Sheila Roberts - The Lodge on Holly Road

“I hope we’ll see you around,” he said, and then felt instantly guilty. That had been...too friendly. His wife had been gone only a year. He had no right to be smiling at a woman, taking in her generous curves. Her breasts.

His thoughts traveled back to Faith’s mastectomy. A double. She’d mourned the loss of her breasts, but he’d just been glad to have her alive, still with him. Who cared about the breasts? Of course, she’d talked about reconstructive surgery and that had made him nervous. Even though it was a common procedure, what if something happened?

Something had happened. She’d barely gotten her new breasts when the damned cancer came back, this time in her spine. He’d nursed her the best he could, tried to learn to cook. But his specialty had remained heating soup. Thank God they’d had friends who brought over hot dishes. Thank God for his daughter. He wished he was thanking God that his wife was still alive.

Now the voices were getting nearer. Santa was in no mood to see anybody. He grabbed Brooke’s suitcase and marched for the elevator.

She hurried after him, catching up with him just as the doors opened. As they stepped off the elevator and walked under the archway toward the hall where their rooms were, she said, “Oh, look. Mistletoe.”

That made him even grumpier. But it wouldn’t do to be grumpy when he was with his daughter and she’d gone to so much trouble to make their Christmas good. “Well, then, I’d better kiss my angel,” he said, and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

She hugged him back. “We’re going to have fun.”

“Yes, we are,” he lied.

“Look!” came a childish voice from the lobby. “There he is.”

Crap. “Okay, let’s go,” he said, and picked up his pace.

* * *

“I saw him!” Lalla cried, pointing to the third landing. “He was right there and he was kissing a lady.”

If he was on the third-story landing, he was gone now. The kids would love it if there was somebody here playing Santa Claus. Missy hadn’t taken them to the mall to see Santa yet and she’d love to get their pictures taken with him.

Of course, they’d written letters to Santa. She’d helped Lalla write hers and it had read, “Dear Santa, I love you. Please bring me a grandma. My grandma is in heaven with the angels and can’t bake me cookies or read me stories. Merry Christmas. We will try to make you some cookies if Mommy can buy some cookie mix.” They hadn’t gotten around to the cookies, but Missy had assured Lalla that Santa would bring her something, anyway.

Carlos hadn’t been quite so loving in his letter. He’d written it himself and it was short and to the point. “Dear Santa, if you kant bring me a dog furgit it. Merry Kristmas, Carlos.” Well, okay, so Santa wouldn’t come through. They’d still have fun.

How could they not? She looked around the huge, beautifully decorated lobby. The carpet was dated but in pristine condition with a muted floral pattern. Sturdy ornate furniture gathered around a big fireplace on the back wall, impressive with its style and the carving on the mantelpiece. The fireplace was laid with wood, ready to be lit, and Missy could envision herself standing in front of it. A grouping of three large potted poinsettias sat on the coffee table and two wingback chairs flanked it. A baby grand piano occupied space in one corner and Missy knew from what she’d read on the website that later that evening someone would be seated at that piano, giving the guests a concert. But best of all was the antique sleigh sitting front and center in the lobby. It was decorated with red ribbon and greens and filled with presents and teddy bears. Some delicious aroma hung in the air, bringing the promise of cookies.

“Well, aren’t you two the most beautiful children ever,” the woman at the reception desk greeted them. “What are your names?”

“I’m Lalla. I’m named after a Orca princess.” Lalla pointed to her tiara.

“Moroccan princess,” Missy corrected her, and Lalla nodded vigorously.

“Of course. Anyone can see you’re a princess,” said the woman.

That was the plan, always had been, from the moment Missy learned she was having a girl. She’d picked the name, not just because of her daughter’s mixed ethnicity and skin color, but because she wanted Lalla to know she was special and to grow up confident that she could become anything she wanted. There would be no low self-esteem in her family. No, sir.

“This is Carlos,” Lalla continued. “He doesn’t believe in Santa.”

The woman put a hand to her heart. “Oh, dear. I’d better not tell Santa that. It will hurt his feelings. You know, Icicle Falls is his favorite place to visit,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“I saw him,” Lalla said eagerly. “Who are you?”

“I’m Olivia Wallace, and this is my home. I hope you’ll enjoy staying with us. We have you and your family in 205,” she said, addressing both Missy and John, who’d been standing next to Missy, enjoying the show. She handed a little envelope with the keycards to John.

He turned red from his neck to the tips of his ears. “Um, we’re not really together. We just, uh, met on the way up.”

Olivia flushed. “Oh, excuse me.”

“John put the chains on my car,” Missy told her.

“Well, that was nice. It’s good to see that chivalry is still alive and well,” Olivia said approvingly.

“It sure is,” Missy agreed. “Okay, guys, let’s go see our room,” she said to the kids. They were off with a whoop, racing for the stairs. “And don’t run,” she called, trailing after them with their bags.

She was still within earshot, so she heard Olivia say to John, “Now, there’s a sweet young woman.”

“Yeah, she’s pretty nice,” John said.

He thought she was pretty nice. She thought he was pretty nice, too. Pity he wasn’t in the market for a woman.

Except that even if he was, a classy guy like that who drove a nice car and not an old beater wouldn’t want to hang out with a girl like her, someone who lived in a dumpy neighborhood, shopped at Goodwill and garage sales and fed her kids mac and cheese from a box. At least she didn’t smoke anymore. She’d kicked that habit and was already saving money as a result. Still, she’d never make enough to put her in his class. Men like John dated girls who worked in offices and shopped at Nordstrom and Macy’s, girls who never got their hair done at inexpensive salons.

She frowned. It shouldn’t matter what a person wore or what sort of car she drove. It was what she was like on the inside that counted. And on the inside Missy was an office-working, Nordstrom-shopping, high-end-salon kind of woman. Someday, someday soon, she’d have the life to prove it. And meanwhile, she was staying at a classy place and giving her kids a classy Christmas. So there, she concluded, lifting her chin. That chin-lifting stuff wasn’t such a good idea, made it hard to see the stairs. She tripped, and her suitcase slid down a couple of steps. Oops. She grabbed it and kept on going, her cheeks burning. Nordstrom on the inside, she told herself.

* * *

John watched out of the corner of his eye as Missy Monroe and her kids went up the stairs. He wondered if Missy was seeing someone, if there was some man hoping to step into her ready-made family. There had to be someone. She was too cute and too sweet to be totally on her own.

Although if she was seeing someone, he probably would’ve come up here with her. After all, who did Christmas alone?

None of your business, he reminded himself as Olivia gave him his keycard.

“You’re in 207,” she informed him.

Right next door to the Monroe family. For a millisecond he wondered if he wanted to be that close to Missy and company. He felt a little like an alcoholic who’d just been offered a bottle of twenty-year-old Scotch.