A Very Barrie Christmas (Poppy Creek #8.5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

FRANK

F rank Barrie liked coffee more than he liked most people.

He knew coffee. How to roast it, blend it, and brew it. Coffee made sense.

People, though? People didn’t make a lick of sense. Especially concerning matters of the heart. He should know. He’d turned stark raving mad the day he met his lovely bride, Beverly.

“Ow!” Frank jerked his hand away from the blazing-hot bread pan. Oven mitt! He needed an oven mitt. How long had it been since he’d baked something?

He fumbled through the drawers and cabinets, grumbling to himself. Beverly assured him the organizational system she’d implemented in their snug farmhouse kitchen was the most logical layout, but even after three years of marriage, he wasn’t convinced. What was wrong with the way he had it before? Didn’t everyone have a kitchen drawer filled with dead batteries and ketchup packets?

Aha! There it is. She’d hidden the oven mitt in the drawer by the stove.

He removed the bread pan from the oven and set it on the counter. Huh . That doesn’t look right. The fruitcake in the photo in Beverly’s cookbook didn’t have charred edges and a gooey center, did it?

He squinted at the open book on the counter. The photo on the page blurred into an indiscernible blob. He supposed his fruitcake could look like the picture. There was no way to know for sure without putting on his reading glasses. Maybe he should’ve worn them to read the recipe? Oh, well. It was too late now. He nudged the pan with the oven mitt and the loaf jiggled. Hmm . Perhaps he could pass it off as Christmas pudding instead?

“Who am I kidding,” Frank muttered, ready to scrap the whole foolhardy idea.

He’d wanted to surprise his wife with a cozy Christmas evening when she returned home from her shift at the library. He’d planned every detail, from her favorite Nat King Cole record to a slice of fruitcake waiting for her on a fancy china plate to the crystal goblet of chilled eggnog. The kind made from scratch, not the congealed glop in the carton.

It was all part of Operation Give Beverly the Best Christmas—the Christmas she deserved but never quite got to experience since she’d married her very own Ebenezer Scrooge.

Well, to be fair, he considered himself a reformed Scrooge. He’d spent most of his adult life secluded in his own bitter world, hidden from every reminder of the happiness he’d lost when he went off to war. It had taken years—and the kindhearted community of Poppy Creek—to thaw the frozen barrier around his heart. But even now, as he turned over a new, albeit slightly crusty leaf, he found it difficult to change his ways.

The Grinch’s heart may have grown three sizes in a single day, but in his late eighties, Frank found the endeavor a little slow going. Sometimes tedious, if he were honest.

But Bevy had put up with his bah-humbugs for long enough. The last few years, he’d tried to go along with her holiday shenanigans, but not without a grumble or two. Or six or seven.

Not this year, though. This year, he was a whole new man. Like good ole Ebenezer, post haunting. Although, so far, he wasn’t off to a great start.

He glowered at the offending fruitcake, as if it had purposefully plotted against him. What would it take to conjure a couple of Christmas ghosts to help him make a festive fruitcake? It was the first day in December, and he’d already failed. How could he give his wife the perfect Christmas when his personality seemed to repel all things merry and bright?

He needed a cup of coffee.

Maybe two.

He poured velvety arabica beans into the burr grinder, admiring their deep chocolatey-brown hue. He may not be able to bake a fruitcake to save his life, but he could still roast the best cup of coffee on the West Coast. Probably both coasts and every state in between, but he didn’t want to brag.

The metal gears of the grinder emanated a pleasant whirring sound, followed by the crackle of crunching beans. A much more enjoyable melody than any rendition of “Jingle Bells” he’d ever heard.

Eyes closed, he inhaled the earthy aroma, already feeling a sense of calm slip over him.

Then the phone rang, and the shrill squawk cut through his brief moment of serenity.

Frank groaned.

The grinder rumbled to a stop.

He glanced longingly at his French press, and the phone screeched again.

“Hold your horses,” he grumbled, shuffling toward the landline secured to the wall. This better be important.

“What?” he barked into the receiver, not one for pleasantries.

“Hi, Mr. Barrie!” The unnaturally chipper contralto of Susan Hiesman filled the speaker. The director of Forgotten Heroes, a veterans’ homeless shelter in San Francisco, called Frank frequently, but he still wasn’t used to her inhuman energy levels. He suspected that out of all the coffee he donated to the shelter, she consumed more than half of it.

“Hi, Susan. Are you out of coffee already?” His roasting apprentice, Vick Johnson, had just delivered fifty pounds last week.

