Songs of Christmas (2 page)

“I can help.” Amanda came forward and grabbed another box.

“Pink tickets go with Sonia, yellow tickets with us,” Molly instructed.

Amanda nodded and checked the ticket on the box she was holding. She also hid her reaction to the news that she and Molly were going to drive around town making deliveries, too. They had arrived at the shop in pitch darkness, and Amanda was still half-asleep now. It had been hard getting out of bed at such an early hour, especially since she had stayed up way past midnight with her stepsisters, Lauren and Jill, who had just gotten home for the holiday. The three sisters hadn’t seen one another for months and had tons of catching up to do.

But Molly needed her here this morning, no question. Molly’s catering partner, Betty Bowman, was in Chicago, visiting her son and daughter-in-law and her new granddaughter. Molly had been all in favor of Betty’s trip, nearly pushing her best friend out the door last weekend. But she had also told Amanda they would have to pick up the slack. That’s what it took when you ran your own business.

These past few weeks, Amanda had become reacquainted with her stepmother’s steadfast “whatever it takes” attitude, a trait she had come to admire, even envy. Though when Amanda had first met Molly, over ten years ago, she had found many things about her personality more than a little intimidating. Amanda had never met anyone like her.

Amanda’s mother had died when she was only eleven; she and her father had moved to Cape Light from Worcester three years later. She had always been shy, and the deep loss caused her to withdraw even more. Even her father had trouble reaching her. But Molly—and her two daughters, Lauren and Jill—had swept into their lives like a force of nature, surrounding both of them with hope and love. Amanda was just coming to see what a gift that had been.

While Molly could be impatient and overly blunt at times, she was also amazingly warm, funny, and forgiving. Amanda knew she would always be pretty much the opposite of her stepmother, but she wouldn’t change a thing about her.

She wasn’t sure when it had happened, but at some point in her adolescence—not too long after Molly and her father had married—Amanda stopped thinking of Molly as a “step” anything and just called her “Mom” . . . and had made a special place in her heart for her, too.

If only she had inherited some of Molly’s genetic material.

Maybe with a bit more of Molly’s grit, she wouldn’t have been so easily chewed up and spit out by city life and the fierce competition in her field. She would have managed to stick it out until she made a breakthrough. She wouldn’t have been so easily defeated.

But I can’t look at it that way,
she reminded herself.
Listening to these doubting voices in my head won’t get me anywhere.
Molly and her father kept reminding her of that. It was her father who finally persuaded her to come home.

“You just need to get a second wind, honey, to regroup and make a new plan. Come home for the holidays. You can still go to auditions and interviews. And you’ll have more time to practice without all the pressure of paying the rent for a few months. Come back and let us help you. That’s what we’re here for.”

Amanda knew her father meant well, but coming home to a small town in Massachusetts did feel like a big step backward. She had loved living in New York, having her own apartment, and supporting herself. Even if it meant taking lots of jobs that had nothing to do with music, like temping in an office or waiting tables. But when both of her roommates suddenly needed to move out and Amanda was stuck with the entire rent and utility bills, and a good job she’d been counting on—as a musical accompanist for a well-known dance troupe—failed to come through, she knew it was time to take her parents’ advice, give notice on the lease, pack up, and go home.

“One down, one to go.” Molly waved cheerfully at Sonia as she drove the first van out of the lot. Amanda waved, too, then followed Molly back into the kitchen.

“We must have made half the turkeys in town today, Mom.”

Molly laughed. “If not half, then very close. Hope we can fit the rest in our van.” Molly surveyed the boxes that were left. “I really don’t want to come back for a second load.”

Amanda didn’t want to either, but she always tried to do whatever was asked without complaint, just like any other employee. It wasn’t easy being the boss’s daughter.

They had just started loading the second van when Amanda heard knocking on the front door of the shop. The sound stopped for a moment, then started up again, even louder.

Molly heard it, too. “Can’t they see we’re closed today? I taped a big sign right in the middle of the door last night. Would someone please tell that person to come back tomorrow?”

“I’ll go.” Amanda quickly walked through the kitchen and the swinging door that opened into the shop.

