Livi rarely wore makeup. There hadn’t been much point living in the same town with the same people who’d known her all her life. But come Sunday morning the application of makeup suddenly felt vitally important and she found herself primping in front of the bathroom mirror before going downstairs to make breakfast. This had nothing to do with a certain handsome houseguest, she told herself. As the face of Christmas from the Heart she should look her best.
And her best involved lipstick and mascara. Except it had been so long since she’d used the mascara that it had dried in the tube and her lipstick was about as moist as chalk.
She settled for lip gloss.
“You are who you are,” she told herself. And people either liked you for who you were or they didn’t.
Joe Ford seemed to like her just fine so it was silly to try to change who she was. She only hoped he continued to because she certainly liked him. A lot. A whole lot.
Guy awoke to the aroma of bacon and coffee. He picked up his cell phone from the bedside table and checked the time. Eight-fifteen a.m. He normally slept in on Sundays. Most people slept in on Sundays.
But most people weren’t Olivia Berg. He pulled on his jeans and a fresh sweater, and went down to the kitchen to find her at the stove in a red dress and boots, pulling a foil-lined sheet of bacon out of the oven. Her father was seated at the kitchen table, reading the Sunday paper, a mug of coffee in front of him.
He put it down at the sight of Guy and greeted him. He, too, was dressed for the day, wearing slacks and a red sweater pulled over a shirt and necktie. “Sit down, make yourself at home,” he said.
“Would you like some coffee?” Livi offered as Guy took a seat at the table.
“Sure. Thanks.”
“I’m glad you got up when you did,” she said. “We’re going to the early service at church. Another fifteen minutes and you’d have missed out.”
Church. Oh yeah. That. When they were kids, his mom had made sure they all went.
“You’re welcome to join us,” Mr. Berg offered as his daughter set a mug of coffee in front of Guy.
“Uh, that’s okay. I have some work to do.” He already had a fruitcake competition looming. He didn’t want to take his hypocritical self to church on top of that.
“Well, make yourself at home while we’re gone,” Livi said, and set a plate in front of him with bacon and scrambled eggs and toast.
This was all so homey and friendly and...uncomfortable. With each new kindness he felt increasingly undeserving and guilty. He was a fake, taking advantage of these people, and the knowledge was gnawing at his conscience. It was like being poked to death with a sprig of holly, being made to listen to “Jingle Bells” played at high speed over and over again. This was Christmas purgatory.
He was relieved when she said, “You won’t see much of me for the next few hours. I have a lot to do to get ready for the event. And Dad has to be there to help set up tables and booths.” The sense of relief ended when she added, “Morris will be coming by to pick you up.” She put more bacon on his plate.
A cozy ride to fruitcake torture with the ex-boyfriend who still wanted to be the boyfriend. Oh yeah. Guy was all over that.
“I can walk,” he said.
“But you don’t know where it is,” she said reasonably, and began putting things away in the refrigerator.
“I can look it up on my phone.”
“It’s no trouble for Morris. He’d be happy to.”
Sure he would. And the Sugarplum Fairy couldn’t dance.
Guy was about to insist on being allowed to get himself to the corny event when Mr. Berg said to his daughter, “We’d better finish getting ready or we’re going to be late.”
“Oh yes,” she said, and set the pan in the sink.
Then both she and her father left Guy with his half-finished eggs and a second helping of bacon for which he’d lost his appetite. He frowned at his coffee mug. Scrooge, the ultimate bad boy businessman, had it easy compared to what Guy was going through. He’d only had to face ghosts.
“I wondered if you’d even make it today with everything you probably have to do,” Tillie greeted Livi as she and her father walked into the narthex of the church.
“It is going to be a busy day,” Livi admitted, “but I wanted to start it off right.”
“You are such a dear girl,” said Tillie. “Some young man is going to be lucky to get you.” She looked speculatively over Livi’s shoulder.
Livi knew before she even turned around who had come in. Sure enough, there was Morris with his mom, who he picked up and squired to church every Sunday. Good old Morris. A dutiful son, a nice young man with a steady job. Everyone in town seemed to think he was the ideal man for her.
Certainly more of a match than a man who drove fancy foreign cars and threw around hundred-dollar bills. And played cards for kisses. Joe Ford may have had a plain name but there was nothing plain about him.
He’s just passing through, she reminded herself. Men like him didn’t stay in small towns. They went places and did things, the kind of things she only dreamed of doing. As for thinking they had anything in common, who was she kidding? That was like saying a thoroughbred racehorse and a donkey had things in common. Yeah, four legs.
Her father had already ducked into the sanctuary, not anxious to stand around and make small talk. Hardly surprising, considering he probably felt like a hunted animal with every single woman over the age of forty eyeballing him. Oh, the casseroles and cakes and pies that had showed up after Mom died. And the number of women needing life insurance or better car insurance had doubled in the last couple of years. Their machinations were in vain and always would be. Her father had loved only one woman and he had no desire to replace her.