“No, no. It’s not that. Everyone’s loving the new blends. Rudolph’s Roast! Blitzen’s Brew! So fun and festive!”

“You can blame Vick for those.” He’d argued that reindeer didn’t drink coffee, and Vick had responded with, “How can you be sure? Maybe coffee is what gives them the ability to fly,” to which Frank had merely grunted, admitting defeat. No point in quibbling over the caffeine consumption of air-bound mammals that didn’t exist.

“Please tell him they’re delightful,” Susan chirped. “But I’m not calling about coffee this time.”

“How much money do you need?” He was used to cutting a check whenever the shelter needed a cash infusion. Several years ago, he wrote a book called The Mariposa Method —his manifesto, chronicling his foray into the world of coffee and the development of his proprietary roasting method—that took off, hitting all kinds of hoity-toity bestseller lists, and subsequently stuffed his bank account with more money than he could ever spend. Especially since he preferred to live a quiet life in a small, rural town with the woman he loved who only ever splurged on books and tea. Tea! Not coffee. Her only flaw.

“Actually, I need a different kind of favor.”

Uh-oh . Something in her tone made him nervous. It sounded as if whatever she was about to ask him, she knew he wouldn’t like it.

He waited for her to fill the silence.

“There’s this young man at the shelter. Private Nathanial Henderson. He stayed with us briefly last year, but now he’s a volunteer. He’s here almost every day, helping other struggling vets get back on their feet. He’s kindhearted and a hard worker. A really upstanding young man.”

“Uh-huh,” Frank mumbled. The last time he’d received a sales pitch this enthusiastic, some flimflammer had tried to sell him a 1955 Buick Roadmaster with a busted transmission.

“He had a tough time when he left the military,” Susan continued. “He has no family. Aged out of foster care. Mostly group homes. He had no one waiting for him when he got back from Iraq. You know how hard it is when they come home and have no support system.”

He did. And he’d made it a personal goal to help out in as many ways as possible.

“Anyway, he’s been a godsend at the shelter, and I’d love to find a way to thank him, which got me thinking,” Susan rambled on at a mile a millisecond. “He has this fascination with all things Christmas. Probably because he’s never really experienced the holidays the way most of us have. It would be so wonderful to give him a real, homey Christmas. Snow. Caroling. Sugar cookies. Quaint small-town events. All the trimmings.”

It was a nice idea, but what did it have to do with him?

“I was thinking about all the things Beverly’s said about your hometown during the holidays,” Susan continued, as if she’d read his thoughts. “Poppy Creek sounds magical. Like a tiny slice of heaven tucked away, right here in Northern California.”

Oh, no . The other shoe finally dropped. And it kicked him in the tokus on the way down.

“I was wondering if you and Beverly might let Nate visit you for a few days? Maybe give him a taste of Christmas? He won’t be a bother. And you’d be doing something wonderful for a young man who served our country. Be a hero for this hero, Mr. Barrie.”

Laying it on a little thick, Susan . Although, she sure knew his weak spots.

But as Susan spouted more of Private Henderson’s admirable qualities, every muscle in Frank’s body clenched. Invite a stranger into his personal space? And during the holidays? He’d rather get a root canal and a colonoscopy at the same time.

He was about to tell Susan as much, when a thought struck him. Why did her proposition sound so familiar? Hadn’t he heard of a similar scenario somewhere else recently?

He furrowed his brow, mentally rummaging through the discombobulated filing cabinet of his memory where reruns of Jeopardy! mingled with images of his childhood. The other night, Bevy made him watch Christmas in Connecticut —her favorite Christmas movie she watched every year right after she packed up the Thanksgiving leftovers.

He wasn’t too keen on sappy holiday romances. Too much faffing about and not enough gunfire. But that Barbara Stanwyck sure was a looker.

Anyway, in the film, Barbara Stanwyck’s character invited a war hero to her home to experience the perfect small-town Christmas.

If he couldn’t make Bevy an edible fruitcake, maybe he could help her reenact her favorite Christmas movie? Minus the falling in love with the soldier part, obviously.

Every time she watched the film—which she knew by heart—her eyes took on this misty sheen, and she’d murmur something about how wonderful it would be to give someone the gift of Christmas. Personally, he preferred to give practical gifts, like a savings bond. But if Bevy wanted to hand out Christmas cheer, he would help make it happen.

“Mr. Barrie?” Susan said cautiously, as if she’d interpreted his silence as a bad sign. “If it’s too inconvenient, I completely under—”

“We’ll do it.”

“What?” Her surprise echoed through the speaker.

