As You Are at Christmas Read online

  “Of course you’re right about the baking. I can start on that this morning.” Angela dug into the eggs. “Aren’t you eating?”

  “I ate with Matthew. He’s an early riser and loves my Denver omelets.” Mollie smiled sweetly from across the table.

  The fastest way to Mollie’s heart was through her cooking, that was for sure. “Denver omelet?” Angela assumed a school-girl pout. “I didn’t get ham in mine.”

  “And you’re shoveling it in like a lumberjack.” Mollie took her cup to the sink. “More coffee?”

  “No thanks. If I’m going to get any spare time, I’d better start on that baking as soon as possible.” She picked up her plate and at the counter pulled her grandmother into a hug. “I love you, Mollie.”

  “I know you do, dear.” Her grandmother returned a tight squeeze. “I love you, too, and I want to see you happy.”

  Angela took a step back. “I thought you wanted to see me busy.”

  Mollie laughed and tapped her finger on the end of Angela’s nose. “That’s what I said. I want to see you happy.”

  That had always been her grandmother’s philosophy and no doubt explained why she was so alert and healthy at her age. She kept on the move and always had some project going.

  Angela opened the apron drawer and pulled out a jumper style that slipped over her head and tied in the back. She might as well dress the part as long as she was here.

  “Not that I’m interested, but for the sake of fairness, did you have a list for Mr. Fix-It too?”

  “Oh, absolutely, dear. I have so many things that require a man’s touch, and he’s perfect for all of them. I need to take advantage of his abilities while he’s here.”

  How long would that be? Maybe he’d be gone by the end of next week, and she could relax and be herself without feeling like a single-female display.

  She found the big crockery bowl on the top pantry shelf and set it on the counter. Flour, sugar, canned pumpkin, spices, raisins and other ingredients soon filled the extra space. She started with sweet yeast dough to let rise while she made pumpkin, banana, and zucchini bread. This afternoon she’d punch down the dough and braid it into a Christmas wreath before baking it. Then she’d top it with drizzled butter-cream frosting and red and green candied cherries.

  “Deck the halls with boughs of holly,” she sang softly as she kneaded the dough, plopped it into the bowl, and covered it with a thin tea towel. Even though she helped her third graders make paper chains and caramel-corn balls for their classroom tree each year, it never felt like Christmas until she started baking with Mollie.

  Angela looked up to find the woman wearing a secretive smile on her pink lips.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, dear. It’s just good to hear you singing.” She smoothed her hands down the front of her apron. “Think I’ll go upstairs and pull out the decorations. I sent Matthew to get a permit so the two of you can cut a tree tomorrow after church.”

  Before Angela could reply, her grandmother disappeared down the hall humming the familiar Christmas tune.

  3

  How’d he get himself sucked in to this? That little gray-haired woman could charm the bark off a tree. And he was the proof, because here he was, standing in line at the Forest Service office for a tree-cutting permit.

  “I don’t want one from the nursery, and I don’t want one from a tree lot,” Mollie had said before he’d left this morning. “I want a forest tree, like my Jim used to get. They smell better.”

  Matt exhaled his frustration in a loud snort and folded his arms across his chest. A little girl in line ahead of him scowled over her shoulder. “Daddy,” she tugged on the hand she was holding. “Is that man Mr. Scrooge?”

  The father threw an apologetic glance at Matt. “No, sweetheart. He’s just been standing here for a long time. Like us.”

  Matt had never been called Scrooge before, but at the moment, the name fit. He’d driven all the way to Fort Collins to get the permit and now stood in line behind a child who called him names. This wasn’t how he planned to spend his Saturday afternoon.

  “Next.”

  He moved forward and listened as the father requested a permit for tomorrow.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but if you want to cut a tree this weekend, you don’t have to come in here. Just drive up to the site past the Red Feather Lakes area and—” She reached under the counter. “Take this brochure.” The clerk produced a slick color trifold and pointed out the necessary information. “Follow this map. You can pay your $10 right there, but you have to be out of the area by 4:00 PM.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And, sir, you just made it under the wire. Tomorrow’s the last day for cutting Christmas trees this year.”