Livi joined him in the sanctuary and a moment later Morris was slipping into the chair next to her, his mother on the other side of him.
“Good morning, Livi,” said Mrs. Bentley. “Are you all ready for the fruitcake competition?”
Mrs. Bentley had won the previus year’s competition and was hoping for a second win. Another reason Livi didn’t want to be one of the judges. She didn’t want anyone accusing her of playing favorites.
“We are,” she said.
“I think the fruitcake this year is even better than my last year’s one,” Mrs. Bentley told her.
“You’ll have a hard time beating my apricot fruitcake,” said Mrs. Newton, who had slipped in next to her.
“I’m glad I’m not judging. I don’t know how I’d be able to choose between the two of you,” Livi said diplomatically.
“That was slick,” Morris said to her after church as they made their way out the door. “You managed to make both Mrs. Newton and my mom feel like winners.”
“They’re both good bakers,” she said.
“And you’re a good BSer,” he said.
“You have to be diplomatic when you run a nonprofit.”
It would have been nice if she’d reminded herself of that before she sent her rude email to Guy Hightower. But oh well. He was history. The current event was Joe Ford. When he saw all the good things they did, maybe he could bring his company on board the next year as a major donor.
Speaking of... “Don’t forget you’re giving Joe a ride to the fruitcake festival.”
“I can hardly wait,” Morris grumbled. “I don’t see why your dad can’t bring him.”
“Because Dad and Mr. Smith and Dr. Johnson are helping with setup. You know that. And it’s enough that Joe’s helping judge the fruitcakes. I don’t want him to have to work before the event, as well. Anyway, you only have to bring him. I can take him home.”
“Mom wants to get there early.”
It was a feeble excuse and one Livi saw right through. Morris had not taken to the newcomer. But he was going to have to lay aside his feelings for the good of the cause.
“It still won’t be as early as he’d have to be if he went with us,” Livi said. “Dad and I are on our way over to the community hall right now.” Morris still wasn’t looking happy. She laid a hand on his arm. “Come on, Morris. Help me out here.”
“I help out all the time,” he said irritably.
“Yes, you do. And I appreciate it. You are one in a million,” she said, and kissed his cheek.
“Okay, okay. You don’t have to butter me up.”
“I wasn’t buttering. I was speaking the truth.” Morris was a sweetie, and a good friend. He just wasn’t a Joe Ford. And that was probably at the heart of his dislike for the man. “It’s for Christmas from the Heart,” she added. Lost dogs, food drives, little old ladies with car troubles—Morris was always there, whatever the need. And if she needed him to drive someone to a Christmas from the Heart event he couldn’t tell her no.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, resigned to his fate. “But I don’t like the guy.”
“Morris, you’re jealous,” she accused.
“Okay, so maybe I am. But I got a feeling about him. Something ain’t right.”
“Well, I’d love to stand here and psychoanalyze him with you but I’ve got to get to the community hall. See you soon,” she added.
Livi never really saw him. He was just good old Morris, the guy she’d dated once upon a time. Sometimes he wished Livi had never gone away to school.
But nobody in her right mind turned down a full scholarship. Still, going away changed her. She came back home not only knowing more but wanting more. Her great-grandparents had money but somewhere along the way that well had dried up, leaving her parents solidly middle-class. After college, though, she returned yearning for a life of glamour. She wanted to see the world, wanted to visit Jane Austen’s home, walk on the moors where Cathy and Heathcliff had roamed. Morris had never been able to get into those books—“I am Heathcliff.” What the hell? She’d wanted to see the Eiffel Tower and ski in the Alps. As if their own mountains weren’t good enough?
She’d stayed in Pine River but she hankered for Seattle. Christmas from the Heart was the anchor that kept her in town. That, and her dad and her friends. Of which he was one.
What was it going to take to open Livi’s eyes to the good life they could have together? He needed to find it fast, because this newcomer was stirring up all those old yearnings for glamour and excitement.
As if a good ball game or great sex couldn’t be exciting enough. As if planning a wedding, having kids and watching them grow up wasn’t good enough. He knew she wanted to be married, wanted a family. She could do all that with him. You didn’t need to wander all over the world looking at stuff you could see on TV to have a good life.
“Morris, why are you frowning?” his mother asked after he’d settled her and her fruitcake in the car.
“I wasn’t frowning.”
“Yes, you were. You frowned all through lunch and you’re still frowning. I swear, you frown after every encounter with Olivia Berg,” she added.
His mom was way too observant. “I do not.”
“Yes, you do.” She shook her head. “You’re wasting your time on her. She’s not interested.”
“Thanks, Mom,” he growled.
“Well, it’s true and you know it. If only your father was still alive to talk some sense into you.”
