The entire drive home, Abby wrestled against welling tears.
Her first time cutting down a Christmas tree was supposed to be with Donnie. He’d always wanted to go, but she’d complained that two hours was too far for a Christmas tree when they could buy one from the lot around the corner.
But as soon as Logan knelt beside the trunk, something in her heart prompted her to speak up, as if cutting the tree herself would somehow fulfill one of Donnie’s Christmas wishes. She owed him that much, didn’t she?
For a tiny fraction of a moment, she wondered if Donnie was watching her from Heaven. Would he be happy or saddened by her decision to skip Christmas? And would knowing the answer affect her decision?
Her throat burned, and she swallowed, forcing the thought aside as they neared the gray, weathered house at the end of State Street. It stood separated from the other homes by a vacant lot overgrown with weeds.
“Charming place,” Logan said wryly. He unclipped his seat belt and climbed out of the passenger seat.
Abby followed slowly, struggling to compose herself.
On top of her already fragile emotions, it pained her to see Max’s house in such disrepair. And although strange to admit, the absence of Christmas lights and decorations made it appear extra drab and forlorn.
She reminded herself that appearances weren’t everything. Max could still have a happy, contented childhood without silly material things like curb appeal. But even with that knowledge, she couldn’t wait to give him the Christmas tree, sincerely hoping it would be a blessing for his family.
Abby knocked on the grungy front door, her pulse fluttering in anticipation.
After several silent minutes, no one answered.
Her heart sank. “I guess no one’s home.” She turned to go, but a muffled noise came from somewhere inside.
“Let’s try one more time.” Logan gave a few solid raps, then took a step back.
Another minute or two passed and Abby suppressed a disappointed sigh.
“Well,” Logan said. “We gave it our best shot. Maybe we can come back later?”
They turned to leave when the door creaked open.
“Hello?” A woman a year or two older than Abby peered at them through the crack.
“Hi.” Summoning her friendliest smile, Abby held out her hand. “I’m Abby and this is Logan. We’re your neighbors down the street.”
The woman stared at her hand as though she’d never seen one before, then shifted her gaze to Logan. “Can I help you with something?”
Abby dropped her arm by her side. “We’ve actually come bearing gifts.” Her heartbeat quickened. Now that she stood in front of Max’s mom, she wasn’t sure what to say. “We, uh, have an extra Christmas tree and wondered if you might like it?”
The woman, who still hadn’t offered her name, glanced over her shoulder, then back at Abby. “That’s very thoughtful, but no thank you. We already have a tree.”
“Oh.” Abby blinked in surprise. She was pretty sure Max had mentioned not having one. Although, she supposed they could have picked one up recently. Was there more than one Christmas tree farm? Or had they been at the same place at the same time and not seen each other?
“Is that all?” the woman asked, looking behind her again.
Abby noticed she still hadn’t opened the door more than six inches or so. “Yes, I suppose it is.” Before she could say “Have a nice day,” the gap closed, the click of the latch signaling the end of their conversation.
“Friendly lady,” Logan mumbled, leading the way back to the car.
Abby trailed a few steps behind. Something about the exchange didn’t sit well, but she couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was that bothered her.
“Sorry it didn’t work out.” Logan slid onto the passenger seat. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”
While he made a valid point, she still couldn’t dispel a faint, disquieted feeling in the pit of her stomach. After she parked in the garage, she told Logan, “I think I’m going to take a walk into town, maybe spend a few hours window shopping or at a café.”
“What do you want to do with the tree?”
“Honestly? I have no idea.” The day hadn’t gone anywhere near how she’d expected, and she hadn’t thought of a plan B.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll think of something.”
“Thanks.” The telltale sting of burgeoning tears pricked the backs of her eyes, and she spun around before he noticed.
The events of the day had worn her out emotionally, confirming her conviction.
She’d be far better off keeping all aspects of Christmas out of her life… for good.
Logan couldn’t shake the sad look in Abby’s eyes.
His wounded pride from their exchange earlier reminded him that it wasn’t any of his business.
Stick to the plan, man. Keep a healthy distance.
Although the persuasive voice in the back of his mind gave sage advice, he brushed off the warning and went in an entirely different direction.
He wanted to do something to put a smile back on her face. And it didn’t take long to settle on what that something would be.
Any genius could see that Abby’s love language was food. Sure, he could cook only one thing with any measure of success, but how hard could it be to make a decent dinner? He’d be shooting for edible, maybe remotely enjoyable. It didn’t need to be worthy of a five-star restaurant.
Slipping his phone out of his back pocket, he Googled easy-to-make meals that could be kept warm, in case she got home later than he anticipated—the crucial factor being easy.
After scrolling for several minutes, he landed on a video tutorial titled “Baked Ziti for Beginners.” Who didn’t like Italian food? Plus, he happened to have all the ingredients.
After assembling everything on the counter, he pressed Play on the video, following along just fine until about the two-minute marker.
Yeesh. Could the lady talk any faster? And why did she keep falling in and out of a fake Italian accent?
The twenty-five-minute tutorial took him an hour to complete, but he finally slid the casserole into the oven. After noting the time, he collapsed on the couch in the sitting room, more exhausted than after hours of grueling yard work.
He’d only close his eyes for a minute….
What seemed like seconds later, a high-pitched wail jolted him awake, ricocheting his heart into his throat.
