Chapter 1 #2
A face mask? Her mother had never shown interest in that kind of thing. Maybelline lipstick once a week and that was for church. Walking briskly back to the living room, Sarah clicked on the TV and found Sesame Street.
“That’s for kids,” Nathan said with contempt, reaching for the remote.
“But I like the Count!” Justin whined. “Leave it, Mom. Please?”
Was there ever an end to this? “The two of you sit there and watch Big Bird. Period.” She meant business and they heard it. Slumping onto the sofa, Sarah enjoyed the silliness of the show. Laughing together with her boys felt good. After fifteen minutes or so, her mother appeared.
“What a surprise.” Mom’s salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back with a pink headband Sarah had never seen before.
“Don’t you look nice.” Jumping up, Sarah came closer. Was her mother wearing eye liner and mascara? And that wasn’t all. “Is that a new top, Mom?”
“Why, yes. Do you like it?” Mom fingered the white beaded snowflakes decorating the red knit sweater. “I got it at the Michigan City outlet.”
“Have you lost weight?” Sarah couldn’t help the faint note of jealousy in her voice.
“Maybe just a tad.” Mom patted her hips in the snug beige pants. “How did the babysitting go today?”
“We call it playschool. Fine. Not that I’d want to do it every day.” That was an understatement. She’d lose her mind, wiping noses and helping with puzzles for all those children.
Sarah’s mother had not been in favor of the co-op. She’d been Sarah’s main babysitter since the boys were born. But she was getting older. Now was time for her mother to relax––watch soap operas or read romance novels. “What was that stuff on your face?”
“An avocado mask.” Mom ran a veined hand over her cheeks. “Supposed to help the wrinkles. Mine are terrible. What do you think?”
Sarah leaned closer. “You’ve always had beautiful skin.”
“Has Ryan started on the Christmas cookies?” her mother asked in an obvious attempt to change the subject.
“Maybe tomorrow.” Her mother had baked the Christmas cookies as long as Sarah could remember.
The buttery rich thimbles, layered mint chocolate brownies, tangy lemon bars, spritz and the sand tarts – those were all her mother's making.
The cookies took time and delicate shaping.
Ryan had large capable hands, suitable for punching down bread dough and wrestling with Harleys. “I hope this works out.”
Pink lips pursed, Mom sank into the barcalounger that had been her father's favorite chair. “Ryan will be a big help. You can teach him.”
“Right.” Sarah hated to admit that she missed talking to the customers. Baking cookies with Ryan in the back room? That kitchen could feel mighty small. She plopped down on the sofa.
“Mom! You’re squishing me.” With a gentle shove, Justin moved over. Both boys were listening to this conversation with great interest.
“I guess so. Gull Harbor folks do love their Christmas cookies.” Today the holiday expectations of her home town made her weary.
“They do indeed.” Her mother nodded so hard, Sarah thought the pink headband might fall right off. “Soon all storefronts will be decorated with lights. The painted reindeer will sprint over Whittaker Street. We add to the Christmas cheer with our cookies.”
Eyes bright, Lila glanced at her daughter for agreement.
Well, at least someone had the Christmas spirit.
“But what does Ryan know about Christmas cookies?”
Lila’s eyes sparkled. “What he doesn’t know you can teach him. You taught Jamie. How about some hot dogs, boys?”
“Hot dogs!” When Nathan and Justin bounced on the sofa, it made Sarah’s head hurt. You’d think they never got hot dogs at home. Everything always tasted better at Grandma's.
The day was feeling longer by the minute. Sarah pushed herself up, trying to hide her stomach roll by tugging down her sweater. “Sounds like you’ve got things covered. I’ll go down and talk to Ryan about the cookies.”
When Sarah reached for the door knob, she noticed a pile of books on a side table. “What’s this, Mom?” She picked one up. “The History of the Roman Empire.”
Her mother twirled a gray curl around one finger. “Just thought I’d read up on things.”
“Right.” The Roman Empire?
Making her way downstairs again, Sarah reached for the handrail. She felt as if she’d been transported to someone else’s life. Back in the work room, Ryan was standing in front of the big refrigerator. One muscled arm held the door open.
