Joan was putting the finishing touches on supper and working up her nerve to call Rebecca when Andrew showed up. So she told him what they were thinking of doing.
“Leave town? What about Christmas?”
“They celebrate Christmas in New York, too. Remember the old movie you used to love? About Macy’s Santa?”
“I know, Mom. But what about me?” He sounded like an abandoned child.
She looked at his woebegone face. “You could come, too.”
“Where would they put all three of us?”
“Oh, Andrew, we couldn’t land on Rebecca and Bruce. And they’d never live it down if Bruce’s mother found out.”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s the truth.”
“We’d stay in a hotel.”
“At Christmas?”
“It wouldn’t be so terrible.”
“I don’t mean that. I’ll bet they’ve all been booked solid for months. Any you’d want to stay in, at least. Or pay for.” He was nothing if not practical.
“You think?”
“Mom, that’s when lots of people get time off work or school. Of course they travel, and people who travel book hotel space. In the city, anyway.”
“You may be right.”
“Besides, we’ve already put our tree up.” He’d turned the lights on when he came in the front door. He had to feel special about this one—the first one he’d picked out himself.
“True. I wonder . . .”
“What?”
“I wonder whether they’d come here.”
“They’d never get time off.”
“We could ask.”
“Mom, would you?”
“I’ll have to talk to Fred again, but if it means that much to you to stay home—”
“It does.”
Who knew? The men in her family were always surprising her.
She knew she didn’t have to consult Fred, not really. Right now, he’d do whatever she had her heart set on. But did she want to ask Rebecca and Bruce to come for Christmas before they’d even begun married life without interference from family? No. Bad enough for Dave’s murder to mar their wedding. All they didn’t need was for her to turn into another Elizabeth Graham by playing for sympathy and laying on the guilt.
“We’ll stay home, Andrew. We don’t need Rebecca and Bruce. We weren’t expecting to see them so soon anyway, and they for sure don’t want us butting in. This is our family now. Who knows how much longer we’ll have you here?”
“Aw, Mom.” But he had to know it was true.
“Go tell Fred his soup’s on.”
After supper they sat by the tree and did their best to be a happy family. Only two more days till Christmas. Relieved at staying put, no matter what Ketcham thought, Joan curled up in Fred’s arms on the big sofa.
“You didn’t really want to go, did you?” she asked him.
“No. You?”
“No.” But we’ll have to start bolting the doors, she thought. Quit trusting so much.
“So what’s next?”
“Whaddya mean, what’s next?” Andrew said. “You forget about Santa Claus?” There was a lot of big kid in Andrew, sitting cross-legged under his tree. At least he wasn’t the kind who expected an expensive ski trip for Christmas. “Remember when I used to worry Santa couldn’t come to a house with no chimney?”
Joan remembered. “You never got much, even before Dad died. We never had a lot to blow on toys.”
“I didn’t know any better. I thought it was great.”
Fred squeezed her. “You got lucky in your kids,” he said.
“I did, didn’t I? And now we have Bruce.”
“Better not let his mom hear you say that,” Andrew warned.
“Don’t I know it. But I’m glad he’s part of our family.”
“Even if it means she is, too?”
“Even then.” Maybe if they didn’t threaten her, Elizabeth would come around enough to be tolerable. That moment she’d softened let Joan hope, even as she knew better than to trust it.
Andrew sat up straight. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“That sound.” Unfolding his legs, he stood up. “Someone’s at the door.” Before she could stop him, he went over and opened it.
There stood Patty, looking startled.
“I didn’t ring the bell.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “I thought I heard someone. Come on in.”
“Am I interrupting?” She hesitated, standing on the porch.
Joan untangled herself from Fred. “Not at all. Come in, Patty. It’s cold out there.”
“I’m sorry.” She hurried around the door and stood just inside while Andrew shut it behind her. “I didn’t want to bother you. What a pretty tree.”
Andrew beamed. “Thanks. I picked it out.”
“Take off your coat and boots and sit down, Patty,” Joan said. “Can we give you a cup of coffee? Maybe one of Fred’s great sweet rolls?”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.” But Patty let Andrew take her coat and show her to a chair near the tree. She was still wearing the somewhat food-spattered jeans she’d worn for scrubbing pots, and her shirt, too, looked the worse for wear.
“It’s no trouble.” Joan headed for the kitchen, but Fred had beat her to it. He carried a plate with a cup of steaming coffee and a roll out to Patty.
