Linda Miller - Christmas In Mustang Creek

Nate had emerged from the building at that moment and stopped by the truck, looking at him with amusement.

Jax rolled down the window. “The husky okay?”

“Husky is fine. Everything okay with you?”

“Not sure,” Jax said, scratching his jaw. “I think a little old lady just railroaded me. I might not need your couch, but don’t lend it to anyone else yet. Not all the parties involved have weighed in.”

“Okay. If it doesn’t work out, just walk in, shove off the dog if you can manage it because he weighs about a hundred and fifty and settle down with a pillow.”

Jax had to laugh. “Rufus sounds like quite the watchdog.”

“He’s conscientious in his own way. He barks if he can see the bottom of his food bowl. You could steal my car and he’d sleep through it, but try to take his bowl. And if you end up with no place to stay, remember that Rufus can sleep on the floor.” He went to his SUV, got in and waved cheerfully as he drove out of the parking lot.

Jax planned on getting a dog of his own someday. A midsize animal, maybe a beagle mix. Beagles barked a lot, even bayed now and then, but they were sweet tempered, good around kids and well mannered in general, although you had to keep an eye on them where low-lying food was concerned, because they were unabashed thieves.

Family friendly, though.

Jax chuckled, shook his head. Must be the season—he seemed to be thinking about settling down a lot.

Family friendly.

Really?

He needed to talk to Charlie.

4

Charlotte walked up the front steps of the extended-care facility with a heavy heart.

It was an attractive place, cheerfully decorated for the upcoming holidays, with wide, ice-free sidewalks, a gazebo and a small pond with a fountain, out of service for the winter, of course. A seven-foot snowman stood near the main entrance, with one chunky arm raised in welcome. His eyes and mouth consisted of colorful buttons, and his nose was the customary carrot. To complete the look, Frosty sported a plaid neck scarf and a spiffy top hat.

For all that, it hurt to think of Aunt Geneva as a permanent resident, to acknowledge that when she came home, it would only be for a visit.

She’d always been a homebody.

On a brighter note, Charlotte came bearing gifts. She carried a quantity of baked goods that would lighten anybody’s mood, Scrooge and the Grinch included.

Mrs. Klozz had definitely outdone herself, loading Charlotte down with spritz, oatmeal chocolate chip, molasses and peanut butter cookies, and that was just for starters.

She’d gain ten pounds a week if Millicent kept baking like this.

She stepped inside, juggling her purse and the big box of goodies she’d come to deliver.

There was a reception desk with a smiling middle-aged woman behind it, and Christmas music played in the background. A large fragrant tree in the corner glittered with lights and ornaments, and there was a display of opened Christmas cards on the desk next to a guest registry.

“Good afternoon and happy holidays,” the receptionist chirped. “May I help you?”

“I’m here to see Geneva Roberts,” Charlotte explained, setting down the brightly colored box festooned with ribbons. She could swear it weighed about twenty pounds. “My aunt’s friend baked a few things for the staff and tenants.”

“Oh, that Mrs. Klozz!” the other woman cried joyously. “Isn’t she lovely? Everyone will be delighted when we serve afternoon coffee.” Her smile flashed as bright as the Christmas tree in the corner. She wore dangling earrings shaped like tiny elves in green suits, and her cotton scrubs were printed with lavish red poinsettias. “You must be Charlotte. Geneva talks about you all the time. Please sign in and I’ll give you a map of the facility and direct you to your aunt’s room.”

Although she’d chosen the place and made all the arrangements for Aunt Geneva’s admittance, Charlotte hadn’t actually seen the building in person until today. Despite the shiny brochures and high recommendations from the family doctor, she’d had moments of doubt. Along with a few disturbing dreams, in which she’d glimpsed dingy halls smelling of antiseptic and glum residents clad in gray, like characters in a Dickens novel.

The reality was more than reassuring.

Just the same, it was hard to imagine her aunt being truly happy anywhere but that big old house on Maple Street, where she tended her garden every summer. In the winter she’d sit and watch her “programs,” as she called them, knitting or crocheting, while Can-Can slept next to her on the sofa and Mutley lay curled up on the rug at her feet. Charlotte could barely recall the days when her aunt had worked as a bookkeeper for a local supermarket because she’d immediately cut back her hours to make sure she was there to see Charlotte off to school in the mornings and greet her when she came home every afternoon. That was when she’d started taking in sewing, specializing in wedding gowns and outfits for the bride’s attendants. Eventually, she’d worked from home full-time; as a seamstress, she was constantly in demand. Suddenly finding herself with a small child to raise couldn’t have been easy, but Geneva had certainly made it seem that way.

And there’d always been that big old house. Geneva and her sister, Charlotte’s mother, had been born and raised there, and she’d inherited the place while she was still fairly young. There’d never been a mortgage.

Now, through an arrangement Geneva had made long ago, ownership of the house would be transferred to Charlotte.

She had mixed feelings about that.

On the one hand, she knew she’d cherish the place, couldn’t have stood to see it sold, torn down or occupied by strangers. On the other, having the deed put in her name meant Aunt Geneva couldn’t manage the place anymore.

And that was sobering.

Furthermore, owning a house, especially an old one, was a responsibility. While she was fine for now, financially speaking, Charlotte would have to get another job sooner or later, and Mustang Creek wasn’t exactly a hotbed of opportunity. Another advertising job seemed unlikely.

But she’d worry about things like that once Christmas was past and the New Year’s glitter had been swept up. Not that she and Mrs. Klozz would be having a party with champagne and confetti. More like white-chocolate biscotti and maybe a splash of something decadent in their coffee.

Yeah, she could see the spritely Millicent Klozz going for that. Just once a year, but the gleam in her eyes said she was up for a little innocent mischief now and then.

Someday she’d have to pursue the question of how Mrs. K. and her aunt even knew each other.

“Down that hallway.” The receptionist pointed to the map. “Take the first turn to the right. Her room is D-25. We have staff popping in, just in case anyone needs anything, so you’ll have to pardon us if there’s an interruption to your visit. It’s why we’re here—to be of service.”

“I’m glad to know Aunt Geneva’s being looked after,” Charlotte responded in a genuinely grateful tone.

The room was easy enough to find, and Charlotte’s throat tightened when she saw the wreath on the door was the paper one she’d made in the fifth grade, battered after all these years but carefully preserved, with pieces of tape keeping it together. She had to stand there for a moment and compose herself before she knocked.

“Aunt Geneva?” she called tentatively.

When the door opened, the familiar face lit up in a smile of joyful recognition. “Charlotte Jean,” Geneva said, opening her arms. “You come here.”

Charlotte reciprocated her aunt’s warm hug 100 percent. To her relief, Geneva looked much the same, healthy, with a hint of pink in her cheeks, wearing a patterned pink top and white slacks, slippers instead of shoes. Her space was furnished with pieces brought from the house. The parlor table with the old lamp, that green chair, the faded rug under the coffee table...