Blueberry Christmas (Blueberry Hill #3)

Chapter 1

Tara Bedford padded across the wide plank floors in her navy blue fleece-lined slippers, the old boards creaking their familiar morning song beneath her feet.

Outside the kitchen windows, fat snowflakes drifted from a pearl-gray sky, transforming the world into something out of a Christmas card.

The first real snow of the season, and not just a dusting, but the kind that promised to blanket Blueberry Hill in six inches of pristine white by nightfall.

She inhaled deeply, savoring the mingled scents of pine from the wreath on the back door and cinnamon from last night’s baking.

This December smelled nothing like the Decembers of her past life in Miami, where Christmas had meant palm trees wrapped in twinkling lights and artificial cold pumped through central air.

Here, winter felt genuine, the kind that made you appreciate the warmth of home and the comfort of a crackling fire.

The robin’s egg blue coffee maker gurgled to life, filling the kitchen with its rich aroma.

She smiled, running her hand along the cool quartz countertop, remembering the ancient appliances that had once occupied this space.

The kitchen had been the first renovation project she’d tackled after inheriting Aunt Frida’s cottage.

Now, with its white cabinets, farmhouse sink, and cheerful blue appliances, it had become the heart of a home that seemed to expand with each passing month to accommodate the growing family that had found its way to Sugar Creek Lane.

As she waited for the coffee to brew, Tara gazed out at the lake, where ice had begun to form around the edges, creating delicate crystal patterns that caught the early morning light.

Through the falling snow, she could make out the warm glow from the windows of Ally’s tiny house, nestled among the bare trees near the larger of the three greenhouses.

The rumble of tires on the gravel driveway pulled her attention away from the window.

Will’s truck appeared through the curtain of snow, moving slowly up the drive, headlights cutting through the dim morning light.

Her heart did a little skip at the sound.

Even at fifty-five, the sight of him still gave her butterflies.

She grabbed a second mug from the cabinet. One of her favorites from Chrisco Pottery in Seagrove and poured him a cup of coffee as she heard his boots stomping on the back porch. A soft knock followed, his way of being polite even though they both knew he was welcome to walk right in.

“Door’s open,” she called, adding a splash of cream, just the way he liked it.

Will Dixon filled the doorway, snowflakes melting in his dark hair, his cheeks ruddy from the cold. He carried an armload of firewood as easily as if it were a stack of pillows, the muscles in his forearms flexing beneath his rolled-up flannel sleeves.

“Morning, beautiful,” he said, crossing to kiss her, his lips cold but warming quickly against hers. He smelled of sawdust and pine and winter air. “Brought in more wood for the fireplace. Storm’s supposed to get worse by afternoon.”

“You spoil me,” she said, handing him the steaming mug. “I love a real fire, from the smell to the warmth, and most of all the crackling.”

He stacked the wood neatly by the hearth, then returned to wrap his arms around her from behind as she stood at the window leaning into him.

Together they watched as Ally emerged from her tiny house, bundled in a red wool coat, a knitted hat pulled low over her dark hair.

She strode toward the chicken coop, a bright red structure with gingham curtains and, absurdly, an old chandelier hanging inside, her daughter’s idea of chicken luxury.

“Look at her,” she murmured, leaning back into Will’s solid warmth. “Remember how lost she looked when she first arrived?”

“Standing right there in the driveway,” Will nodded, his breath warm against her ear. “Asking if she could stay ‘just until she figured things out.’”

Tara smiled at the memory. It was only seven months ago that Ally had pulled into the driveway with her car packed to the roof, fleeing a toxic relationship with Jason (who had gone back to his wife) and a soul-crushing job that had left her hollow-eyed and too thin.

“She lived on those awful frozen dinners and energy drinks,” Tara said, shaking her head. “I was afraid she’d disappear entirely.”

“And now look at her.” Pride colored his voice. “Running her own business, building her future with her own two hands.”

They watched as Ally scattered feed for the chickens, as she tilted her head up to look at the winter sky.

The change in her was remarkable. Her cheeks held the healthy flush of someone who spent her days working outdoors, her arms had developed muscle from hauling soil and building raised beds, and her eyes, once shadowed with uncertainty, now sparkled with purpose.