She saw a man outside, peering through the panes of glass on the shop door. His hands cupped his eyes for a better view. When he spotted her coming to his rescue, he stepped backed and smiled.

Whoa, cute one,
she thought. He was about her age, maybe a few years older. Despite the cold, he wore just a thick sweater and a tweed blazer with a pair of worn jeans. He smiled even wider when she unlocked the door, and the words “We’re closed” got stuck in her throat. A breeze tossed his wavy brown hair. His sparkling blue eyes and charming smile were more than distracting.

Amanda was suddenly conscious of her unflattering uniform, lopsided ponytail, and the fact that she had rolled out of bed before dawn and had barely washed her face.

Great. First good-looking guy I’ve seen around here in weeks, and I look like I’ve been slaving in a medieval kitchen . . . And I must smell like a roast turkey.

She ducked her head and opened the door a crack. “I’m sorry, the shop is closed today. We’re only here to fill the catering orders. There’s a sign . . .” She checked the door but realized the sign was missing. Then she noticed it had fluttered to the ground. “Oh, here it is . . . See?” She picked up the sheet of paper and held it out for him to read.

“Oh, right. Sorry to bother you. But all I need is a pie. A pumpkin pie? Or maybe apple? A small pecan? There must be one spare, leftover pie back there . . . somewhere?”

He peered over her shoulder as if he suspected piles of pies were stashed behind the kitchen door. Amanda didn’t know what to say. She actually knew that this was true. There were piles of pies back there, and probably at least one spare.

She also knew Molly had told her to shoo him away. But his imploring expression was now as distracting as his smile had been moments before.

Before she could answer, the door to the kitchen opened and Molly appeared. “Amanda? Are you all right out here?”

Amanda turned to her stepmother. “This customer just needs a pie. There are a few extra, aren’t there?”

“Any kind would do,” he jumped in. “I promised I’d get it here. Otherwise, my mother would have baked it herself.” Amanda wasn’t surprised. A lot of people said that about Molly’s food, especially the bakery items. The shop made everything from scratch with the same recipes and ingredients Molly used at home. “She had so much to do to make dinner, I didn’t want her to have to bake, too.”

Thoughtful and considerate of his mother, as well? That did seem too good to be true. Amanda wondered if he was making all this up. She glanced at Molly to gauge her reaction. Her stepmother had an infallible baloney detector and could smell a story a mile off.

Molly squinted at him, then finally waved her hand. “Oh, get him a pie, Amanda. For goodness’ sake. How about pumpkin? I’m sure we have a few extra in that category.”

“Pumpkin would be perfect.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.” Amanda followed Molly to the kitchen and found a pumpkin pie that was already boxed. “It’s twelve dollars, right?”

Molly was flipping through a thick sheaf of orders. “The register is closed. Just give it to him. After that sweet story about his mom and all . . .” She looked up and rolled her eyes, but Amanda could tell she’d been won over. “It
is
Thanksgiving.”

“Whatever you say.” Molly was so generous. She never missed a chance to share the shop’s abundance and her own good fortune.

Amanda pushed through the swinging door again and spotted her customer standing just where she had left him. He met her glance as she walked over, smiling mostly with his eyes.

Amanda presented the box. “Here you are. One pumpkin pie.”

“I appreciate this very much. What do I owe you?” He balanced the box in one hand and reached for his wallet with the other.

“No charge. My step . . . I mean, the owner,” she quickly corrected herself, “said not to worry about it.”

“Are you sure? I’d be happy to pay you double,” he added with another disarming smile. “Honestly.”

Amanda shook her head. “It’s fine. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Thanks. Same to you. You already made my day happy.”

He looked down at her a moment as if he wanted to say something more. Then he just smiled, pulled open the door, and walked out.

For goodness’ sake . . . it was only a pie. But Amanda couldn’t help feeling a little glow. She latched the door, then watched him walk quickly across the street, holding the box with both hands. She was in the kitchen mostly, rarely working out in the shop. Did attractive guys swoop in here all the time? She would have to ask Molly to be assigned to the counter more often.