  Matt stepped forward before she could say “Next.”

  “I’ll take one of those brochures.” Required reading before he headed out to cut the perfect tree for Mollie.

  She slid it across the countertop with a frown.

  “Thanks.” What was it with everybody today?

  ****

  On the twenty-mile drive back to Berthoud, Matt plotted the next day’s trip. He’d have to leave as early as possible to make it to Red Feather Lakes with enough time to find the right tree, cut it, and drag it out to his pickup. He’d briefly scanned the brochure and noticed the “four-wheel-drive or chains” requirement.

  Mollie tried to give him gas money for this tree-cutting expedition, but he’d refused. Their agreement was room and board for labor. He snorted again. She was definitely getting the better end of the deal.

  When he got to Berthoud, he stopped by the appliance store to check on the furnace he’d ordered. It still wasn’t in. Figured. Starving, he pulled in to a fast-food drive-thru and ordered a burger and fries. Not exactly Mollie’s cooking, but it would have to do. His mouth watered at the greasy aroma as he unwrapped the burger and bit into the juicy meat and cheese.

  “Awugh!” Mustard and pickles. He never ordered mustard and pickles. He’d specifically said mayo, lettuce and cheese only. He shoved the rest of the burger into the bag and devoured the fries. By the time he parked in front of the boarding house he definitely felt like Scrooge.

  As he opened the front door, a warm ripple of homemade bread wrapped around him. His mouth watered again, and Scrooge vaporized.

  “In the kitchen.” Mollie either had perfect hearing or radar.

  Angela stood at the counter. Apron strings joined in a knot across her lower back. Just above her great fitting jeans.

  “What smells so good?” He pulled out a chair, counting on Mollie to offer a cookie or two or three.

  “Freshly baked breads and cookies, of course.” She headed for him with a platter of samplings and returned a moment later with a glass dish of whipped butter. “Honey-butter,” she said, handing him a small knife. “You’ll like it.”

  Afraid he might be drooling, he wiped his mouth on his cuff. “Don’t have to ask me twice. Thank you.” He slathered on the creamy mixture and sank his teeth into a warm slice of white bread. “Hmm.”

  “Good?” Mollie’s eyes twinkled as she gave him a napkin.

  “Great.”

  “Would you like some coffee to go with that?”

  “Also great. How’d you know I was starving?”

  “You’re a man,” Mollie said, laughing. “Men are always hungry.”

  Angela turned around and swiped her hands down her apron. Flour smudged her chin and one cheek, but her eyes sparkled. Clear and gray like the sky over the mountains at dawn. “So are third-graders.”

  Was that a smile lurking behind the flour? A big change from last night.

  Matt repaid Angela’s near-smile with a look of near-offense. “I resemble that remark.”

  She giggled. “Now you sound like a third grader.” She pushed up her bangs with her wrist and frowned at the platter in front of him, pointing. “Try that dark slice there and tell me what you think.”

  “Gladly.” He could tast
e the pumpkin before it reached his mouth, and the brown sample melted away behind his lips. “Greath.”

  “What?”

  He swallowed. “Sorry. Great. Can I have more?”

  “May I have more.”

  “Sure, here.” He held the plate out to her.

  “No.” She laughed again “I don’t want it, you do. But it’s ‘may I’ not ‘can I.’”

  He coughed in surprise at her classroom reply. “Excuse me, Miss Murphy, ma’am. I thought school was out for Christmas.”

  She narrowed her gaze as if aiming a gun, but the smile lingered. “Proper English is never on vacation, Mr. Dawson.”

  “OK, you two, enough.” Mollie whisked away the platter with one hand and made brushing motions at Matt with the other as if sweeping him out of the room. “That’s all for now. You’ll spoil your supper.”

  He drained his coffee and set the fragile cup and saucer in the sink. “Do you have any mugs, Mollie? I’m afraid I’m going to break these tiny things every time I use them.”

