Christmas On Nutcracker Court (15 page)

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Authors: Judy Duarte

BOOK: Christmas On Nutcracker Court
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The sincerity in her gaze mocked the frailty of her hand as her fingers pressed gently on Susan's wrist, warming her from the inside out. Susan hadn't been touched like that, with so much feeling, in years. “You're more than welcome, Edna.”
Twenty minutes later, as Stan went to throw away their paper plates and trash, Edna slowly got to her feet and reached for her cane.
Knowing that Maggie could handle what little traffic they had at the buffet line, Susan left her station and went to open the door for the elderly couple. “Let me get that for you.”
“Thank you,” Stan said.
As the elderly couple shuffled outside, Susan couldn't help noting a grocery cart loaded down with odds and ends and covered with a blue vinyl tarp. A short-haired shepherd-mix with a dirty red collar was tethered to the side with a frayed piece of rope.
Poor little mutt, she thought, as she gazed upon him and spotted the gray hair around its snout. He was old and homeless, too—a tough life, even for a dog. No wonder Carlos had given Jerry those treats for ol' Rex.
She had to admit that it was certainly nice—all that he and Rosa were doing. She wondered if Hank would have ever given of himself like that to make life easier on the disadvantaged.
Probably not. He really wasn't like Carlos, whom she'd begun to think of as a good man.
The next time Susan married, she would have to find a man like Carlos, a man who was willing to put others ahead of himself.
“There he is,” Stan said, pointing to a silver Jeep Grand Cherokee that had just pulled into a parking space in front.
The driver must be the neighbor they'd mentioned earlier, the widower facing his first Christmas without his wife. Of course, he wasn't actually alone; he had a daughter.
Susan studied the redheaded girl in the passenger seat, who wore her hair in pigtails. As Edna neared the car, the child jumped out of her seat and offered it to the old woman.
For some reason, Susan continued to stand in the doorway until the elderly couple had climbed into the vehicle and the driver began backing out of the parking lot. Then she lifted her hand and wiggled her fingers in a wave.
When Stan and Edna were as good as gone, she took one last look at poor ol' Rex, then returned to her post at the buffet line and stood next to Maggie.
Lowering her voice to a discreet whisper, she said, “I know there are a lot of people who are hungry and needy in this world, but I've got to tell you, Maggie, I can't help feeling sorry for Jerry's dog.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, the man can't even support himself, yet he has a pet. It just doesn't seem fair to the animal.”
“Actually, Jerry found Rex in a parking lot behind the bowling alley. He'd been hit by a car and left for dead. But Jerry nursed him back to health, and they've been inseparable ever since.”
“Oh, really?”
“Everyone deserves to love and be loved,” Maggie said.
Susan hoped she was right.
Because she was beginning to wonder if she'd ever loved or been loved at all.
Chapter 9
Assuming the dog would eventually find its way home, Max spent the afternoon working on his manuscript. But even though the wind had caused the tree branches to scratch against the windowpanes, and it seemed to be growing darker and colder outside by the minute, Hemingway still hadn't returned.
It served the dumb mutt right to get lost, Max decided. Yet in spite of his best effort to focus on the story he was writing, he wasn't having much luck. So he'd gone outside and walked up and down the street, calling Hemingway to no avail.
He'd finally returned to the house, grumbling all the while that the dog deserved whatever happened. Yet he couldn't quite seem to put his worries behind him.
An hour later, he was back on the front porch, whistling again.
“Hemingway!” Max hollered one last time, hoping the mutt hadn't been picked up by the dog catcher and taken to the pound.
Of course, if that's what had happened to him, at least he'd be safe until morning.
The wind had kicked up with a chill that would do the North Pole proud. Okay, so that was just a Southern California native's opinion on an unseasonably cool winter day, but it was brisk enough to require a jacket and shoes.
At the sound of an approaching vehicle, Max looked down the street and saw Grant Barrows returning home. As his neighbor got out of his car, wearing sweats and carrying a gym bag, Max crossed the street to ask if he'd seen Hemingway.
He braced himself for a snappy retort, though. Grant wasn't a fan of the dog and might actually be glad he was gone. In fact, he might have even been annoyed enough to call animal control and turn him in.
Max decided to make a little neighborly chitchat first, then ask him about Hemingway in a roundabout way. “Hey,” he said upon his approach, “how's it going, Grant?”
“All right.”