“Here you go. My dad taught me to bake these. We pigged out on them this afternoon, but we left some for people who might drop in. A pleasure to have you.”
But it didn’t feel like a social visit, Joan thought. For that matter, why would Patty be visiting them? Earlier, she’d mostly looked angry. Surely she hadn’t stopped by to apologize.
No longer looking angry, but a long way from having a social smile on her face, Patty accepted the plate and set it on the little table beside her. As she lifted the cup, her hand trembled. She sipped only a little before setting it back down.
“Joan, I had to come. I’ve been thinking about you ever since you were over at Ellen’s this afternoon, and I had to come.”
“Oh?” Joan had no idea what she was talking about.
“I could see how worried you were about Dave’s killer going after your daughter.”
“Well, yes.”
“And you said if it was Chrissy I’d want to protect her.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You were right about that. I couldn’t let you be so scared forever. I had to come tell you your daughter’s safe. And so is mine.”
Joan looked at Fred. How could Patty know? And then it hit her, what she’d half figured out while she was looking at the pictures and then listening to Ketcham. What she should have realized all along.
Her eyes met Patty’s. “Because it was you.”
“I couldn’t let him do it, don’t you see? He didn’t care at all. She was in love with him, and she wasn’t about to listen to her mother.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She wouldn’t listen to me, and he didn’t care. He was coming on to her, but he had no right to!”
The right age. Looking like Patty, but with Dave’s dark hair. Chrissy had to be Dave’s daughter. Had he really not cared? But Joan remembered the night he’d gone too far with Rebecca for a loving uncle.
“Did he know he was her father? Did you tell him?”
“How could he not know? She even told him how old she was and when her birthday was.”
“Does Chrissy know?” “She has no idea.”
Why not just tell her? Joan thought. It would be so natural to say, “Of course you love him, he’s your dad.” But she hadn’t. “So you called in sick and then came in through the back door when you knew he’d be in there. How did you know he’d be there?”
“I didn’t plan it like that. When I felt well enough to come in to work, I just came. I could see him in there with Helga. I waited till she wasn’t looking and grabbed a knife. . . . I kept him from hurting my baby!” She sat silent.
Andrew’s eyes were round, but he didn’t say anything.
“You know I’m a cop,” Fred said.
“I know. But it doesn’t matter about me anymore. Chrissy’s safe from him. I had to keep her safe.”
Even if it meant killing my brother, Joan thought. But the anger she’d expected to feel at Dave’s murderer didn’t come. This poor, confused woman. Had she, despite her words, taken her difficult life out on the man who could have made it easier for her? Who had left her pregnant before she finished high school—had she ever even managed to finish? And showed up again, only to reject her for her daughter—his daughter? Had Dave even suspected who Chrissy was to him? Did Patty really know he’d known? Joan wasn’t convinced he had, hard as it was to believe she hadn’t told him back then.
For that matter, she wasn’t convinced Chrissy was right about his intentions. Her brother came on to women. Even Alex.
She’d been sure there was a reason for him to die in Oliver, and she’d been right. But had he brought his death on himself? Who knew what he would have done if he’d known about his daughter back when she was born? Or had he? Dave hadn’t saved any letters from Patty. The answers had died with him.
Or maybe not. She’d stopped Nancy Van Allen from giving her the gossip after Dave’s murder was in the paper. Had the whole town known about Patty, and Chrissy? Had they assumed she knew, too? Would it be that easy to find out for sure? But Ketcham had lived here all his life, and he didn’t seem to know. It was hard to believe her parents, Chrissy’s grandparents, had known and done nothing about it.
Fred was walking toward the door.
“What are you going to do?” Joan asked him.
“I’ve already done it. Ketcham’s on his way.”
* * *
After they’d read Patty’s rights to her and taken her off without siren or lights or even handcuffs, Joan sat quietly with Andrew. The tree had lost its warmth.
“Chrissy’s my cousin,” Andrew said finally. “I guess that makes Patty my aunt, kind of. What’s going to happen to ’em, Mom?”
“To Patty? I don’t know. She’ll need a lawyer, that’s for sure. And Andrew, we’ll have to share what Dave left us–the timber—with Chrissy. I’m sure he didn’t know he had a daughter when he made that will.” And even if he had, it was only right. She had no more right to inherit from him than his child did.
“So what do you think would have happened if Patty hadn’t killed him?”
“I don’t know. I don’t see how we’ll ever know.”