Jones was waiting for me in the hospital lobby. He frowned as he studied my face. "Are you all right?"
Quickly I shook my head. "I don't want to get into it now. How's Mavis?"
"She's still in the ICU. They think she'll pull through though. Peter's with her now." Jones pulled me close. "I love you."
I jolted as though he'd stuck me with a cattle prod. "Why, for the love of grief?"
"Beats me."
It was a good thing we were already at the hospital because my heart was pounding way too hard. "Jones—"
"Shh," he said "You don't have to say anything. It just seemed essential that I tell you."
I smiled and shook my head. "You are way too well-adjusted for me, you know that, right?"
"I had a notion. Come on—don't we have some holiday hoopla to muck about with?"
Though I wanted to see Mavis, to apologize to both her and Peter, I recognized that now was not the time. "Yeah. We do. And I brought you some socks. They're in the car. I know you're all cold weather immune, but still."
His face softened. I blushed. It may not be a declaration of love—we both knew it—but I could tell he was touched by my thoughtfulness.
We drove to the Victorian on Grove Street. It stood cold and empty, just as it had since Nana died. She'd been the one to make this house a home. I was determined to do my best to live up to her memory and bid it a farewell.
"Where should I start?" Jones asked as we let ourselves in. All the upstairs rooms had been emptied of personal belongings, though they still held beds and nightstands. Donna had advised us that leaving some furniture in a home was critical to potential buyers. I was grateful that at least it wouldn't echo.
"Have you had anything to eat?" I shucked my jacket and headed toward the kitchen.
"Just really horrendous coffee at the hospital."
I nodded. "Me either. At least the fridge is stocked."
He looked surprised. "It is?"
I smiled and took out the deli tray I'd ordered the day before. "Hey, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day are the only days in a calendar year Aunt Cecily doesn't insist on cooking. I did some online shopping and paid an arm and a leg to have it delivered."
"But when did you have time to come here and arrange it all?"
I snagged a can of condensed tomato soup out of the pantry. "Donna let them in and put everything away. Hey, it's your first real holiday with me. I can't fall down on the job, now."
Jones didn't respond, and I glanced at him over my shoulder. "What is it?"
"Nothing." But there obviously was something, the way he smiled at me. "Are the decorations in the garage?"
"Yeah, look for the red and green Rubbermaids."
While Jones went out to retrieve the bins, and I heated soup, the distress of the morning melted away. When the soup was hot, I ladled two bowls and set out paper plates and hard rolls for the sandwiches.
"What was Christmas like when you were growing up?" I asked Jones as we sat down to eat.
He shrugged and added mustard to a roll. "Nothing special, really."
I frowned. "No?"
"Either my mother had a date, and we spent the holiday with him, or she'd drink herself into oblivion. I stopped putting any importance on the actual calendar days early on."
I sat back, soup forgotten. "So does all this make you uncomfortable?" I waved to the bins he'd brought in and the stereo where Nat King Cole sang "The Christmas Song."
"Of course not." He smiled. "It's not what I'm used to but it's…nice."
Now I understood what that look had meant. Jones had been surprised that I would go to the trouble for his sake. "Well, my Nana went all out for the holidays. Fresh pine bows and evergreen garlands affixed everywhere. Plus a blue spruce with white lights and red bows. Combine that with the scent of cinnamon and cloves, and the place smelled incredible. The music was great too. And the food, of course, was incredible. But I think the thing I loved most about Christmas was that it seemed like, for one day, everything was all right. I didn't feel like that very often."
"I know what you mean." Jones took my hand and squeezed.
I squeezed back, sorry that he hadn't even had a Christmas reprieve, that his mom hadn't made a fuss over him. "Tomorrow's going to be great. I have it all planned out."
He released my hand so I could finish my soup. "So, Chef, what's on tomorrow's menu?"
"Glazed Virginia ham and Southern Spoon Bread. It's like corn bread but less crumbly. That's Pop's tradition. Then the Rosetti side calls for Christmas Pasta. Because you know, eating pasta 364 days a year just isn't enough. Donna's on the veggies, and Mimi offered to bring desert."
Jones took his plate and set it in the sink. "What can I do?"
I pushed back from the table and rose. "Let's set up the tree first."
He frowned. "I thought you said you got a fresh tree."
I'd bought one of the prelit jobs on a Black Friday sale, thinking it would make the most sense. "Real trees are messy. And any tree lots open at this point on Christmas Eve will be picked over."
Jones grinned. "I have an idea."
An hour later, we stood side-by-side on his father's property wielding an ax and a saw.
"Pick one." He indicated the small irregular shaped evergreens.
It was obvious these trees weren't farmed. Larger pines stood all around us, filtering the weak sunlight through heavy branches. Some looked more like bushes than trees. Then there was the idea that there might be something living in those thick boughs. Did snakes climb trees? Should we really cut down a tree that was going to go out with Wednesday's garbage, that would shed a bazillion needles and possibly deposit bugs into the house? But Jones looked so excited that I pointed to a random tree. "That one."