“I've been meaning to ask. How did your interview go the other day?”
“Which one? I've had three so far, but I haven't heard anything positive yet.” Grant closed his car door. “Something tells me no one's going to make any hiring decisions until after the holidays and the beginning of the year.”
“That's a possibility.”
They stood there for a moment, Max's big question looming in the night. Finally, he said, “By the way, my dog got out again this morning, and he hasn't come home yet. I don't suppose you've seen him.”
“No, I haven't.” Grant leaned against his vehicle. “It's a bad night for him to be roaming the streets.”
“Yeah, that's what I'm thinking.” Max shrugged. “I know he's been a nuisance lately, and I'm really sorry about that. I've been doing everything I can to find out how he's getting out of the yard.”
Max waited for a response, maybe even a reminder that he owed Grant a new dress shirt for the one Hemingway had stained the other day.
Instead, Grant said, “I've always believed there was something to the old adage about turning something loose. If it doesn't come back, it was never yours in the first place.”
Maggie's words came to mind, and Max couldn't help wondering if there was some truth to it all—the old adage
and
her comment. Maybe Hemingway was out looking for his old owners.
In truth, though, Max really thought all that dog whisperer crap was a crock.
“He'd probably be happier if he lived with a family,” Grant added. “Don't you think? He'd have children to keep him busy and leave him too tired to jump the fence and create havoc in the neighborhood.”
Max didn't think Hemingway had been going over the fence, but that didn't really matter. Grant had a point, and he couldn't help considering the fact that—no matter how far-out the possibility—the dog might be missing the kids he used to live with.
But that didn't mean Max was buying in to Maggie's tale. Dogs didn't communicate telepathically with people—even crackpots.
“Hey,” Grant said, “I've got a question for you.”
“What's that?”
“Do you know Lynette? Helen's pretty, blond friend?”
“Just by name and sight. I really haven't talked to her, why?”
“I just wondered what her story was.”
“I have no idea. Maybe you ought to ask Helen when she gets home. Or even Maggie, her house sitter.”
“I'll probably wait. Maggie seems a little . . .”
“Off?” Max supplied. That had been his take, too.
“I don't know.” Grant paused, as if giving it some thought. “I'm not really sure what I mean.”
“I had the same feeling. What makes you think she's a little . . .” He wanted to say “whacky,” but ended his sentence with “odd” instead.
“I'm not saying that I think she's crazy. It's just that she has a way about . . . Well, knowing things.”
At that, Max couldn't help perking up. “Like what things?”
“She seemed to know something about the last interview I had. And there's really no way she could have.”
“What did she say?”
Grant glanced down at the ground, then back up again. “The HR person asked me if I had a family, and when I said no, he acted a little . . . Well, like he was sorry to hear it. And then, after I got home, Maggie brought over a plate of cookies that one of Helen's friends had made. And while she was here, she told me not to feel badly about the interview, that the company was very family-oriented, and that something better would come around.”
“She mentioned that just out of the blue?”
“Yeah, and I'm not sure how she even knew about the interview, unless Lynette told her.”
“You're right. It's a little weird.” Grant glanced across the street, at Max's house. “Do you get a lot of grief about not decorating for Christmas?”
“Some, but I just ignore it. Why?”
“This morning, Maggie came by and volunteered to help me put up lights.”
“She mentioned something to me about my lack of decorations, too,” Max said, “but I told her I wasn't in the holiday spirit this year.”
“It's not that I'm a Grinch, but as far as I'm concerned, December twenty-fifth is just another day. I'll probably buy a wreath and stick it on the door, though. Maybe then Maggie and some of the other neighbors will stay off my back.”
Max crossed his arms and nodded. “That's one of the nice things about working nights and sleeping days. The neighbors don't see much of me, so they can't put a lot of pressure on me to conform.”
Grant smiled. “If I get any kind of a job offer for a night shift, I'll keep that positive point in mind.”
“Well,” Max said, “it's getting cold out here. I think I'll head back inside where it's warm.”
“Good luck finding your dog.”
“Thanks. But you might be right. If he's happy living with me, he shouldn't have the need to roam.”
With nothing more to add, Max told his neighbor good night, then returned to his house. About the time he was climbing the porch steps, he heard a whimper, followed by a little bark.
Max turned around.
“Hemingway?”
The dog barked again, this time louder.
“Where've you been?” Max called to the night shadows. “Come on over here.”
