A Christmas Miracle. Anna Adams

wood smoke filtered into the car. He breathed deep.

      The woods closed in around him, but he didn’t feel suffocated. He could imagine Fleming running through this almost-winter landscape, her red hair flashing between the trees, her flight as impetuous as her conversation.

      If he hadn’t come to Bliss to make the lives of several of its citizens miserable, he might better be able to enjoy the beauty of this home he’d never known. Already, down in town, city workers had begun to string holiday lights between lampposts on the streets. A huge Christmas tree was being decorated on the circular concrete piazza in front of the courthouse.

      Blinking lights in the woods suggested he’d reached Fleming’s place even before his GPS told him to turn. He found her driveway just as the voice in his car gave directions.

      Fleming had set up floodlights that shone on the old-fashioned wraparound porch fronting her small farmhouse. She’d looped a strand of Christmas lights along the railing and started on the roof ledge, as well. Smoke curled out of the chimney, gathering above the roofline.

      He parked in front of her garage and got out of his car, bringing the ubiquitous tablet with him. His feet crunched on gravel. He breathed deeply the scents of fire and fallen leaves.

      Funny how he missed familiar city smells, the occasional stench of garbage on the sidewalk and honking cars.

      The door opened and Fleming came out, wrapping her arms around herself against the cold.

      “Thanks for coming out here,” she said.

      “You’re in the middle of putting up decorations?”

      “I stopped when I couldn’t see the roof well enough to find the nails from last year. And I have to wrap packages tonight.”

      “Already? They start Christmas early around here.”

      He started up the stairs. Her smile as he reached her warmed him, and he couldn’t help wondering how many women had met their men at this door. This little farmhouse had been here a long time.

      “Come in.” She reached for his coat as they went inside. “Would you like coffee? A drink? Some cocoa? I have a recipe from my mother. Best hot cocoa ever.”

      “I’ve heard that.” He nodded.

      “That’s funny. The details of gossip in my town...” Smiling, she stopped in the living room, where she scooped the files she’d carried into his office from beneath a pile of wrapped packages.

      “What are you doing there?” he asked.

      “They’re for a women-and-children’s shelter in town. We used to ask donors to wrap them, but sometimes the gifts weren’t appropriate, or someone would give a slightly used present. We’re grateful for anything for the shelter, but at this time of year, we like the children to remember how special they are, and a new gift seems to send that message more strongly.”

      Jason usually gave his assistant a list for his family, and asked her to do the angel gifts some of the department stores offered. “I’ll try not to keep you long,” he said, following her into the kitchen, a clean gray-blue room that somehow wrapped him in warmth.

      A couple of candles scented the air with a faint fragrance of apple, one on the quartz counter and one on the butcher-block island. The flames reflected off the white tiles above the wide sink.

      “Have a seat.” She motioned toward the stools around the island as she began gathering ingredients. “Or there at the table, if you prefer.”

      He glanced toward the long, rustic table that fronted a wall of windows. It was too dark now to see the trees.

      “You don’t need drapes or curtains out here,” he said.

      “Not on this side of the house, anyway. I probably don’t on the front, either.” She glanced at him with a rueful grin. “Wednesday night was the first time I’ve felt anxious in here since I was a teenager.”

      “I’m sorry for what happened.”

      “Not your fault.” She shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m not blaming you. I felt foolish for being afraid.”

      “No one’s ever attacked you at work?” he asked ruefully.

      She turned from the fridge, holding a carton of milk. “I hope it’s not a common thing for you?”

      “I was being sarcastic.”

      “Good.” She poured milk into a saucepan on the stove, but then came to the island and opened her folders. “Help yourself,” she said, too trustingly. “I think I have everything.”

      “Let me check these figures, and then we’ll go over the offer I have. If these numbers look different, I’ll change things as we go.”

      She hesitated. “I guess, but Mr. Paige sounded that certain, too, and he turned out to be...”

      “I’m not Paige.”

      She blushed so easily, as if she was as honest and innocent as she sounded.

      Jason shook his head, glad when she went back to the stove. He had to halt this attraction now. No more noticing the soft, vulnerable line of her jaw, the richness of her voice. The way she made him feel welcome and wanted, and then was frank enough to admit she might not trust his motives.

      She reached for a knob on the stove and a gas flame whooshed beneath the saucepan. The domesticated scene should have put him on his guard. This would normally be the moment he remembered an early meeting or some task he’d forgotten.

      He dragged his attention to the tablet, swiping the screen with more firmness than necessary. While Fleming worked, he did, too. His rage at Paige grew, as it did every time he studied one of these files.

      “What kind of guy comes to a town like this and robs the people most in need of honest lending?”

      “You mean because I’m barely making ends meet?”

      “Well.” Jason sat back, folding his arms. “Yes. You were a mark to him.”

      “You know that’s not a compliment, right?” She pulled her red silicone spoon out of the saucepan and used a quilted mitt to lift the pan and pour hot chocolate into a tall, wide-mouthed cup.

      “It just means I know you can’t afford to be cheated.”

      “But you’re asking me to refinance.” She filled the other cup, this one as bright red as Santa’s gift bag.

      “With terms that won’t drive you into foreclosure,” Jason said.

      “So I’m about to take on greater debt again?”

      “Not in the long run.” He took the mug she handed him, warmed by her touch. She didn’t seem to notice him react. “And I hate to suggest this, but you can refinance again when your circumstances improve.”

      “If they do. If I keep starting over with a new loan, I’ll never be able to retire.”

      Jason laughed, but then hoped she meant it as a joke.

      She took the saucepan back to the sink and quickly washed it. “This choice isn’t intuitive.”

      She didn’t have much of a choice. Not for the first time, he wished he could make things easier. Not just for her, but mostly for her.

      “You’re quiet,” she said.

      “I normally make a plan that will allow a business to succeed. By the time the hard decisions start, I’m on to the next job. Maybe this is why I prefer it that way. I don’t like to see your fear or anyone else’s.”

      “I understand you have a job you need to do,” she said, “but my mom opened this store when I was a child. We used to make a good living. I’m not sure what’s gone wrong, but I do know that the store saved us from poverty. She scraped together the original money and persuaded suppliers