A Family Christmas. Carrie Alexander

by.

      Usually she tried to keep her mind blank during her bike rides. On this night, she found herself thinking about Evan and Lucy Grant. She knew very little about him—them. What she’d learned now that she was paying attention had only roused her curiosity further, but she couldn’t see herself asking around to learn more. That would be obvious and embarrassing.

      Her older brothers, Jake and Gary, had laughed and teased mercilessly when they found out she had a crush on Rick Lindstrom of the hotsy-totsy Bay Road Lindstroms. Later, in private, when she’d been spotted in Rick’s convertible and the gossips were slurring her name, sure that Rick was only interested in one thing, Jake had warned her away. He’d said that Rick was playing her.

      She hadn’t listened. And look where that had gotten her—alone and brokenhearted.

      Evan Grant would be another mistake. He wasn’t as far out of her league, but he was an upstanding citizen, in a position of influence, expected to hold to high moral standards. Regardless of the pity invite, he must have some idea of her reputation. Even if he was willing to buck expectations, she wasn’t.

      She always learned her lessons the first time. Her father had only had to hit her once before she knew to keep quiet and out of his way. And that one horrid encounter in the woods near the cottages had been enough to send her away from home for more than fifteen years….

      Her head filled with bad memories, Rose reached town before she knew it. The streets were vacant and quiet. The only businesses open at this time of night were the bars, thriving even without her father’s patronage. Black Jack had closed them down on frequent occasions before coming home to roar at his wife and children.

      Rose pedaled faster and faster, until she reached Blackbear Road, a country lane that led north out of town. A few farmhouses and newer ranch homes dotted the landscape. A big dog rushed down a driveway, barking as Rose whizzed by.

      The road sloped down toward the river. Finally she slowed and turned onto the driveway of her home, such as it was. The sign announcing Maxine’s Cottages was faded and worn, as it had been for as long as she could remember. There wasn’t much reason to replace it. Very soon the business would fold.

      Almost nothing would make Rose happier. Her mother could call her ungrateful all she wanted, but Rose had been anticipating the day as a righteous reprisal ever since she’d moved home.

      For now, she did as her mother wanted, and Maxine refused to close the cottages. Business had slowed to a trickle even before Black Jack’s death; now it came one drop at a time. These days, even the type of rough-and-tumble sportsmen they catered to expected more comfort and conveniences than the spartan stone cottages offered. While Rose did what she could, little money had been put into upkeep over the years and the place had deteriorated into a shabbiness that was a painful contrast to the natural beauty of the peaceful river setting.

      Maxine’s Cottages consisted of a central home and office surrounded by eight one- and two-room cabins perched along the Blackbear River. Rose lived in the farthest cottage, all her worldly possessions contained in its one room, with space to spare.

      Before going home, she stopped at the main house to check on her mother. It was a duty she bore with equal parts of exasperation and sympathy. Maxine Robbin had led a hard life—married to a hell-raiser at sixteen, often in bad health, scraping by for a living, putting up with Black Jack’s temper. The only break she’d ever had was when an uncle had died and left her the cottages.

      The door was unlocked. Rose scraped her shoes on the rubber welcome mat before entering. The Robbins’ house was not much bigger than the rentals—two bedrooms, a kitchen and an L-shaped combination living/dining area, with the cubbyhole office at the front. Rose’s brothers had shared the second bedroom. She, the youngest and reportedly an unexpected mistake, had been given a daybed in a curtained-off corner of the living area. Small wonder that as a girl she’d spent all her daylight hours outdoors—and even the nighttime ones whenever she was able to sneak out.

      At the sound of the door, Maxine’s querulous voice rose from the back bedroom. “Is that you, Rose? I dropped my clicker and I can’t find it. I’ve been lying here in misery, with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling. Why you had to pile my bed with all these extra blankets and pillows is beyond me.”

      Because if I hadn’t you’d be calling me back to complain about the hard mattress or the cold draft. Rose stopped outside the bedroom door and took a deep breath, wishing for the patience needed to deal with her mother.

      Black Jack’s dominating personality had turned Maxine into a mealy-mouthed complainer. Her voice was like a mosquito—an annoying high-pitched whine that went on and on for so long a body began hoping for the sting that would end it. Remembering that Maxine had been swatted down more often than any person should have to be was how Rose made it through each long day.

      Rustling sounds came from the bedroom. The mattress creaked. “Ohhh. It hurts so much I can’t get out of bed. My arthritis is acting up.”

      “I’m here.” Rose slipped into the bedroom and began straightening the blankets and picking up pillows. She found the remote control in the folds of the comforter and set it on the bedside table. “How was your evening, Mom? Did Alice stop by?”

      “She brought a store-bought coffee cake that tasted like gravel. Came carrying tales, of course. You know Alice.” Maxine shrugged bony shoulders. She’d always been a petite woman, but illness and worry had shrunk her to a wizened, sallow shadow. At fifty-six, she was old before her time.

      She droned on about Alice’s gossip, finishing with, “As if I give two hoots what the ladies of the book club or the guests at Bay House have gotten up to.”

      Rose smiled to herself as she continued straightening the room. One of her mother’s remaining pleasures was a good gab with Alice Sjoholm, who was kind enough to look in on Maxine when Rose was at work. But it simply wasn’t in Maxine’s makeup to admit to any enjoyment.

      “At least Alice is someone to talk to,” Maxine said. “I get zilch outta you.”

      “I have nothing to talk about. You know that not much happens at the Buck Stop. It’s a drudge job.”

      Maxine snorted. “That scarred hermit Noah Saari was coming into the store and you never said a word until I heard from Alice that he was courting some fancy gal at Bay House.” Maxine tilted her head, eyes narrowing at Rose. “You always were a Miss Butter-Won’t-Melt-in-Her-Mouth. Such a sneaky child, running off into the woods and keeping secrets.”

      “I wonder why,” Rose muttered.

      “Eh? What’s that?”

      Rose sniffed the air. The ashtray on the bureau was wiped clean, but when she checked beneath the tissues in the wastebasket she found black residue and several stubbed-out cigarettes.

      “Mom.” Rose let out a big sigh. “You’ve been smoking again.”

      Maxine went into instant-whine mode. “I’m all alone. I get nervous at night.”

      “You know you can’t smoke with the oxygen tank in the room. You’ll blow yourself to smithereens!”

      “Then take it out of here.” Maxine gave the tank beside the bed a disdainful glance before she drooped into a familiar, imploring pose. “Don’t yell at me, Rose. Shouldn’t I be able to do what I please, now that your father is gone? Bless his soul.”

      Rose knew quite well that her mother was using emotional blackmail. Even so, she couldn’t seem to stop the rush of pity that often became capitulation.

      Maxine had an advanced stage of emphysema. She could still get around, though she often preferred not to, and her doctors had said that with vigilant care she might have years to live. A stronger person would have become determined to enjoy their remaining time, but Maxine was too cowed to fight. And she’d soon realized that the illness was a surefire way to keep hold of her only daughter and manipulate Rose to her bidding.

      Maxine’s wants were simple enough, if wearing,