"Stand back." He hefted the ax, and I took several steps back when the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being ratcheted back pierced the frigid air.
"Hold it right there," a deep male voice said.
My hands flew up in the air. "Don't shoot!"
Jones set the ax down slowly. "Dad."
"Malcolm?"
I turned, gaping at Jones's father. Robert Tillman was obviously drunk as a skunk. The fact that he didn't recognize his own son was a big tip-off. But he had several days' worth of stubble covering his chin, and his eyes were bloodshot, his flannel shirt buttoned two buttons off.
"Please put the gun down," Jones said calmly. Much too calmly, considering the circumstances. I had to check, but there was a distinct possibility I'd peed my pants.
"What the Sam Hill are you doing out here?" Mr. Tillman said, thankfully lowering the shotgun.
"Cutting down a Christmas tree," Jones stated calmly.
Mr. Tillman glowered. "Does this look like a friggin' tree farm to you, boy?"
I knew the last few months had been rough on him, but the polished businessman had been replaced by someone who looked and talked like Yosemite Sam.
"You'd really begrudge me one tree off your vast estate?" Jones said. "The bastard doesn't even warrant a single evergreen?"
Mr. Tillman's eyes narrowed. "Go on—take it—then get the hell out of here." He dug into his jeans pocket, withdrew a hip flask, and took a swig.
"We don't have to—"
Jones cast me a dark look. "I'm not leaving here without this tree."
Well then, okay. I stood back, shivering from more than the cold.
* * *
To warm us up after our misadventure, I baked some gingerbread men while Jones struggled with the tree and his demons. Damn it. Every time it seemed like the holiday was on track, something threw a big old monkey wrench into the works. Lizzy, the recipe book, Mavis and Peter, and now Jones's father, who appeared to be on a bender.
As I cleaned up from my baking, I stared out the kitchen window. How many times had I made gingerbread men with Nana on Christmas Eve? Every year before I moved out. I'd been too busy for holiday nonsense while I trained to become a chef. I figured I cooked for a living—there was no reason to cook more, especially not just for me. But there was something therapeutic about making something so different than the run-of-the-mill pasta.
We'd picked up Roofus and brought him home with us. He now lay smack in the center of the kitchen floor, snoring. I clipped his leash to him and dragged him out into the back yard to do his business. He gave me a stink eye and sat, staring up at me. I could wait him out though.
The sun had gone down, and the sky was purpling. We had a few hours yet before we picked up Pops and Aunt Cecily for midnight mass. I wondered where Kaylee was and if she was having a good Christmas. She was sixteen now, too old for the Santa shtick. What were her new family's traditions? Did they bake together?
"Andrea, I need a hand," Jones called from the back door.
I dragged the worthless mongrel inside and made my way into the other room. "What's up?"
The tree for one thing. Though Jones's hands were coated in sap, and he had scrapes on his knuckles, he smiled victoriously. "Will you help me string the lights?"
I shook my head, grinning. His enthusiasm was contagious. "Go wash your hands first."
"Yes, Ma'am." He headed toward the bathroom then stopped mid stride. "What the devil?"
"What?" I turned, but he bolted for the door. "What's the matter?"
He didn't answer me, intent on flinging open the front door and dashing out into the night. Somewhere down the street a car horn honked, and a dog started barking.
"Malcolm, what is it?" I followed him out. "Tell me what's going on."
He'd stopped at the end of the driveway and was looking down the street. "Never mind."
He tromped back up to the house.
I smacked him on the shoulder. "Damn it, what just happened?"
He shut the door and leaned against it. "Someone was looking through the windows."
"What?"
"I looked up, and there was this face there."
"Do you know who it was?"
He shook his head. "No, it happened too fast."
"Do you think we should call the police?" I was seriously creeped out.
"That's a good idea." Jones pulled me towards him. "You do that, and I'll wash up."
I dug my cell out of my jacket pocket. On Christmas Eve most of the local law enforcement were either out doing sobriety checks or home with their families, so I called Kyle directly.
"And Jones has no idea who it was?" Kyle said.
"No. I didn't even see them."
"I'll have a car ride past a few times tonight. We'll catch them if they come back."
"Okay. Hey, Kyle? I think you need to know something." I updated him on the encounter with Mr. Tillman.
Kyle sighed. "Damn it. I'm going to have to go disarm him. Alcohol and firearms are a bad combination."
I didn't envy him one bit. "How's Lizzy holding up?"
"Okay. She's staying over here for the night. We're going to have to see about getting her dad into rehab. He's really losing it."
"Jones was really upset about it too. Will we see you tomorrow?"
"No, I'll be with my folks. Merry Christmas, Andy."
"You too." I hung up just as Jones emerged from the kitchen, a half-eaten gingerbread man in one now sap-free hand.
"Good?" I asked him.
He nodded. "Come on, we have a tree to decorate."