Kathleen O'Brien - Christmas in Hawthorn Bay

Of the three, being Colin’s mom was by far the toughest.

At least it was this week. Last week, when the Hawthorn Bay City Council had been sued by a recently fired male secretary claiming sexual discrimination, mayor had been at the top of Nora’s tough list.

Luckily, Nora had kept some of the secretary’s letters, all of which began Deer Sir. She produced them at her deposition, explaining that she didn’t give a hoot whether their secretaries were male, female or Martian, as long as they could spell.

The lawyers withdrew the suit the next day.

Now if only she could make this problem with Colin go away as easily. But she had a sinking feeling that it was going to prove much thornier.

She put the blackberries and pectin on to boil—she had orders piled up through next Easter, so she couldn’t afford a full day off. She read the letter from Colin’s teacher while she stirred.

Cheating.

Fighting.

Completely unrepentant.

These weren’t words she ordinarily heard in connection with Colin. He wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot. He was a mischievous rascal and too smart for his own good. But he wasn’t bad.

This time, though—

“Nora, thank heaven you’re home!” Stacy Holtsinger knocked on the back door and opened it at the same time. She was practically family, after eight years as business partner and best friend, and she didn’t bother with ceremony much anymore.

Nora folded the letter and slid it into the pocket of the World’s Greatest Mom apron Colin had given her for her birthday. “Where else would I be, with all these orders to fill? Out dancing?”

Stacy, a tall brunette with a chunky pair of tortoiseshell glasses that she alternately used as a headband, a pointer or a chew toy, but never as glasses, went straight to the refrigerator and got herself a bottled water. She wanted to lose ten pounds by Christmas and was convinced she could flood them out on a tidal wave of H 2O.

Nora thought privately that Stacy would look emaciated if she lost any more weight, but the water sure did give her olive skin a gorgeous glow. She wondered if Stacy had her eye on a new man. She hoped so.

“Well,” Stacy said, raking her glasses back through her hair as she slipped onto a stool, “you could be down at city hall, I guess, trying to knock sense into those Neanderthals. Which would be disastrous right now, because I need you to make an executive decision about the new labels.”

Nora groaned as she added the sugar to the blackberries. Her mind was already packed to popping with decisions to make. What to do about the latest city-council idiocy—trying to claim eminent domain over Sweet Tides, the old Killian estate by the water? What to do about that crack in her living-room wall, which might be the foundation settling, something she could not afford to fix right now?

And, hanging over everything, like a big fat thundercloud—what to do about Colin?

“Labels are your side of the business.” The berries were just about ready. Nora pulled out the tablespoon she’d kept waiting in a glass of cold water, and dropped a dollop of the jam on it. Rats. Not quite thick enough.

“Come on, Nora. Please?”

Nora looked over her shoulder. “Stacy, do I consult you about whether to buy Cherokee or Brazos? What to do if the jam’s too runny? No. I make the product, you figure out how to sell it, remember?”

“Yeah, but—” Stacy held up a proof sheet. “This is a really big change. And I drew the artwork myself. I’m sorry. I’m weak. I need reassurance.”

Nora put the spoon down. It was probably true. Stacy was one of the most attractive and capable women Nora knew, but her self-esteem had flat-lined about five years ago when her husband had left her, hypnotized by the dirigible-shaped breasts of their twenty-year-old housekeeper.

Zach was a fool—although rumor had it he was a happy fool, having discovered that The Dirigible was into threesomes with her best friend, whom Stacy had dubbed The Hindenburg.

“Okay.” Nora wiped her hands. “Show me.”

Nora would have said she loved it no matter what, but luckily the new label was gorgeous. Done in an appropriate palette of plums, purples, roses and blues—all the best berry colors—it showed a young beauty on a tree swing, with a house in the background that was the home of everyone’s fantasies—wide, sunny porch, rose-twined columns and lace curtains fluttering at cheerful windows.

Everyone wished they’d grown up in that house.

But Nora really had.

She looked up at Stacy. “You used the real Heron Hill?”

The other woman nodded. “You don’t mind, do you? I changed it a little, so that no one could sue or anything. But it is the ultimate dream house, don’t you think? It was our business name before you sold the house, and we’ve worked that out legally with the new owners, so—” She broke off, fidgeting with her glasses. “I mean…you really don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not.” Nora smiled. She’d been born at Heron Hill. And Colin had spent his first few years there. It had indeed been the dream house. But when her father had died, and Nora discovered that the Carson fortune was somewhat overrated, she and her mother had decided to sell it.

Heron Hill was now a very popular local bed-and-breakfast. Nora’s mother had moved to Florida last year, so she didn’t have to pine over the loss. It stung Nora, though, sometimes, when she passed it and spotted a stranger standing at the window of her old bedroom. But whenever that happened, she just reminded herself of the big fat trust fund they’d set up for Colin with the proceeds from the house, and she’d walk on by, with her chin up and no regret.

“The label is gorgeous,” she said. “It will sell so well I won’t be able to keep up with the demand.”

“Great. I’ll tell the printers today.” Stacy tucked the proof back into its protective folder and gazed happily up at Nora. “Now, can I return the favor? I haven’t a clue whether Cherokee or Brazos blackberries taste better, but I do have a breakdown of their sales figures for the past three years, which might—”

Nora laughed. “No, no, I’ve got that part covered. But I—I could use some advice about Colin. He’s gotten himself into some trouble, and I’m not sure how to handle it.”

Stacy raised one eyebrow. “Colin’s in trouble? Trouble he can’t charm his way out of? I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

Nora knew that wasn’t just empty flattery. With his curly black hair, big blue eyes and dimpled smile, Colin was already so handsome and winning that most adults couldn’t stay mad, no matter what he did. He’d get caught right in the act of something devilish, like the time he’d learned the signs for several off-color words and had the class rolling out of their seats with laughter while his poor teacher tried to figure out what the joke was. Or the time he and a few friends had fiddled with the school’s front marquee and changed the phrase We Love Our Students to We Love Our Stud Nest.

Both times, Colin had apologized so humbly—even, in a nice touch, using the sign for ashamed—that the principal had ended up praising his honesty instead of kicking him out of class.

“I know, but this time it’s different,” Nora said. The jam was ready, and she began to pour it into the sterilized jars she had lined up on the central island. This little house, which she’d bought after selling Heron Hill, wasn’t much to look at, but it had a fantastic kitchen.

“Different how?”

Nora sighed. “They say he and Mickey Dickson cheated on their math test.”

Stacy raised her brows. “What? He hates Mickey Dickson. Heck, I hate Mickey Dickson. Sorry, I know he’s some kind of cousin of yours, but the kid is a brat. And an idiot. I take it Mickey cheated off Colin’s paper, not vice versa?”