatever you have to do.”
As Carlos opened the fridge, probably trying to find a snack to hold him over until dinner, Rosa glanced at the clock. It was 4:59. Apparently, she wouldn't have time to call Dr. Kipper's office before his staff left for the day, which was too bad.
She had even less time to be sick.
 
 
Max had big plans for Friday, but he'd worked late the night before and didn't roll out of bed until after one o'clock in the afternoon. He'd hoped to wake up earlier, but since he hadn't gone so far as to set the alarm, he wasn't going to beat himself up for lagging.
Once his bare feet hit the cold floor, the first thing he did was to let Hemingway out in the backyard. Then he took a shower and dressed warmly. The television weatherman had predicted that San Diego County was in for a cold spell, and Max had no idea how long he'd have to stay outside.
With that out of the way, he stopped in the kitchen, fixed a pot of coffee, and poured himself a cup. Then he grabbed a banana to tide him over and headed out the front door.
He kept a couple of chairs on the porch, although he never used them. So he snagged one of them now and carried it to the lawn. After taking a moment to find the perfect spot, he chose a place that provided a view of the gate and the south side of his fence. Then he took a seat.
If he had to camp out all day long, he was determined to find out how his dog was getting out of the yard.
As he settled into his seat, he realized that he should have brought out some of his manuscript pages so he could do some editing while he was sitting here. That way, if he had to wait too long, he'd put his time to good use.
For once, he hoped to see those Westbrook kids on Nutcracker Court. If they were the ones who kept letting his dog out—or encouraging Hemingway to escape somehow—Max wanted to catch them in the act.
He sat there for an hour or so, then decided he needed more than a banana to keep him going. So he went inside for something to eat.
While he was fixing a ham sandwich, he peered out the kitchen window and spotted Hemingway sitting on his haunches near the gate. The dog whimpered a couple of times, then wagged his tail and got to his feet as if someone was there. Then, almost like magic, the gate swung open and the crazy mutt took off.
Oh, for Pete's sake. The minute Max had left his post . . .
Swearing under his breath, he rushed out the front door, down the steps, and into the yard. It had only been a matter of seconds, but the gate was wide open.
And Hemingway was long gone.
Max looked to his right and his left, but didn't see any of the kids. He did, however, spot the woman who was house-sitting for Helen, walking down the sidewalk.
“Hey, Maggie,” he called. “Did you see my dog?”
“Actually, he just ran out of your yard, leaped over the hedge, and took off. It looked as though he might have been heading for the canyon.”
Good. At least he had a witness to the crime. “Who was with him?”
“No one. He ran off by himself.”
“Then who opened the gate?”
Maggie drew to a stop. “I'm afraid I can't answer that.”
Why not? For a moment, he wondered if she could have been the culprit, but she was coming from the wrong direction, and he doubted that she could have gotten that far away without being out of breath. So he didn't ask.
Still, that gate couldn't have opened by itself.
“You know,” Maggie said, shoving her hands in the pockets of her jacket. “Your dog would be much happier if he had kids to play with on a regular basis.”
Annoyed by the woman's interference, Max crossed his arms over his chest. “And how would you know that?”
“He told me.”
The woman was clearly nuts. But then again, Max supposed he shouldn't talk. What kind of fool hid out in the yard to spy on a dog?
He raked a hand through his hair. Now what did he do? Chase after the dog? Or say good riddance to the mutt?
“He really loves those kids,” Maggie added.
“What kids?”
“The two boys. I think he called them Joshua and Michael.”
“
He
?” Max wasn't following her.
“Hemingway, although he'd rather be called Butch.”
In spite of knowing he ought to end the conversation right here and now, he found himself saying, “
Excuse me
?”
“Butch is what his old family used to call him,” Maggie added.
“What are you talking about?”
She cocked her head to the side as though he was the one who'd lost touch with reality. “Weren't we talking about your dog?”
Max nodded, although the urge to go inside and leave the crazy woman on her own was growing stronger by the second. He'd wasted way too much time on this conversation already.
“Hemingway would rather be called Butch. That's what his name was before he came to live with you.”
Max had no idea where Hemingway had come from. He'd just showed up one day, sat on the porch, and settled in—like a four-legged squatter.
So how had Maggie known that? It wasn't like it was public knowledge.
“What are you?” he finally asked her. “A dog whisperer?”
“I suppose you could say that.”
There weren't many people who were more skeptical than Max, but he had to admit he was curious about Maggie's claims.
“So what happened?” he asked. “Why isn't the dog living with that family?”
“The parents divorced and had to sell the house. Since the mother and kids had to move into an apartment, they couldn't keep Butch. So the father took him and moved to Fairbrook.”
“So where's the father now?” Max asked, playing Maggie's game. To be honest, he was a storyteller, too. And he could appreciate a good yarn when he heard one. “Why isn't the dog with him?”
“Butch—or rather, Hemingway—didn't like the guy very much and blamed him for the breakup. He thought you'd be a lot nicer, so he decided to hang out here, hoping you'd let him stay. And you did.”
Max wasn't putting any stock in her story, although he had to admit that Maggie would have no way of knowing Hemingway had arrived one day out of the blue.
Who was to say if she was crazy or not? He'd heard that some people had a way with animals, even if he didn't believe that they could actually carry on two-way conversations.
“I'd planned to have him neutered,” Max said. “So maybe that will help.”
“Oh, poor Butch,” Maggie said. “He's not going to like that.”
BOOK: Christmas On Nutcracker Court
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