As You Are at Christmas Page 7

  They worked with the same efficiency as in the other rooms, and soon Angela was folding the tarp again.

  Matt placed his brush on top of the paint can, picked up one end of the canvas, and brought the corners together. “You’re good at this.” His voice deepened. “Maybe you could come out and help me when I start putting the finishing touches on my place.”

  His expression mirrored the intensity in his voice, and he took a step toward her as she held up her end. Raising his section to meet hers, he wrapped strong fingers around her hands. She released her corners, but he didn’t let go.

  Sweeping her features with a yearning look, he paused at her mouth and returned to her eyes. “It’s better this way.”

  “What do you mean?” She swallowed hard against a knot in her throat.

  “Better that I’m not around when Aaron gets here.”

  She refused to voice her feelings but was unable to look away.

  He closed the space between them and dipped his head to meet her lips with his. She swayed, and releasing one hand, he slipped his arm around her and pulled her against him.

  When he lifted his head, he brushed his lips against her forehead. “See what I mean?”

  The huskiness of his voice ignited familiar sparks, and they joined the others already dancing in her stomach. She opened her eyes and tugged a whisper out of her throat. “What’s that got to do with Aaron?”

  He smiled and the parenthesis deepened. “If I’m here, I might feed him to the beast.”

  9

  Matt’s remark about Aaron was not a joke. Even though it restored a lighter mood with Angela, he’d like nothing more than to feed Aaron to the dog. The guy was not only blind for leaving her, but stupid for coming here. He didn’t buy that story about a surprise visit to the boarding house.

  He’d initially decided to stay on through Christmas, even if his furnace came in. The warmth and companionship of the last few days had been what he dreamed of as a boy: family. And the idea of family posed daunting opposition when it came to the overrated freedoms of bachelorhood. He wanted to make Angela and her grandmother a permanent part of his life, but that would take time. And now he had even less of that fleeting commodity because Aaron’s imminent arrival changed things. He couldn’t be around when the guy showed up.

  Matt cleaned Mollie’s paint brushes, stored the paint and other supplies in the garage, and put the tarps in the cabinet. Roady bounded around the yard while Matt situated the doghouse and stuffed in the old blankets. He repaired a couple of broken slats in the picket fence and set the water bowl by the door. Taking a visual inventory of the place, a bitter taste filled his mouth at the thought of leaving.

  Angela had disappeared, and her absence ached like a wound. After today’s kiss, he believed she felt the same charge of electricity that shot through his muscles every time she came near. If Mollie hadn’t remained in the kitchen after the flour incident, he would have pulled Angela into his arms right there.

  He rubbed his hand around the back of his neck and watched Roady romp in the snow. Maybe he needed a break from Angela—a chance to cool down.

  ****

  Mollie’s chronic cheerfulness helped Matt say good-bye as she warned him not to be a stranger.

  “You know where we are and what time dinner is.” She gathered one corner of her apron and wrapped it around her hands.

  Angela stood next to the grandfather clock, the top of her head not reaching its golden face. Quietly polite, she folded her arms at her waist. Did she stand that way as her students headed out the door for home? He doubted it. He imagined her lightly tapping the tops of their heads, giving each one a quick hug and a homework reminder.

  The corners of her mouth curved up, but he saw through the thin smile to the disappointment beneath it, and his chest tightened. He wanted to never disappoint her. He wanted to tell her that, and he hoped she read the promise in his eyes.

  He hefted his duffle bag over his shoulder and opened the heavy oak door.

  “Thank you for everything.” He gave Mollie’s shoulders a light hug.

  “There’s a candlelight service Christmas Eve at the church, Matthew.” Mollie stepped into the open doorway as he walked out on the porch. “We’d love to see you there.”

  He grinned at her over his shoulder. “You never know, Mollie. I just might make an appearance.”

  “Good luck with your furnace.” She raised her voice to carry across the snowy yard.