When Amanda returned to the kitchen, it was much quieter and practically empty. Most of the staff had pulled off their aprons and headed home. The few left were busily cleaning, eager to take off after this last task was done.

The second van stood by the back door, every inch filled with boxes. Molly held the clipboard of orders, along with her keys. “Grab your things, honey. Time to go.”

After calling out a few final instructions and good wishes to the lingering crew, Molly jumped behind the steering wheel and started the van. Amanda sat on the passenger’s side and quickly fastened her belt. Molly was a good driver, but she was in a hurry, and Amanda knew this could be a wild ride.

A few minutes later, they were navigating the winding streets of Cape Light. Amanda held the list of orders in her lap and kept track of their deliveries, checking off each one. The streets seemed so quiet, with few people out besides dedicated joggers and dog walkers.

After living in the city, the town looked different to her. Even more charming. A perfect New England village, like something out of a travel guide or picture book. She hadn’t appreciated it as much while growing up. While she definitely didn’t want to be stuck here forever, there was something comforting about the maze of treelined back streets—the rows of old homes, many true Victorians or vintage cottages—so quaint and impervious to change.

Molly had held many jobs before starting the catering business, including driving a taxi and a school bus. She knew every street and crooked, curving lane, and she practically knew all the house numbers of her customers by heart.

When they finally reached the bottom of the list, there were a few boxes left in the van. But those were for their own Thanksgiving dinner. Molly was making the turkey at home. They had so many people coming, they needed two. But all the side dishes and desserts were coming from the shop.

“If I sell it to other people, it should be good enough for us to eat, too, don’t you think?” she had said to the family.

Of course, many of their guests, like her aunt Jessica and Grandma Marie, would bring their own special dishes to the dinner. There was never any lack of food at their family parties, that was for sure.

“Mission accomplished,” Molly announced, taking a turn out of the village center toward the development of newer homes where they lived. “Right on schedule, too. I bet you didn’t believe me when I said we’d be done by noon, did you?”

“To tell you the truth, when we were all up to our ears in cranberry sauce . . . I did have a few doubts.”

Molly laughed and patted her shoulder. “Thanks for helping me today. I love this business most of the time, but the holidays get too crazy. Or I’m getting too old for it, especially with Betty away. I do love having you at the shop right now, sweetie, even though it’s just a lily pad for you.”

“A lily pad?” Amanda laughed and glanced down at herself. “Did I turn into a toad or something? I know I need a shower.”

“You know what I mean. You’ve been a good sport. But I know working for me is just a temporary thing, a resting spot before you take another leap. Even if you don’t find an opening with an orchestra right away, there must be some job around here that suits you better. More related to music, I mean.”

“I hope so.” Amanda didn’t mind icing cakes and making gourmet sandwiches, but she didn’t expect to stay at the shop forever either. A job in music, even a temporary one, would be an improvement. Though she had no idea what that job could be. She had studied performance and didn’t have a teaching certificate. She’d considered going back to school to get one but dreaded the thought of more classes, papers, and exams. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to be a teacher. She wanted to play her cello. She didn’t want to just fall into some career path accidentally—or out of desperation. Not yet, anyway.

“Don’t worry. Something will turn up.” Molly’s words cut into her rambling thoughts, as if her stepmother had read her mind. “We want you to just relax and enjoy the family time. I love having all my girls home. Your father does, too. I shouldn’t have even brought it up. Me and my big mouth, right?”

Amanda smiled at her. Restraint had never been Molly’s strong suit. “It’s okay, Mom. I know what you’re trying to say.”

“Do you, honey? I guess what I really want to say is that I understand that this is a hard time for you. We know how dedicated you are to your music, and we know you feel discouraged right now. But it will all work out. You’re so very talented. Anyone can see that. You just need a break. Just one good opportunity. You’ll see.”

Amanda appreciated her stepmother’s words, though she secretly wondered if they were true. She had always believed she had the talent, skill, dedication, and discipline needed to be a professional musician. Lately, though, she’d begun to doubt herself. She always seemed to get so close only to learn that some other cellist had beaten her out for a good job opportunity.