Debbie Macomber - Home for Christmas

Nicole opened the passenger door and straightened. “Cal was kind enough to give me a job recommendation for Tumbleweed Books.”

“Annie phoned and asked if I knew her,” Cal muttered under his breath, minimizing his role.

“I hope you like taco casserole,” Nicole said, holding a glass dish with both hands. “I figured something Mexican would be a good bet, since you seem to enjoy it.”

“How’d she know that?” Glen asked, glaring at his brother.

“We met at the Mexican Lindo the other night,” Cal supplied, figuring the news was better coming from him than Nicole.

“You did, did you?” Glen said, his eyes filled with meaning.

“I tried to buy his dinner,” Nicole explained, “but Cal wouldn’t let me.”

Cal suspected his brother had misread the situation. “We didn’t have dinner together if that’s what you’re thinking,” he snapped. He was furious with Glen, as well as Nicole, for putting him in such an awkward position.

Holding the casserole, Nicole headed toward the house.

“I can take it from here,” Cal said.

“Oh, it’s no problem. I’ll put it in the oven for you and get everything started so all you need to do is serve yourself.”

She made it appear so reasonable. Unsure how to stop her, Cal stood in the doorway, arms loose at his sides. Dammit, he felt like a fool.

“There’s plenty if Glen would like to stay for dinner,” Nicole added, smiling at Cal’s brother over her shoulder.

“No, thanks,” Glen said pointedly, “I’ve got a wife and family to go home to.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Nicole said, her expression sympathetic. “Cal’s wife and children are away, and he’s left to fend for himself.”

“I don’t need anyone cooking meals for me,” Cal said, wanting to set her straight. This hadn’t been his idea. Bad enough that Nicole had brought his dinner; even worse that she’d arrived when his brother was there to witness it.

“Of course you don’t,” Nicole agreed. “This is just my way of thanking you for welcoming me home to Promise.”

“Are you actually going to let her do this?” Glen asked, following him onto the porch.

Cal hung back. “Dovie brought me some dinner recently,” he said, defending himself. “Savannah, too.”

“That’s a little different, don’t you think?”

“No,” he snapped. “Nicole’s just doing something thoughtful, the same as Dovie and Savannah.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m not going to stand out here and argue with you,” Cal muttered, especially since he agreed with his brother and this entire setup made him uncomfortable. If she’d asked his preference, Cal would have told Nicole to forget it. He was perfectly capable of preparing his own meals, even if he had little interest in doing so. He missed Jane’s dinners—but it was more than the food.

Cal was lonely. He’d lived by himself for several years and now he’d learned, somewhat to his dismay, that he no longer liked it. At first it’d been the little things he’d missed most—conversation over dinner, saying good-night to his children, sitting quietly with Jane in the evenings. Lately, though, it was everything.

“I’ll be leaving,” Glen said coldly, letting Cal know once again that he didn’t approve of Nicole’s being here.

“I’ll give you a call later,” Cal shouted as Glen got into his truck.

“What for?”

His brother could be mighty dense at times. “Never mind,” Cal said, and stepped into the house.

Nicole was already in the kitchen, bustling about, making herself at home. He found he resented that. “I’ve got the oven preheating to 350 degrees,” she said, facing him.

He stood stiffly in the doorway, anxious to send her on her way.

“As soon as the oven’s ready, bake it for thirty minutes.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“Oh, I nearly forgot.”

She hurried toward him and it took Cal an instant to realize she wanted out the door. He moved aside, but not quickly enough to avoid having her brush against him. The scent of her perfume reminded him of something Jane might wear. Roses, he guessed. Cal experienced a pang of longing. Not for Nicole, but for his wife. It wasn’t right that another woman should walk into their home like this. Dammit, Jane should be here, not Nicole—or anyone else.

“I left the sour cream and salsa in the car,” Nicole said breathlessly when she returned. She placed both containers on the table, checked the oven and set the glass dish inside. “Okay,” she said, rubbing her palms together. “I think that’s everything.”

Cal remained standing by the door, wanting nothing so much as to see her go.

She pointed to the oven. “Thirty minutes. Do you need me to write that down?”

He shook his head and didn’t offer her an excuse to linger.

“I’ll stay if you like and put together a salad.”

He shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

She smiled sweetly. “In that case, enjoy.”

This time when she left, Cal knew to stand far enough aside to avoid any physical contact. He watched her walk back to her car, aware of an overwhelming sense of relief.

Life at the retirement center suited Phil Patterson. He had his own small apartment and didn’t need to worry about cooking. The monthly fee included three meals a day. He could choose to eat alone in his room or sit in the dining room if he wanted company. Adjusting to life without Mary hadn’t been easy—wasn’t easy now—but he kept active and that helped. So did staying in touch with friends. Particularly Frank Hennessey. Gordon Pawling, too. The three men played golf every week.

Frank’s wife, Dovie, and Mary had been close for many years, and in some ways Mary’s death had been as hard on Dovie as it was on Phil. At the end, when Mary was no longer able to recognize either of them, Phil had sat and wept with his wife’s dear friend. He hadn’t allowed himself to break down in front of either of his sons, but felt no such compunction when he was around Dovie. She’d cried with him, and their shared grief had meant more than any words she might have said.

Frank and Dovie had Phil to dinner at least once a month, usually on the first Monday. He thought it was a bit odd that Frank had issued an invitation that afternoon when they’d finished playing cards at the seniors’ center.

“It’s the middle of the month,” Phil protested. “I was over at your place just two weeks ago.”

“Do you want to come for dinner or not?” Frank said.

Only a fool would turn down one of Dovie’s dinners. That woman could cook unlike anyone he knew. Even Mary, who was no slouch when it came to preparing a good meal, had envied Dovie’s talent.

“I’ll be there,” Phil promised, and promptly at five-thirty, he arrived at Frank and Dovie’s, a bouquet of autumn flowers in his hand.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Dovie said when she greeted him, kissing his cheek lightly.

Phil immediately caught a whiff of something wonderful—a blend of delightful aromas. He smelled bread fresh from the oven and a cake of some sort, plus the spicy scent of one of her Cajun specialties.

Frank and Phil settled down in the living room and Dovie soon joined them, carrying an appetizer plate full of luscious little things. A man sure didn’t eat this well at the retirement center, he thought. Good thing, too, or he’d be joining the women at their weekly weight-loss group.

Phil helped himself to a shrimp, dipping it in a spicy sauce. Frank opened a bottle of red wine and brought them each a glass.

They chatted amiably for several minutes, but Phil knew something was on Dovie’s mind—the same way he always knew when Mary was worried about one thing or another. Phil had an inkling of what it was, too, and decided to break the ice and make it easier for his friends.