  Maybe it won’t work, and I’ll be back tonight. He slammed the truck door, started the engine, and cranked up the heater. Fastening his seatbelt, he glanced at the house. Mollie stood on the threshold wringing her hands in her apron. He didn’t see Angela anywhere.

  Anywhere but in his heart as he pulled away from the curb.

  ****

  Angela felt the warm drop slip over her lower lashes and trail down her cheek. Mollie softly closed the door, and when she turned around, her blue eyes shone with the same moisture.

  “I know, dear. I miss him, too.”

  Angela hid in her grandmother’s embrace. “Why do men always make us cry?”

  Mollie gently stroked her hair. “I suppose it’s because we love them, dear.”

  Angela pulled back and saw a lifetime of wisdom in the little woman’s face—creases at the corners of her loving eyes, laugh lines edging her prim, pink lips.

  “Let’s have a cup of tea and plan our deliveries.” Mollie slipped an arm around Angela’s waist, and they headed to the kitchen.

  ****

  Giving had always been the bigger part of Christmas at the Murphy home. On Wednesday morning, Angela gathered baskets and boxes from the pantry and set them on the kitchen table. She spread several holly-printed napkins in the bottom of each one, and Mollie filled them with plastic-wrapped loaves and curly-ribboned cookie bundles. The two women loaded the back of Angela’s Subaru until it resembled Santa’s sleigh, and they made their rounds to several shut-ins, the convalescent home, Mollie’s favorite bank teller, and the pastor’s family. Several stops required a brief visit over tea or coffee and other homemade delights, and by the time they made it home, neither wanted dinner.

  It’s so quiet. Angela shuddered at the emptiness, the absence of heavy footfall and male laughter. Matt’s laughter. She helped Mollie clean the kitchen and wondered if such quiet had prompted her grandmother to convert her home into a boarding house. She certainly couldn’t blame her. Angela had no siblings. And who knew how long before she had a husband and children.

  Shivering at a vision of Matt playing with a small, dark-haired boy with shining eyes, Angela went out the back door to call Roady. He eased out of the igloo opening of the doghouse and bounded across the yard. Even this rag-tag dog offered companionship. She hoped he wouldn’t be too much for her grandmother to handle once school started.

  ****

  Determined to make herself scarce during Tiffany’s and Aaron’s stay, Angela warned Mollie that she might not be sharing the evening meal with them. For Mollie’s sake, she hoped Tiffany was enough of a conversationalist to get them through two dinners.

  Friday afternoon Angela tidied the entryway and bentwood coatrack, plumped pillows on the rose-colored damask settees in the parlor, and adjusted the thermostat. The temperature had dropped, and through the beveled glass oval in the front door, she saw the sky had darkened to a dull gray—sure sign of a coming storm. O, Lord, please don’t let Aaron and Tiffany get snowed in here!

  As if summoned, Aaron’s SUV pulled into view and stopped in front of the house.

  Angela jumped back from the door like a mouse from a viper. Her heartbeat slipped into high gear, and she scurried to the small side window to watch her replacement and former boyfriend approach.

  Neither of them exited the car. Squinting, she caught what appeared to be animated conversation inside the vehicle. Finally the passenger door opened and out bounced the blonde from the gym, bundled in a bright purple parka and skin-tight leggings with whi
te, furry, knee-high boots.

  Angela didn’t know whether to snort or cry.

  Tiffany stomped onto the porch and pushed the doorbell.

  Mollie hurried down the hall fluttering her hands at Angela. “Off with you, dear. Let me handle this.”

  Angela’s cowardly attitude shamed her, and she stood her ground behind the coatrack.

  Mollie smoothed her apron, tucked a strand of wispy white into her twisted topknot, and opened the door. “Hello, you must be Tiffany Collins. Do come in.” She moved aside to make way for her guest.

  Tiffany stormed through the door and flung her long hair over her shoulder with an impatient toss. “Mrs. Murphy?”

  “Yes. “ Mollie looked over Tiffany’s shoulder to the car parked out front. “Is everything all right?”

  “No.” She took in the entryway, the grandfather clock, and the coatrack.

