Christmas In Mustang Creek. Linda Miller Lael

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 spacious—make that huge—front yard, and Jax knew there was even more room around back. He knew about the big garden plot and the clotheslines and a couple of gnarled old apple trees, still producing fruit every summer.

      Jax sighed, suddenly wistful, opened the gate and started up the recently shoveled walk.

      Getting closer, he could see that the paint was peeling in a few places and the roof over the porch sagged.

      His knock was answered by an elderly woman who flung the door open wide and beamed at him.

      “Jaxon?”

      “Yes.”

      She wiped both hands on her apron and offered one that seemed to hold a slight dusting of flour. “I’m Millicent Klozz,” she said.

      “Yes,” he answered. “Hello.” Of course you are.

      Her smile was welcoming, and she stepped back, making a sweeping gesture with one arm. “Don’t stand out there in the cold,” she said cheerfully, raising her voice to be heard over the happy barking of the dog at her feet. “Come on in. You can choose your room.”

      He was being steamrollered, and he was letting it happen. Enjoying it, even. But he also knew he was playing along, although he wasn’t entirely sure why. He couldn’t just move in; Charlie, who couldn’t possibly know what was happening on the home front at the moment, would freak when she found out.

      And he wouldn’t blame her.

       Come on in. You can choose your room.

      Indeed.

      If he’d known Millicent better, and if she’d been about a hundred years younger, he would’ve quipped, “That’s easy. I’ll take Charlotte’s room.”

      He didn’t say that, of course.

      But he might as well have, because the sweet old lady answered as if he had. “Behave yourself, you rascal,” she mock-scolded,