  “This is a Victorian-era boarding house, Matthew. No mugs.” She cast a warm smile in his direction. “Now out. We have work to do and so do you. I couldn’t quite reach all the decorations in the east bedroom closet upstairs, and I need you to bring the boxes down for me. Can you put them in the dining room, please?”

  He snatched another slice of pumpkin bread from the platter and shot a quick look at Angela. Her mouth curved up on both sides.

  “Anything for you, Mollie.” He held one finger to his lips and raised his brows at Angela in a plea for silence.

  On his way up the stairs, he wiped his hands on his jeans and savored the last bite of warm pumpkin bread, wondering who made it.

  ****

  Angela swirled green frosting on a tree-shaped cookie and laid it with others on a strip of waxed paper. Dinner smelled wonderful.

  “We’ll eat in the kitchen tonight,” Mollie said. “With all those boxes in the dining room, we can’t pull the chairs out.” She opened the oven door and with a thick mitt, slid out the top rack, and tested the pork roast with a fork. “Angie, would you please run up and tell Matthew that dinner’s in half an hour?”

  Angela showered the green tree-cookie with multi-colored sprinkles. “You need a megaphone or an intercom system.”

  “No, I need you to do me the favor.” Mollie eased the oven door closed and laid the mitt on the counter. “Shoo! You can finish those and set the table for us when you come back down.”

  Angela dusted off her hands, removed her apron, and draped it over a chair. Her heart raced as she mounted the narrow stairway, and she attributed it to her lack of exercise. Mollie really did need a megaphone. She eyed two wallpapered bedrooms on her way to the end of the hall. The woodwork looked OK to her, at least in passing. That painting request had to be another ploy at mixing more than colors.

  The door at the end of the landing stood open, and the plush runner swallowed her footfall. She cleared her throat, announcing her presence.

  “Yes?” A deep voice queried from beyond the door.

  “It’s Angela. Sorry to bother you.” She stopped at the threshold and took in the frilly room. Matt perched on a stool at a portable drafting table set in front of the west window. His large frame and rugged profile seemed out of place, like an answer to her students’ favorite activity of “What doesn’t fit in this picture?”

  “Mollie wanted you to know we’ll be eating in the kitchen. The dining room is too crowded with all the boxes.”

  He laid down his pencil and faced her. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, a shadow of beard hugged his chin, and his expression was tired but friendly.

  “Thanks. Please—” He smiled and gestured across the room in welcome. “Come in.”

  She took one step in, stopped, and peered at the table. “A new project?” She slid her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “Mollie said you’re an architect.”

  “Freelance. Come see.” He turned to the drawing and bent the snake-neck lamp closer to his work.

  Feeling suddenly shy about being in his bedroom, she eased a little closer and stopped a foot or so behind him.

  “These are my plans for the ranch house.”

  Blue lines and angles and perfectly square block print covered the large white sheet. In the lower left corner an artist’s drawing revealed the finished product.

  “That looks nothing like the old house now.”

  “Good.” An easy smile lifted his lips, and a perfect parenthesis dimpled his left cheek. “That’s the idea.” He smoothed a hand across the paper. “The structure is sound, so most of the renovations will be cosmetic. Other than the furnace.”

  “You’ve had trouble getting another one?”

  “Getting what I want. It’s taking longer over the holidays with so much bad weather in the east. I could probably find an import cheaper and quicker, but I want this place to be ‘made in America,’ as they say.”

  She regarded his dark eyes. “That’s something I talk to my students about, at least as much as they can understand.” He certainly was easy to look at.

  “Did you make that pumpkin bread?”

  The question startled her, and she felt her cheeks bloom in their typical self-conscious blush. “Yes. I do all of the Christmas baking. Our tradition, I suppose.” She turned toward the door.

  “You do it well.” His rich voice fanned the flames on her cheeks.

  “Thank you.” She paused and laid a hand on the doorframe as she looked over her shoulder. “Dinner’s in thirty minutes.”

