Legacy of Love. Christine Johnson

No one of course referred to Brandon, on whose property they’d gathered the boughs and cones and dried flowers.

      “Mr. Brandon gave his permission. He even unlocked the garage doors so you could get a saw.”

      No matter how many times Ma reassured her, Anna still felt like a thief. They might live here, but only as guests.

      Just walking into the garage portion of the carriage house had felt like an invasion of his privacy. As a child she’d often wondered what lay inside the thick stone walls. How disappointing to discover it contained the same things as every other outbuilding. In former days carriages must have been parked where he now kept his automobile. Along one wall stood a tool bench with dozens of old tools hanging from nails that had been pounded into a board attached to the plastered stone wall.

      The plaster had been a surprise. It was to be expected in the apartment, but why would anyone plaster a garage? Yet someone in the past had done just that. Judging by the dingy film of dirt, dust and cobwebs, the plastering had been done years ago.

      Anna had found a rusty old handsaw that managed to cut through thick boughs after jerking the teeth back and forth against the wood.

      “I’m sorry I couldn’t cut a tree for us,” she apologized again to her mother.

      “We don’t need a big old tree in this little room. We’d never be able to walk around it. If you ask me, the branches are perfect. Smell the pine.”

      Anna inhaled deeply. The warmth of the fireplace had released the piney scent from the needles.

      “It’s wonderful,” Ma said from her perch before the fireplace, her head back and eyes closed. “That smell always makes me think of Christmas.” She chuckled, eyes still shut. “Remember when your father cut down that ten-foot-tall tree? He insisted on stuffing the thing into the living room. We had needles everywhere. I was still finding them in August.”

      “That must have been before I was born.”

      “I’m sure you were there, but maybe you were too little to remember.” Ma sighed. “Such good memories.”

      Anna hoped her mother didn’t get misty-eyed. “We’ll start new memories.”

      “Yes, we will. And keep some of the old. That reminds me. I promised we’d bring plum duff for dinner tomorrow.”

      “Plum duff?” Anna couldn’t hide her surprise. She loved the traditional steamed Christmas pudding, but Ma spent days preparing it. “There’s not enough time. The fruit has to be ripened.”

      Ma waved a hand. “Mariah mixed the fruit and nuts with the suet a week ago. She dropped it off this afternoon.”

      Anna looked around and saw nothing.

      “I had her take it to the kitchen. You’ll have plenty of time to mix the ingredients and steam it.”

      “Me?” Anna tried not to panic. “You want me to make it?”

      “It’s not that difficult. I wrote down the recipe. It’s on the table.”

      Anna glanced over to see that indeed Ma had jotted down her recipe. But knowing which ingredients to use wouldn’t ensure it turned out. Ma always said plum duff was temperamental.

      “It’s Saturday afternoon,” she pleaded, “and Brandon probably doesn’t have the ingredients.”

      Ma smiled sleepily. “I had him call in an order this morning. The mercantile should have delivered everything by now.”

      Anna’s jaw dropped. Ma had not only ordered items they couldn’t afford, she’d somehow managed to suck Brandon into her scheme. “How will we pay for this?”

      “Don’t fret. Mr. Brandon put it on his account.”

      “He did?” Anna choked. “Why would he do that? We’ll pay him back.”

      “Now don’t you go doing that. He insisted, wished us a merry Christmas. What a fine gentleman. He stopped by while you were cutting the boughs. He wanted to make sure you found everything you needed.”

      Anna struggled to piece together this very different picture of Brandon Landers. “He always seems so...gruff, like he’s angry with me.”

      Ma smiled softly. “The Lord puts people in our lives for a reason.”

      “Well, I can’t imagine why he put Brandon in ours.”

      “I’m sure you’ll find out one day. He’s such a nice man...” She yawned.

      Anna glanced outdoors. It must be nearly four o’clock. If they weren’t going to be up all night, they had to start the plum duff soon.

      “Ma, don’t fall asleep. I need your help.”

      Ma answered with a soft snore.

      Oh, dear. Baking had never been Anna’s strong suit. Making the plum duff without Ma’s help would be difficult. What if she burned it? Or got it too dry? What if... Her mind bounced through a hundred calamities. Worst of all, Brandon would come home in two hours and expect supper.

      “I can’t do it myself,” she pleaded. “Why did you tell everyone we’d bring plum duff?”

      Ma just snored.

      Hands shaking, Anna picked up the recipe. She’d have to try or there’d be no plum duff for Christmas Eve dinner.

      * * *

      Brandon heard the clatter the moment he stepped into the house. Something metal, he guessed. Pots and pans, most likely, considering the racket came from the direction of the kitchen.

      “Get out of there,” commanded a very tired and very upset female voice. Anna’s voice. “Get out!”

      His pulse quickened. Someone had broken into the house and was threatening her. Brandon raised his ebony cane to use as a weapon and headed for the kitchen. The room had a swinging door to assist with dinner service. He now realized this could be used to advantage. He pushed it open a crack to get the bearings of the intruder and prepared to whack the man over the head.

      He pressed his face close to the opening and peered into the well-lit room. From this vantage point, he could see only cupboards.

      Bang!

      “You horrible, stupid thing,” Anna exclaimed. “Why won’t you come out?”

      Come out? That didn’t sound like an intruder. Brandon let the door close and lowered the cane. Maybe she’d found a mouse. It was entirely possible, given the age and dilapidation of the house. At least she wasn’t screaming at the top of her lungs. He admired that in a woman. It would be more difficult to play the hero, though, since a mouse could easily outmaneuver a man with a bad foot.

      A thundering crash came from inside the kitchen, followed by Anna’s cry of despair. “I give up.”

      He thought he heard a sob. He definitely smelled something acrid. Smoke wafted out of the kitchen. That had better not be supper, or he’d be eating crackers tonight. Annoyed, he pushed on the door, intending to have a word with her, but before he got it halfway open, Anna gave out a little sob.

      “Why do I have to ruin everything?”

      Her plea wrenched his heart. Poor girl. The oil stove must have overheated. It hadn’t been used regularly in years. The oil lines might have gummed up or the valves stuck. He could do without supper for one night.

      He opened the door to see what could only be described as an explosion. Flour and bits of dark brown goo covered the stove and worktable. Anna sat at the table, dejected, head buried in her hands.

      “What happened?” he asked.

      Her head jerked up, and she stumbled to her feet. “Bran—Mr. Landers. I, uh, I—I—I’m sorry for the mess.” She swiped at her cheeks.

      Not tears. Nothing made him feel more inept than