The Man Under The Mistletoe. Muriel Jensen

allowed the boy to sample his buffalo wings. When he’d liked them, Matt had bought the boy his own order. Matt had insisted that it was the large banana shake that followed the wings that had made Chase sick most of the night, but Rosie had still blamed him.

      Matt walked into Rosie’s old room with some trepidation. After they were married, they’d shared this room whenever they stayed over, and there were memories connected to it he was reluctant to explore.

      But it was time. He’d tried not to think about her for the past eighteen months, and he’d been successful only a very small part of the time. So he’d pushed away all the good memories and let himself recall only how difficult those six months before he’d left had been. He’d remembered her as stiff and angry and inaccessible.

      This room, though, brought back all the delicious times before that when what ultimately happened to them would have seemed unimaginable.

      “Nobody stays here now,” Chase said, “but Grandma had all the windows open all day so it wouldn’t smell funny.”

      In the old days, he remembered, Rosie’s fragrance had been everywhere. A friend who worked in a cosmetics company in Boston had developed a personal fragrance for her and had started, of course, with roses. She’d added a list of spices Matt could never quite remember, but the end product pinpointed her personality to perfection—a soft sweetness with a surprising bite.

      Rosie must have been away from this room long enough that it no longer smelled of her, but her stamp lingered all the same. The walls were a terra cotta color, the woodwork a creamy beige. The bed, dresser and desk were light oak, and there were plants in colorful pots everywhere, standing on the hardwood floor, on surfaces, hanging near the curtainless bay window that looked out on to the lake.

      A window seat was upholstered in a shell-and-sea-birds pattern in shades of white and gold, and matched a wallpaper border that ran around the room near the ceiling. They’d made love on that window seat one night when they’d stayed up late to watch a meteor shower.

      “Grandma put some hangers in here for you.” Chase slid open one side of a wardrobe and pointed to the odd assortment of hangers on the rod. “Those fluffy ones are from her closet.” He pointed to a padded white silk hanger. “And the wooden ones are from my dad’s old closet.”

      Matt, opening his suitcase on the bed, turned to the boy, wondering if it hurt him to think about his father. But Chase simply smiled and pointed to two plastic hangers. “Those are from my room.”

      Chase had been only six at the time, and two years was probably like an eternity in the life of a child. He seemed remarkably well adjusted for a boy who’d endured such tragedy and was now growing up in the same house with Sonny.

      He was sure Sonny was a good woman. Though she didn’t relate to her daughters very well, Francie’s free spirit particularly, he had no doubt she loved them. And she’d always been kind and welcoming to him since the first time Rosie had brought him home. But she was the stiff and slightly superior product of a privileged background and a life he guessed had turned out to be less than she’d hoped for.

      She had appeared to have everything—beautiful home, handsome and successful children, an intelligent and successful husband loved by everyone. But there was always a certain disappointment in her eyes and in her manner, and everyone who loved her seemed willing to assume the blame for it.

      That had always intrigued him. He’s been an only child in the most dysfunctional family this side of a Jerry Springer marathon. His father had been addicted to drugs, his mother an alcoholic, and by the time he’d been taken away by the state at fourteen and put in foster care, his father was in prison for armed robbery. His mother died of liver failure not long afterward.

      But he’d never felt responsible for his parents’ lives the way the Erickson offspring felt responsible for their parents. Maybe it was because he hadn’t loved his. He’d wanted to, but neither had been sober or conscious long enough for him to really get to know them well enough to love them. Their bodies had been present, but no mind or heart for him to connect with.

      He’d grown up strong and self-sufficient, and mercifully philosophical about coping with the life he’d been given. But he’d been lonely. Sometimes very lonely. Then he’d met Rosie at a party and everything had changed. Life was no longer simply acceptable, but happy, fun, filled with hope. He’d moved to Maple Hill and gone to work for the Mirror.

      And then he’d lost it all again. He didn’t think he was to blame, but he had kept secrets from Rosie. When her emotional distance had made it impossible even to talk to her, he’d taken his secrets and left.

      The move had seemed like the noble thing to do at the time, but he’d wondered since if it had really been cowardice.

      That was something he intended to find out while he was here.

      Matt hung up the few things he’d brought, put socks and underwear in the highboy, then put a pair of dress shoes and his bag in the bottom of the closet.

      “What’s in here?” Chase asked, handing him the briefcase he’d carried up.

      “My laptop,” he replied, “and some stories I’m working on.” He took the briefcase and placed it beside the bag.

      “But that’s work.”

      “Yes. I thought if I needed something to do…”

      “But it’s Aunt Francie’s wedding. Grandma says she’s going to work everybody like slaves until it’s over.” The boy grinned happily. “Then she’s going away for a while and Aunt Rosie’s going to move in and stay with me until Grandma comes back. We’re gonna go to the movies and have pizza and take long walks around the lake. And sometimes she’s going to take me to the new arcade.”

      “Sounds like fun.” Long walks around the lake had once been his and Rosie’s specialty. They’d identified all the flora and fauna around the lake, had loved spotting any new ones. “But right now I guess it’s just you and me.”

      “That’s cool, too,” Chase said with enough enthusiasm to convince Matt that he meant it.

      At the Breakfast Barn, they found a booth near a window. Rita Robidoux, a redheaded, middle-aged woman who always knew what was happening in Maple Hill and why, brought them menus and glasses of water.

      “Well, will you look who’s here!” she exclaimed, grinning broadly at Matt. “Prue and Gideon Hale just got back together, you know. And now you just appear like a miracle. Goes to show you love’s catching. Where’s Rosie?”

      “Hi, Rita.” Matt smiled into her welcoming face. “That’s great about Prue and Gideon. I read that she had a fashion show in Boston. But unfortunately, unlike them, Rosie and I are still separated. I’m just here for Francie’s wedding.”

      Rita nodded skeptically over her order pad as though she knew better. “Yeah, that’s how it starts. Gideon came through on his way to Alaska and, well, you see how that turned out.”

      “That’s them, Rita. This is Rosie and me.” He shook his head. “So, what’s the special?”

      “Sirloin tips over noodles, comes with soup or salad and a roll. Or chicken-fried steak. Same deal.”

      Matt consulted Chase.

      Chase handed Rita his menu. “Hot buffalo wings, please, with blue-cheese dipping sauce, and…” He paused and turned to Matt. “It comes with celery, but I don’t like that. I usually get a side of coleslaw, but that’s extra.”

      “And a side of coleslaw for my friend,” Matt told Rita. “Same for me, except that I like the celery.”

      She wrote quickly. “Okay. And to drink?”

      “Coffee, please. Chase?”

      “Banana shake.”

      “Wait a minute.” Matt stopped Rita’s hand before she could write that down. He leaned toward Chase and asked quietly, “Are you