  Angela stepped from behind it and raised her chin. “Hello.”

  Tiffany huffed out a breath. “The problem isn’t with your place here. It’s with him.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “He won’t come in. Now I know why.”

  Angela stood her ground and tried not to smirk.

  “I know I can’t get my online deposit back, but we won’t be staying.” She slid a look at Angela as if sizing her up.

  “Thanks anyway.” With that, Tiffany spun on her furry heel and stomped down the stairs and across the yard. As soon as her door closed, the SUV jerked into the street and sped away.

  Mollie shut the door and looked at Angela. They both burst into laughter and giggled their way down the hall to the kitchen.

  Mollie wiped her tearing eyes with a corner of her apron. “I think the good Lord took care of everything, dear. Mr. Reynolds seems to have gotten exactly what he deserved.”

  ****

  The furnace worked perfectly, but Matt didn’t experience the relief he’d expected. What once thrilled him as the prospect of creative renovation now threatened him with exile. An even heat circulated through the old ranch-style house, but the walls felt cold around him. No lilting laughter warmed his soul, no aromas emanated from his oven or simmered on his stovetop. No tree stood in his sprawling living room, and no Angela curled up on his dark brown leather sofa.

  “You seem like a wood and leather type.” She’d pegged him. His overhaul efforts revealed a solid, hardwood floor hidden beneath outdated carpeting. Open beam construction covered the main living room and a den/dining area, and he’d attached a heavy mantel across the top of the brick fireplace that filled the entire east wall.

  A big empty house for a big empty weekend.

  His cell rang and his heart rate jerked up a notch. Caller ID revealed a fellow freelance architect. He let the call go to voicemail and laid the phone on the long counter that separated the kitchen from the den. He opened the refrigerator to find catsup, soured orange juice, and a shriveled, two-week-old slice of pizza. The freezer offered little more—two frozen dinners and a boxed banana cream pie. What he wouldn’t give for a loaf of warm pumpkin bread and the loving presence of the one who baked it.

  Loving. There was a word that hadn’t fit his vocabulary until lately. He’d fallen in love with Angela Murphy, and he didn’t mind admitting it. If that Aaron jerk did or said anything to hurt her this weekend, he’d…

  He’d feed him to Roady a piece at a time.

  A wicked grin curled his lip as he pulled out the frozen Salisbury steak meal and popped it in the microwave. So much for home cooking.

  ****

  Out of self-preservation, Matt drove into town Saturday afternoon for groceries and took the long way around past a certain boarding house. The pale yellow, gingerbread-trimmed establishment sat as far from his architectural leanings as possible, but the sight of it twisted his gut. Angela’s green Subaru occupied the driveway, but no other cars were parked out front. He slowed as he drove by and cranked his neck around to see if Roady was in the backyard. He even missed that stupid dog. The beast.

  A sudden thought surged through his mind, and he headed toward Main Street and the downtown stores.

  Strings of white Christmas lights framed the doorways and windows of nearly every shop lining the street, and a hand painted sign in the window of the corner drug store promised gifts inside. He parked and walked in feeling out of place and obvious. He’d never shopped for anything like this before, but he had to start somewhere.

  A tall thin clerk approached from the pharmacy counter at the rear of the store. “May I help you?”

  Matt nodded. “I need Christmas tree ornaments and gifts for women. Any suggestions?”

  “Follow me.” The man led him past a display of poinsettias and around a corner to an alcove stuffed with decorations, wrapping paper, and more.

  Matt quickly found what he wanted, paid the cashier, and drove to the market. With a lighter heart he filled a grocery cart with all the staples he could think of, including milk and eggs, bacon, ground coffee, a couple of steaks, and baking potatoes. He also tossed in knock-off versions of favorites from Mollie’s: pancake mix and frozen sausage biscuits. And one of those soap-in-the-handle brushes. In the pet food aisle he picked out a large rawhide bone, a rope toy, and a real dog food dish made of stainless steel with no flowers painted on the edge. He smiled at the memory of Mollie offering a good china bowl to her newest guest. The last time he’d checked, Roady’d shown enough manners not to break it.