“I said we’ll do it. I can’t promise snow, but we can handle the sugar cookies and Christmas carols. Except for ‘Jingle Bells.’ I draw the line at ‘Jingle Bells.’”

“Okay. Well. Um. Wow. Are you sure? Do you need to discuss it with Beverly first?”

“No. I’d like to surprise her.” For some incomprehensible reason, his wife loved surprises. One of her endearing—and utterly baffling—quirks. In his opinion, surprise was simply another way to spell unnecessary stress . And he didn’t need one more factor contributing to his heartburn.

“Well, uh, great! Thank you. This is incredible news! You’re doing a very kind thing. I can’t wait to tell Nate! When would you like him to come? And for how long?”

“Send him our way whenever you want. And let’s say… a week?”

“Fabulous! This is so exciting.” Susan’s voice became even higher pitched than usual, which didn’t seem possible. “I’ll talk to Nate and get back to you with his travel details. But I imagine he’ll be eager to come soon. He mentioned his place of employment is closing for a few days to repair a leaky roof. Is it okay if he comes as early as tomorrow?”

“That’s fine.” Bevy kept the spare room ready for the rare occasion her niece, Juliet, came to visit.

“Oh my goodness! I can’t believe it. He’ll be ecstatic! I’ll tell him the good news as soon as we get off the phone.” Susan continued to ramble in her excitement, but Frank barely registered a single word beyond her gushing goodbye and the click of the receiver when she finally hung up the phone. He was too busy formulating how he’d unveil the surprise to Bevy.

By the time she returned home later that evening, he’d planned the perfect reveal. He’d made flapjacks for dinner, inspired by one of Bevy’s favorite scenes in Christmas in Connecticut —and one of the only things he could cook—and had “O Little Town of Bethlehem” playing in the background. A warm fire crackled in the fireplace, casting a cozy glow around the sitting room where he’d arranged two TV tray tables in front of the couch. He lit a candle on the coffee table and waited eagerly.

But when she burst through the front door, shrugging out of her wool coat, she seemed eager to share her own news. “Darling, guess who called me today?” She paused, taking in the festive scene he’d set, her periwinkle-blue eyes shining. “Oh, how lovely! You did all this for me?”

He patted the cushion beside him. “There’s more. But first, tell me your news.” He didn’t want a single distraction when his turn came.

She joined him on the couch, brimming with joyful energy. “Juliet called! And she wants to come for a visit. Isn’t that wonderful?”

She positively glowed in her excitement. How did he get so lucky to marry such a beautiful bride?

“That’s great, Bevy.” His people-loving wife would get to welcome two guests this holiday season. She’d be in hospitality heaven. “When is she coming?”

“That’s the best part!” She clasped her hands in delight. “She’s arriving tomorrow!”

Uh-oh . Talk about bad timing.

Maybe he could call Susan and cancel? Or reschedule?

His heart sank. She’d probably already told Private Henderson. He hated to go back on his word.

Ugh. Once again, his good intentions had landed him in hot water.

“What’s wrong?” Beverly’s happy glow faltered. “Is it okay if Juliet visits?”

“Of course. Jules is always welcome here,” he assured her, using her niece’s nickname to drive home his point. “But there’s a… slight snag.” To put it mildly.

His wife waited expectantly for him to elaborate.

“I just got off the phone with Susan.”

“Oh! How’s she doing? Is everything okay at the shelter? I’ve been meaning to send her some sugar cookies.”

“Everything’s fine. But I—” He hesitated. Cut to the chase, old man , he chided himself. No time to lollygag . “I agreed to host a young veteran for a few days,” he blurted. “We’re supposed to give him a taste of a traditional Christmas, like that movie you love. I thought it would be a nice surprise.”

“You dear, sweet, thoughtful man.” Her delicate features softened with affection, and she gazed at him with a depth of love he still couldn’t believe belonged to him. “What a lovely thing to do. I know how much you dislike having company.”

“You’re not upset it’ll overlap with Juliet’s visit?”

“Not at all! I’m delighted to have him stay with us. We have plenty of space.”

He frowned. Plenty seemed like an exaggeration. Their three-bedroom farmhouse had only one guest room.

As if she could read his mind, Bevy said, “We’ll make up a bed in your study. It’ll be cozy, but that’s part of the fun.”

Part of the fun? And what was the other part? Foregoing his coveted peace and quiet? Cohabitating with a stranger? And what about Bevy’s niece? What would Juliet think about spending the holidays with a man she’d never met? What if they didn’t get along?

A sense of dread seeped into his tired bones.

What if this latest fiasco turned out to be even more disastrous than his fruitcake?