“Three greenhouses and contracts with wedding planners in three counties,” Tara said, unable to keep the pride from her voice. “And that tiny house—”

“I thought she’d give up when we hit bedrock trying to dig the foundation,” Will chuckled, moving to the counter to grab eggs from the basket Ally had dropped off yesterday, each one a different pastel shade, courtesy of her heritage chickens.

“But she just moved the site closer to the lake,” Tara finished, cracking four eggs into a bowl.

“Omelettes?” Will asked, already reaching for her favorite cast-iron skillet.

“Of course. You know we’d better enjoy the quiet, because as soon as everyone smells breakfast cooking—”

“Chaos,” they said in unison, sharing a laugh that felt as comfortable as her favorite sweater.

Just like that, the shower started, and the floor creaked.

Her son and daughter-in-law were awake. The middle bedroom now overflowed with tiny clothes and nursery furniture, a daily reminder of the granddaughter who would arrive in February.

Emily had fled to Blueberry Hill back in November, her face drawn with exhaustion and fear after the shooting at her local grocery store in Seattle had shattered her sense of safety.

The same grocery store shooting that had taken the life of Ryan’s mom, though at the time they didn’t know anything about him.

Evan had finally joined them at Thanksgiving, the weight of his lost job evident in the slump of his shoulders and the worry lines around his eyes.

Will turned on the small radio on the counter, and the kitchen filled with the soft strains of “White Christmas.” Tara hummed along as she whisked the eggs, adding a pinch of the herbs she’d dried from the garden over the summer.

“Before I forget,” he said, pulling a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “Someone left this on my truck windshield yesterday in town.”

She wiped her hands on a dish towel and took the typewritten note:

Your order has been paid for. Merry Christmas from your Secret Santa.

“Your coffee order?” she asked, studying the note.

“Coffee and lunch for the whole crew. A hundred and sixty-seven dollars.” Will shook his head, a bemused smile playing on his lips. “Same thing happened to the Smiths at the florist, and Mrs. Patterson’s prescription was mysteriously paid for at the pharmacy.”

“Someone’s playing Secret Santa.” Tara handed the note back, intrigued. “Any theories?”

“The whole town’s buzzing about it. Doc Miller thinks it’s the Weatherbys since they’ve got family money.

Marlene at the post office swears it must be someone who came into money.

” He took out the sourdough bread and began to slice pieces for toast. “All I know is whoever it is has good timing. The off-season is always tight for most folks around here.”

Tara’s phone buzzed against the countertop, the Miami area code making her stomach clench. Some calls carried bad news before you even answered.

“Matt?” She picked up immediately, her voice tight.

Will’s hand found her shoulder, steady and warm, as Matt’s voice filled her ear, strained with exhaustion and grief.

“She tried to leave the facility again last night,” he said without preamble. “Got past two locked doors somehow before they found her in the parking lot in her nightgown. She told them she had to get home because you were coming for Christmas dinner and she hadn’t started cooking yet.”

She closed her eyes, her throat constricting.

Patty. Her vibrant, larger-than-life best friend of almost forty years, was disappearing one memory at a time.

The early Alzheimer’s that had claimed Patty’s mother was stealing Patty too, turning the woman who’d once organized surprise parties and given midnight pep talks into someone who searched parking lots for a bright yellow car she could no longer recognize.

“How is she today?” Tara asked, leaning into Will’s solid presence.

“Agitated. Confused.” Matt’s voice cracked. “She doesn’t recognize me half the time anymore. The doctor wants to move her to the secure wing. Says she’s becoming a danger to herself.”

They talked for ten more minutes, Tara sharing memories of Patty’s legendary dinner parties and her fierce loyalty, trying to give Matt something to hold on to while her heart shattered for her friend.

“The doctors warned us it could happen this way,” Matt said, his voice hollow with exhaustion. “That the decline might accelerate suddenly. But knowing it intellectually doesn’t prepare you for watching it happen in real time.”

She closed her eyes against the sting of tears.

Just this past summer, Patty had still been recognizing faces, following conversations, even making jokes about her “slipping mind.” The speed of her descent into confusion felt cruel, like being robbed of the chance to properly say goodbye.

When she finally hung up, Will pulled her into a hug.

“Bad news?” he asked softly.