  By the time he made it home, he felt better. He stocked his cupboards and fridge, set the gifts out on the counter, and started a fire in the fireplace. In spite of the new furnace, a fire seemed friendlier, warmer.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” Mollie had said. He’d love to show up at dinner, take a seat across from Angela, and stare a hole through Aaron’s forehead. Instead, he walked to his bedroom for his drafting table. He’d move it to the den, crank up the radio for background music, and work on some plans that needed his attention. He flipped on the light and stood staring at the blank space along the outside wall. It took him a moment to remember, and the irony tugged at his mouth. He’d left the table at the boarding house. Good reason to drop by.

  After a broiled steak and baked potato, Matt decided to stick to his earlier resolve and stay away while Mollie’s weekend guests were there. In truth, he didn’t trust himself, and he didn’t need to do anything to make Angela think he was some kind of animal. Some kind of…

  That blasted story had been stuck in his mind ever since Mollie’s cryptic remark about God’s love. God wasn’t even in it, only people—one of them more animal than human.

  Is that how God sees us? The same as animals? No, there must be a connection between Mollie’s puzzling comment and Angela’s take on church.

  “What better place to go when you’re hurting and need help?”

  Definitely his mother’s approach, but little good it did her.

  The old resentment tried to resurrect, but he ignored it. Angela was nothing like his mother. Neither was Mollie. What had they found that his mother hadn’t?

  He tried out his new soap brush as he cleaned his dishes and discovered why Mollie used one. Much better than saving dirty dishes in the dishwasher until there were enough to justify running it.

  ****

  Sunday morning lumbered in with swollen gray clouds banked against the mountains. Angela pulled on a knit cap and gloves and ran out to start her car. She scanned the street for a silver Dodge pickup. As if. She sighed and her breath puffed out in a wispy cloud. Maybe he’d show up at church.

  Hugging her arms, she trotted back to the porch and stomped the snow off her boots. “It’s cold out there, Mollie,” she called and shut the front door. “Colder than it looks. And I think it’s going to snow again.” She hung the cap on the hall tree and stuck the gloves in the pocket of her coat.

  This morning’s service signaled the end of the weekend. At last. Though better than she’d originally feared, it had dragged on forever without Matt. Had it been only a week since th
eir trip to Red Feather Lakes to cut the tree?

  “I’m almost ready,” Mollie called from her room.

  “No rush. I’m warming the car so a few more minutes won’t hurt.” Angela strolled into the dining room and stood before the overloaded tree. Hardly a branch bore fewer than three ornaments, and as she scanned them, childhood memories danced across the years. Her gaze rested at last on the blue-shirted lumberjack near the top, right next to the shimmering glass angel. On a whim she ran upstairs to the room at the end of the landing, as if hoping to see a man’s plaid shirt draped over the brass footboard. Instead, her breath caught at the sight of the drafting table beneath the window, and a slow smile spread across her face. He’s coming back. She hugged her arms again and twirled in the doorway.

  “Ready.” Mollie’s cheerful voice sounded below.

  “Coming.”

  Her grandmother stood bundled by the front door, Bible in hand and a quizzical look on her face as Angela trotted down.

  “He’s coming back.” Angela hugged her grandmother, pinning her arms to her side.

  “Who is, dear?”

  “Matt.” She felt giddy, like one of her students at the Christmas party on the last day before break. “He left his drafting table upstairs in his room. He has to come back for it.” She pulled on her parka and raised the fur-trimmed hood. “Maybe he’ll come today.”

  Mollie’s eyes twinkled. “My, but aren’t you happy for such a gloomy day.”

  “But tonight’s Christmas Eve, and you invited him to the candlelight service. Remember?” Angela zipped up, tugged on her gloves, and grabbed her keys and Bible from a small table. “If he’s not there this morning, he’s sure to be tonight, don’t you think?”