A freak accident at work had taken his dad five years back and that had left Morris to watch over his mom and little sister. Sis had gotten married two years ago and moved to Oregon and now it was just Morris, picking Mom up for church on Sundays, eating lunch at her place afterward and taking her to Family Tree for dinner every Wednesday night for their midweek special.
Not that he minded watching out for his mom and spending time with her, but he missed his old man. And no matter what Mom thought, Dad would never try to talk him into giving up on Livi. Unlike Mom, who wanted Morris to hurry up and marry somebody so she could have grandkids, Dad understood true love. He’d waited patiently for Mom to come around through three years and one fiancé. Morris could wait.
“Why are we stopping at Olivia’s?” she asked, when he pulled the car up in front of the Berg residence.
“They’ve got a guy staying with them and I have to give him a ride over to the community hall.”
“Oh, honestly, Morris,” Mom said in disgust. “Surely Livi could manage getting her own houseguest to the fruitcake competition.”
“She and Mr. B had to get there early.”
“So, who is this man?”
“Some rich dude whose car broke down and there wasn’t any vacancies at River’s Bend so they took him in. He’s one of the fruitcake judges.”
“One of the judges?” his mother said speculatively. That ended the complaining.
At least someone was looking forward to picking up the rich dude.
Morris Bentley arrived to pick up Guy at quarter to two, fifteen minutes before the big event was scheduled to begin. He was dressed in jeans, boots, and wore a Seahawks sports shirt under his jacket. There on the lapel was a pin that proudly proclaimed, “I gave from the heart.” The one thing he wasn’t wearing was a smile.
“Livi told me to pick you up,” he said, and might as well have added, “I’d as soon throw you in the river.”
Guy nodded. “Thanks.” He felt Bentley’s assessing gaze on him as they walked to Bentley’s car, a vintage muscle car. The guy probably had a truck, too, like most of the men in town did. “Nice car,” he said.
“It was my dad’s,” Bentley said. “Made in America.” No foreign cars for Morris Bentley. “Got a truck, too,” he added. So take that.
“Probably comes in handy,” Guy said.
“I can haul a lot of wood.” Me and my blue ox, Babe.
It was going to be a pissing contest all the way to the fruitcake gross-out. Guy hoped they didn’t have far to go.
A middle-aged woman with alarmingly black hair and a body like a linebacker sat in the front passenger seat, wearing a red wool coat and a scarf almost as black as her hair. She, unlike her son, was smiling.
“Hello,” she greeted Guy as he climbed in the back. “You must be our new judge.”
“Just for this time,” Guy said. “I guess one of your regulars got sick and I’m filling in. I’m Guy... Joe Ford.”
Bentley was in the car now and looking at Guy in the rearview mirror, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. Great.
“It’s nice to meet you, Joe. I’m Mary Bentley, Morris’s mother. I have a fruitcake entered in the contest. Do you like fruitcake?”
Oh boy. “Who doesn’t like fruitcake?” Guy hedged.
“A lot of people don’t.” She made it sound like a crime.
“That’s ’cause they never had yours,” Morris said to her.
Did he really believe that or was he lying? Either way, it made him a good son.
“This is quite the event,” Mary Bentley informed Guy. “Everyone in town turns out.”
“So I hear,” he said.
“And it’s for such a good cause. Christmas from the Heart helps so many people.”
So he kept hearing. “Sounds like it.”
Too bad he hadn’t done some research into the organization before cutting them loose. But honestly, there was only so much money to go around, and, curse it all, it wasn’t like Hightower hadn’t given anything to anyone.
For their own ulterior motives. He looked out the window at the houses they were passing. It sure wasn’t the Highlands or Mercer Island. These people were struggling to find their footing in an ever-changing economy.
Well, everyone was struggling, even businesses that looked successful.
“Where are you from?” asked Mrs. Bentley.
“Seattle.”
“I grew up in Seattle,” she said. “It’s certainly changed from when I was a girl. And not for the better,” she added. “So overpopulated and the freeways are a mess.”
“It is a busy city,” Guy said. Yeah, traffic wasn’t good, but that didn’t bother him. He liked the way the city had grown, liked the action.
“But I guess I’ve always been a small-town girl at heart,” she continued.
“Nothing wrong with small towns,” added her son.
And this small town was where he would live his whole life and be perfectly happy. He’d never think to take Livi Berg to Paris.
They pulled up in front of a large building with a metal roof that looked like a log cabin on steroids. It was massive and had an equally massive front porch running along its front. The community hall.
The event hadn’t even started yet but already the parking lot was full—older-model cars, many with ski racks, a Prius or two, a ton of trucks with gun racks to remind him that he was in hunting country. Here was the heartbeat of the town. He could picture square dances and birthday parties taking place inside. Probably some anniversary parties and wedding receptions, too.
And fruitcake competitions.
Oh boy. Let the fun begin.