  ****

  It’s way too warm up here. Angela tugged at the neck of her sweater as she moved down the steps and sent up a silent thank you for her downstairs bedroom.

  The distinctive aroma of sweet onion jam wafted out of the kitchen, and she involuntarily squinted. Mollie stirred a batch on the stove.

  “Hand me that little pink serving bowl, dear.” She turned off the burner and reached for a ladle.

  Angela held the bowl as her grandmother dipped. “Why do they call it jam instead of relish?”

  “The way it’s cooked, I imagine. And it’s supposed to be served cold, but I’ve always liked it better warm.” She set the dish on the cloth-covered table and added a serving spoon.

  As Angela laid out three china plates, she wondered about the bachelor status of her grandmother’s latest boarder. An educated man with a good job and a real home instead of an apartment—why was he single? What history hid behind that unshaven, dimpled face? Mollie no doubt knew the answers to these questions and more, but Angela didn’t dare ask. The matrimonially-minded woman might funnel the Wedding March through her computer speakers. At twenty-six, Angela already felt conspicuous. She didn’t need to be singled out like the zebra in red goulashes that hung above the coat hooks in her classroom.

  Knife, fork, spoon. She laid a sterling threesome at each place. Mollie believed in using the good china and silver utensils. “Why save it for guests?” she’d said. “Family is more important.” Angela smiled to herself. Family always mattered to Mollie, yet she’d had so little of it. Jim died a few years after Angela joined the Murphy household. Since then, she and Mollie had been each other’s family.

  And Matt? Why hadn’t he gone home for Christmas?

  His footfall on the stairs quickened her pulse as if she’d been caught thinking of things off limits. She looked up as he stopped in the doorway and the dimple winked. Afraid her questions streamed across her brow like a weather update on TV, she turned away.

  “Sure smells good,” he said.

  Angela slid her gaze to where he leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest. Did he go to the gym like Aaron? She doubted it. He struck her more as the outdoorsy type. Chopping wood, building fence, shoveling snow, and all that. Even with the architectural degree.

  “I do believe that’s everything.” Mollie headed for the table with a platter of pork roast and sweet potatoes.

 
Matt joined them and pulled out a ladder back chair.

  Angela took the seat across from him, leaving the head of the table for Mollie.

  “Shall we pray?” Flushed from the heat and hurry of cooking, Mollie pushed a fluff of white behind her ear and held out a hand to either side. “Angie, dear, would you do the honors?”

  Angela took her grandmother’s hand and looked at Matt whose arm reached nearly the width of the small table. She rested her fingers in his and closed her eyes.

  “Thank you, Father, for this wonderful meal and our guest. And thank You for Christmas here at home and what the season really means. Amen.”

  Her fingers burned from his touch, and she feared her face registered that warmth.

  “What is this,” he said reaching for a pink Depression-ware bowl.

  “That’s my sweet onion jam.” Mollie nodded toward his plate. “It goes on the pork. Try it.”

  Angela saw by the worry lines on his brow that the name alone was enough to raise his doubts. “It tastes much better than it sounds.” She raised her chin. “And I put a lot of work and tears into those onions, so you’d better at least try it.”

  Realization flickered. “So that’s what you were doing yesterday afternoon. Slicing onions.” He spooned out a polite-sized helping and passed the bowl to Mollie.

  Among other things. A small sigh escaped her lips, and she sat up straighter, determined to keep Aaron out of her thoughts tonight. No doubt, she wasn’t in his.

  “Matthew, what did you find out about the tree today?”

  He speared a slice of meat and handed the platter across to Angela. “Tomorrow’s the last day to cut, and I have to be up there, done, and out by four.”

  “Then we need to go to the early service. It’s at eight thirty. That should give you plenty of time to make the trip.” Mollie accepted the platter from Angela and gave her a commanding look. “Be sure to dress warm, dear. It’s a little colder at Red Feather Lakes than it is here. But I’m sure you remember that.”