“What are you doing?” That open door was giving her a chill
Ryan turned. “Figuring out the butter. Your mother said you would take me through the recipes.”
She expelled a breath. “Okay. Let's start there.” Going over to her desk, she took the big blue binder from a shelf. Someday she had to organize this collection of slip sheets and clippings. Flipping through, she found the thimbles recipe. Ryan hovered nearby, smelling like a man who’d worked hard.
Sarah had always liked that familiar scent. But Ryan hadn’t been the man.
“Thimbles?” Ryan read over her shoulder.
“Didn't your mother make them?” The jam-filled thimbles were one of her favorites.
“My mother always said that if God had wanted women to bake he wouldn’t have invented bakeries.”
“How awful!” The words were out before she could think.
Ryan and Jamie's parents had moved back to Chicago about the time that Jamie and Sarah were married. Shortly after that, they’d divorced.
Mrs. Pickard had remarried and their father had died in a traffic accident.
Neither Jamie nor Ryan had taken to their mother’s new husband.
Bringing her attention back to the recipe, Sarah tried to focus. “Or we could do the mint-layered brownies.”
He looked offended. “Trust me. I can handle the thistles.”
“Thimbles. Okay then. Thimbles it is.” She drew herself up. “Let’s leave three pounds of butter out to soften tonight.”
Sarah watched him walk to the refrigerator. Ryan was a good-looking man and she couldn’t understand why he wasn’t dating someone. His limp was hardly noticeable.
Shortly after that, Sarah collected the boys and got them dressed for the weather. Then they left for home.
As usual, that night she told Jamie all about her day, his picture on her lap as she lay in bed. “Ryan’s pitching in, Jamie.” She finished up by reporting on his brother. “We’ll see how that goes. He is good with the boys.” Then she kissed the framed photo and set it back on her nightstand.
Settling under the covers, she tried to shake her misgivings. This Christmas felt all wrong. Somehow she would make it right.
“Christmas cookies.” Ryan was fuming when he got to Branson Motors that night. Evening came early in December. The sky was dark as he pulled into the back lot.
They’d probably get more snow tonight. The wind nipped his cheeks and rattled the bare branches overhead as he locked the truck.
When he got inside, Ryder Branson and his father Stanley were jawing about something in the back.
Their chuckles echoed through the open office door as Ryan headed back.
He'd never seen a father and son that close. Sometimes it got to him.
When he walked in, both men looked up.
“Here comes our new tenant,” Stanley greeted him with his usual peppery tone.
Boots up on the desk, Ryder stretched back and grinned. “So how are you enjoying the apartment upstairs?”
“Suits me just fine.” Ryan took an empty chair and unbuttoned his jacket.
This wasn’t the neatest office in the world but it served its purpose.
Like a lot of the businesses along Red Arrow, the garage had been a fixture for years.
The Bransons mostly worked on Harleys, which had been the main attraction of the job. “Thanks for renting it to me.”
“Glad someone can use it,” Ryder said. “Maybe the place will bring you good karma or whatever it is that Phoebe says.”
Stanley wore a big grin. “Got me my favorite daughter-in-law back. Ryder couldn’t wait to get out of here and back to his house in the woods.”
“It was the woman in the woods that counted, Dad, not the house.” Ryder and his wife Phoebe had been divorced for a year.
During that time, Ryder had been one mean son of a gun, and his father hadn’t been much better.
How Ryder won Phoebe back, Ryan would never know.
But it had something to do with fixing up their old house.
While they were divorced, Ryder had lived in the apartment over Branson Motors. With a bedroom and a kitchen, that apartment served its purpose, but it was nothing Ryan would want on a full-time basis. The smell of oil and grease crept up through the walls. It was a place, not a home.
Now Ryder sniffed the air. “Man, you smell good.”
“Yeah, you’re making me hungry.” Stanley patted his stomach.
“It’s the bread.” Smiling, he slipped out of his heavy jacket.
“How's it going with the widow?” Ryder asked with an expectant grin.
“You make it sound like she’s eighty.” Before, she’d been his sister-in-law––the person who kept his brother happy with her sweet smile and soft curves.
Now she talked to Ryan like a drill sergeant.