Black smoke billowed from the next room.
Scrambling to his feet, Logan bolted into the kitchen, zeroing in on the oven. He ripped open the door, coughing as more smoke spilled out.
Blindly reaching for the knob, he switched it off before yanking on a pair of oven mitts and rescuing the casserole.
The charred pasta and cheese sizzled like lumps of charcoal, and the smoke alarm continued to screech at him.
“Message received!” he shouted, shoving the ceramic dish onto the stovetop with an unceremonious clatter.
But the shrill banshee kept squawking.
Logan stomped to the window and flung it open, letting in some fresh air. “Happy now?”
“Hello? Is everyone all right?”
Logan’s eyes widened at the unexpected response. Maybe the fumes were starting to get to him.
“Should I call the fire department?”
This time, he recognized Verna’s voice.
Peering out the window, he spotted her on the front lawn. She wrung her hands, concern etched into the creases around her eyes as she studied the escaping smoke.
Mr. Bingley bounded up the porch steps, practically defying gravity with the amount of buoyancy in his sizable backside. He barked at the front door.
Logan smiled, touched by his bravery. It wasn’t every day a chubby English bulldog offered to rush into a burning building to save him. Well, a supposed burning building. But it was heroic, all the same.
“Hey, Bing.” Logan opened the door and knelt down to scratch his ears. “At ease, soldier. Everything’s fine.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” Verna rushed forward. “Everyone’s okay, then? There’s no damage? No one was hurt?”
“Not unless you count my baked ziti. I don’t think it’s going to make it.”
“Let’s take a look.” Without waiting for an invite, Verna barged inside, heading straight for the kitchen.
Since she’d been friends with the previous owner, she knew exactly where to find it. Plus, the trail of smoke led the way like asthma-inducing breadcrumbs.
“I think I see your problem,” Verna told him after examining the oven. “Looks like you had it on broil instead of bake. That’s why the top of your dish is burnt to a crisp.”
“Can I just scrape the top part off? You know, like when you burn a slice of toast?”
“I’m afraid it’s a lost cause, dear.”
Darn. He wasn’t sure how much time he had left before Abby got home. Or if he even had enough ingredients to start over.
“This is an awful lot of casserole for one person,” Verna mused, tossing him a curious glance.
“I’d planned on sharing.”
“I see. Well, then we’d better get to work on a new batch, shouldn’t we?”
“We?”
“Of course, dear. You clearly can’t be trusted in the kitchen without supervision.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’ll be right back. I need to grab a few things from my pantry. You work on tidying up while I’m gone. Maybe light a few candles to clear up the acrid smell.”
“Candles?”
“Never mind, dear. I’ll bring those, too.”
By the time Verna returned and lit a few froufrou candles, Logan had discarded the charred casserole and cleaned up the kitchen so they could start fresh.
Mr. Bingley had made himself comfortable on the overstuffed armchair in front of the fireplace, snoring as loudly as the exhaust of Logan’s El Camino.
As Verna prepared a brand-new dinner, Logan focused on the one thing he knew how to make—his grandmother’s Nevada Nuggets. The one-of-a-kind dessert bars loaded with brown sugar and crushed walnuts, then coated with powdered sugar, could lift even the lowest spirits. Not to mention satisfy the biggest sweet tooth.
After a few minutes of working side by side, they got into a groove, and flashbacks of baking in the kitchen with his grandmother flooded Logan’s mind.
He didn’t think about his grandparents all that often, finding the memories too painful. The guilt over not being there when they passed still haunted him, even after all these years. Plus, he knew they wouldn’t be happy about how he’d chosen to live his life.
Or rather, how he’d chosen not to live it.
“Something on your mind, dear?” Verna asked, sliding her completed casserole into the oven.
Pushing thoughts of his past aside, he sensed an opening to do a little reconnaissance. After all, if anyone knew anything about the neighbors, it would be Verna.
“Do you know the family that lives in the old gray house at the end of the street?”
“A little. I run into Mrs. Hobart every now and then at the market.”
“What about her son?”
“Such a sweet boy. Such a sad story, though.”
“What do you mean?”
She glanced over her shoulder even though they were the only ones in the house besides Bing, who remained sound asleep with his tongue hanging out. “Rumor has it, Max and his father moved here a few months ago. He wanted to try his hand at salmon fishing. Max’s father, not the child.”
“Got it.”
“Well, anyway. Not too long after they arrived in town, his ship went down in a storm. At least, that’s the theory. They never found it.”
Logan’s throat went dry, and he removed a glass from the cupboard, filling it with water from the sink. He downed a couple large gulps, but didn’t find relief. “So, who are the Hobarts?” he asked, although he could guess the answer.
“They tried to locate family members, but when none came forward, Max went into the system.”
The system. Such a strange, cold term for something so tremendously life-altering.
“The Hobarts were the only foster parents in the area, believe it or not,” Verna continued.
Oh, he believed it. The so-called system sorely lacked families willing to take in kids that weren’t their own. And of those that did, some were in it for the wrong reasons. At least, that had been his experience.
He thought about the odd interaction they’d had with Mrs. Hobart that morning, and a shiver rippled through him.
Based on nothing but a first impression, he couldn’t be certain she wasn’t one of the good ones.
But he was determined to find out.