Hemingway hobbled into view, holding up his left rear paw.
“What happened, buddy?”
The dog slowed to a stop in front of Max, then plopped down in a half sit/half squat.
Max stooped to get a better look at the bad leg, but with only the yellow glow of the porch light, it was impossible to determine what was wrong. Still, he reached for the rear paw and examined it the best he could.
Just as he skimmed his fingers across something hard and sharp, the dog flinched and cried.
What was it? A thorn? A piece of glass?
“Were you in the canyon again?” he asked.
There wasn't a response, of course. But if Max actually thought Maggie had any dog whispering talent, he'd take the dog to her and have her ask him.
Instead, he bent over, wrapped his arms around Hemingway's chest, and carried him into the house, where a fire blazed softly in the hearth and the lamplight lit the room. Once inside, he set the dog down on the carpet and proceeded to examine the leg.
Sure enough, he found a thorn stuck between the pads of his paw and carefully removed it. When he was done, Hemingway began to lick the wound.
“Maybe that'll teach you for running off,” Max said.
The dog merely looked up from what he was doing, then rested his head on his front legs.
All right. So Max had been worried about the crazy mutt. Why not admit it?
“Hey, Hemingway,” he said. “I'm glad you're back.”
The dog's response was a swish of the tail and a noise that came out like a half whine/half groan.
Max couldn't blame the four-legged wanderer for being wiped out and wanting to snooze, he supposed. Who knew where he'd been or what he'd been up to.
Still, on a whim, Max said, “Hey, Butch.”
The dog looked up, his eyes wide and alert, then he gave a little bark before getting to his feet. As he hobbled over to where Max was sitting, his tail wagged to beat the band.
No way was that dog's name Butch.
Yet Max couldn't help wondering if Maggie really did have a gift, or if she and the dog were somehow in cahoots and playing a trick on him.
 
 
It was after nine o'clock that evening when Rosa and Carlos arrived at their 1970s-style tract home in Serena Vista, a tired, old subdivision located on the east side of Fairbrook.
As usual, Carlos parked in the driveway, rather than in the garage, which had accumulated so much junk over the years that even one of their vehicles no longer fit inside.
Rosa wished she could say that she loved this house or the neighborhood, but that was no longer the case. And she feared a remodel or some renovations wouldn't change that.
She took a moment to study the cream-colored stucco with its cracked and peeling brown trim, thinking it needed new paint, something bright and cheery. In fact, the four-bedroom house needed a lot of things: new curtains, new furniture, new appliances. Even a new family.
Now that the kids were grown and gone, the spacious old home was much too large for a retired couple suffering from the first pangs of arthritis. And with all the community work Carlos had committed to, he found very little time to keep up the yard the way he once did.
In the past, Rosa would have tried to help with that, but at her age, there was no way she could take on mowing and edging the lawn, too. Goodness, she had trouble keeping the inside as clean as she used to, even when she'd had small children underfoot.
Rosa, like both her mother and her
abuelita,
believed that a floor wasn't really clean unless someone got on their hands and knees to mop it—something she could no longer do.
Not that the house was a mess; she kept it picked up. She also made sure that the bathrooms were clean and the dishes washed and put away. But she always seemed to spot something that needed to be done, something that wasn't up to her usual standards.
Now, as she and Carlos got out of the car, she brought up a conversation they'd had several times already. “I really wish you'd reconsider talking to a real estate agent, honey.”
“I told you before. I
don't
want to sell the house. We have memories here. This is where we raised our kids, it's where they call home. And even if that weren't the case, the mortgage is just about paid off.”
“But it's too big for us. We don't need all the space—or the extra work it requires. Besides, those new condos on Oceanview Drive are really nice. I think one of them would suit us a whole lot better.”
“How do you figure?” Carlos stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, turned to face her, and folded his arms over his barrel chest. “We'd have those homeowner's fees to pay. And even if we poured all the money from the sale of this house into the new one, we'd still have to take a loan out at the bank. Those condos are really overpriced.”
Some of them also provided an ocean view and a lovely, restful sea breeze that could really pick up a woman's spirit. But she doubted he would care about that.
Crossing her own arms, she said, “But if we moved to a condo, you wouldn't have any yard work to do or any repairs to make. Everything would be new and under warranty.”
Carlos merely grunted, which was what he usually did when he didn't like the direction their conversation was going. Then he uncrossed his arms, turned, and headed for the door.

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