So serious, her eyes dark with worry. He didn’t know how to take her. The chair creaked when he shifted.
“Sarah’s a pretty little thing and a good mother.” Then Ryder stopped.
“She’s had bad luck.” Stanley snapped up a toothpick. He always had one handy. “Your brother was a patriot. I served in Vietnam, and I can’t say enough good things about Jamie or Sarah. But it’s a darn shame.”
The mood had turned somber. Ryder nodded. “And that’s the truth. So are you handling the two jobs okay? Not making you crazy or anything?”
“It’s not a picnic chasing up and down Red Arrow in the snow,” Ryan admitted.
“How does your schedule go?” Kicking back in his chair, Stanley studied him, that toothpick between his teeth. “You start the day there, come back to the garage for a few hours and then it’s back to the bakery?”
“I’m burning a lot of gas, but I make sure I put in at least eight hours up here.” Working on a Harley was bittersweet for him. But he knew those machines like the back of his hand. “You know anything about making thimbles?”
The foreheads of both men creased. “You mean like in sewing, son?” Stanley said. “My wife used a thimble on her finger sometimes.”
“No. These are cookies.” He almost hated to say the word.
“Cookies?” A grin lifted the corner of Ryder’s mouth. “You’re baking cookies with Sarah? I thought you were handling the bread.”
Stanley put both hands on his stomach “Now you’re really making me hungry.”
Okay. This whole baking thing didn’t sound very manly. But he was helping out. Sarah and her mother Lila needed him. “Yes, her mother added the cookies,” he muttered. “I’m fine with it.”
That brought a howl from both of them. “The widow’s got you making dainty little Christmas cookies? With those ham-sized hands that have touched carburetors?” Stanley made some mincing movements with his fingers. Of course Ryder roared at his dad’s antics.
“Glad you two are enjoying yourselves.” Ryan’s face burned.
“Why don’t you bring back some samples?” Stanley ran one hand over his perpetual stubble. He only shaved every three days. “We can give your cookie skills a road test.”
“I haven’t made them yet.”
Ryder gave him a curious look. “Anything going on with you and Sarah?”
Reaching down, Ryan played with his boot. By the end of the day, his shorter leg ached. “Of course not.”
“Why not?” Ryder snorted. “She’s a sweet woman with two cute little boys who need a dad.”
“The emphasis is on sweet.” Ryan looked up and frowned. “Not exactly my type.”
“What does that mean?” Mouth hanging open, Stanley looked from his son back to Ryan.
“Dad, I think that means that our boy Ryan still likes women with swinging hips and lying lips.” Ryder stabbed a finger at Ryan. “That’s what got me into trouble at the Rusty Nail. And I wound up sleeping upstairs in that cold apartment. So watch it.”
Ryan had never been known for good decisions. “What would Sarah want with me anyway?” He kicked out his bum leg.
Stanley kept working that toothpick. “You might be ugly as sin and cantankerous on certain days, but you look like marrying material to me.”
Drawing his leg back, Ryan shook his head. “No way.”
Ryder was frowning. “Your accident on the Harley was what, five years ago?”
“Four. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly a chick magnet. I wasn’t even fit for service.” It bugged him that he hadn’t been able to go off and serve with Jamie.
But then, who would watch out for Sarah?
The only sound in the room was the ticking of the giant clock on the wall.
“Let it go, Ryan,” Stanley said with disgust. “That was an addle-brained stunt, racing Zack Deiter down the highway. You could have got yourself killed. But put all that behind you. There’s a lot more to being a man than walking straight.”
“Easy for you to say.” Getting up, Ryan stretched. Hours of bending over the work table or motorcycle engines made him stiff. “Time for some shut eye.”
“Don’t forget to come back with those cookies,” Stanley called out as Ryan made his way through the garage.
“Right.” Dragging himself up the stairs, Ryan felt uncomfortable about that conversation.
He didn’t like discussing Sarah like that.
When Jamie and Sarah were dating in high school, his mother had commented that Sarah was “too good to be true.” Maybe she was right.
Oh, she could talk tough with the boys but she was a cream puff underneath.
Ryan had made a promise to his brother, and he would watch out for Sarah. Even if it meant making cookies.