Christmas In Mustang Creek. Maisey Yates

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...

      “Let’s go sit down. I’ve made tea.”

      The routine was familiar and therefore comforting. Smiling, she glanced over at Aunt Geneva’s treasured antique teacups, lined up on a shelf next to the mantel.

      “Everything here is so nice,” Charlotte said honestly, noticing framed pictures of her at various ages on the walls. The sight made her throat constrict again. “Do you like it?”

      Her aunt looked thoughtful as she went straight to the green chair, a book propped on one cushioned arm. “Well, let me put it this way. It’s restful. I don’t think I realized how anxious I was until I moved here. Before that, I used to wake up in the middle of the night, more often than I like to remember, and wonder if I turned off the stove or locked the doors or made sure the cat was inside.” She stopped speaking, just long enough to bite her lower lip. “I forgot my medication now and then, nothing drastic, but still not good. I probably fed Mutley ten times a day because I lost track of whether I’d done it or not and I didn’t want him going hungry. One night I let him out and forgot to let him back in. It was cold. The next morning there he was, shivering on the porch.” Moisture glistened in her eyes for a moment. “I’d like to think I’m smart enough to know when I need help. The doctor says I’m suffering from a mild case of dementia, and I don’t disagree. Let’s face it, honey, I’m no spring chicken. Let me put it this way. I no longer want to live alone.”

      It was a practical attitude, but one that Charlotte found hard to accept. Geneva seemed so entirely normal.

      And she clearly missed Mutley and Can-Can.

      Pets were allowed at the retirement center, Charlotte knew, but that didn’t mean Geneva was up to taking care of them.

      She perched on the edge of the couch, folding her hands, choosing her words carefully. “I’m back now,” she began. “We could—”

      “No, we can’t,” her aunt interrupted kindly, but with conviction. “I won’t have you putting your own life on hold, Charlotte. I do pretty well most days, although I need extra care. Besides, you’ll have your hands full with that big old house. It needs a new roof, by the way.”

      Charlotte nodded, smiling. “Yeah,” she said. “I’ve known about that for a while.”

      “I think the furnace is from the Roosevelt era,” Aunt Geneva remarked, pouring tea for both of them and picking up her cup. “It was installed some time during his third term, if I remember correctly. If it quits, go down to the cellar and give it a good kick. So far, it’s holding up, but that’s not going to last indefinitely.”

      Charlotte laughed. “I love you,” she said.

      “Not as much as I love you,” Aunt Geneva retorted on cue. It was an old game. “Now, tell me what’s been going on with you. How’s what’s-his-name? The veterinarian.”

      “You know perfectly well that we broke up a long time ago. And you also know his name is Jaxon.”

      “I was so sure he was the one,” she mused sadly.

      Charlotte sighed. “He’s actually here in Mustang Creek.”

      Aunt Geneva looked delighted. “I knew it! Oh, I am so going to win that bet with Millicent Klozz.”

      What?

      “You two bet on my love life?” Charlotte was laughing again, but still chagrined. “Or lack thereof? No wonder Millicent knew his name.”

      Aunt Geneva waved a frail hand. “So he’s in town. What happens next?”

      There was only one answer. “I have no idea.”

      * * *

      IF THE CHOICE was either to share a couch with a bloodhound or move into a Christmas-card house like this one, well, no contest. Unfortunately, things weren’t that simple.

      The complication? Charlie.

      Despite the cold, Jax paused on the snowy sidewalk to take it all in.

      He’d seen pictures of the old place, of course, and Charlie had told him dozens of stories, but this was his first actual, real-time visit.

      So he savored the moment, admired the wraparound porch, the ornate front door, the shutters, the gables and arches. A picket fence surrounded the