Christmas On Nutcracker Court (2 page)

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Authors: Judy Duarte

BOOK: Christmas On Nutcracker Court
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Lord, I'm at my wit's end. I don't know what to do anymore. I need some debt relief—or a better-paying job at a salon that has a wealthier clientele. But I guess what I really need is a Christmas miracle.
She'd no more than said, “Amen,” when the phone rang, and she nearly bolted from her chair. If this was the Christmas miracle she'd been asking for, God had moved a lot faster than she'd hoped.
But in spite of her faith, she was also a realist. There was no telling who was on the other end of the line or what they wanted.
“Mrs. Westbrook?” an unfamiliar male voice asked.
“Yes?”
“This is Max Tolliver.”
The guy who lived on Nutcracker Court? A week ago, when the boys had mentioned a run-in with a grouchy man and his vicious dog, she'd driven by the house they'd described and had noted the name on the mailbox. She'd wanted to know more about him in case things ever escalated. In fact, she'd almost stopped in to talk to him that day, but had decided to keep driving.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“You can tell your boys to stay away from my house and property. They've been harassing me and my dog.”
Her grip on the receiver tightened. “I'm not sure what you're talking about. How have they been bothering you?”
“They walk along the backside of my fence, which riles up my dog. And then he starts barking and howling. I work nights and sleep days, so you can understand why that's annoying. I've asked them to stay away, but they don't. And today they let the dog out. I had to go down to the canyon and bring him home.”
Had Josh and Mikey been on the Bushman Trail again?
So much for the Christmas miracle she'd been praying for. She certainly didn't need this heaped on her.
She knew she shouldn't let Josh be in charge of his brother, but what could she do? Quit one of her jobs? Hire a sitter?
“I'm sorry that the boys have been bothering you, Mr. Tolliver. I'll talk to them and make sure it doesn't happen again.”
“See that it doesn't.”
She nearly let it go at that, but thought better of it. “They're sweet little boys, Mr. Tolliver. They don't mean any harm. I'm not sure how old you are, but surely you remember what it was like to be a child.”
He chuffed, then said, “I'm not a mean old man, if that's what the boys told you. I don't have fangs or a dungeon in the basement filled with rats. I'm just a guy who appreciates his peace and quiet.”
“I'll tell them to stay far away from your property, Mr. Tolliver. And as a side note, you won't have to worry about my sons much longer. We'll be moving within the next couple of weeks.”
“Where are you going?” he asked.
She didn't respond. It really wasn't any of his business, but even if it had been, she didn't have a ready answer.
If God had a plan for her and the boys, He hadn't given her a clue as to what it was.
 
 
After phoning Mrs. Westbrook, Max Tolliver fixed himself a snack of microwave popcorn and a mug of hot coffee, then he settled back into his leather desk chair and tried to get back to work. He did his best writing at night, but as his fingers rested on the keyboard and he stared at the computer screen, his mind went blank.
For some reason, he couldn't seem to get back into the story he'd created.
What had possessed him to ask that woman where she and her family were moving? He really didn't care, as long as they left the neighborhood.
But the question had just rolled off his tongue, a leftover habit from his former job, he supposed. As a probation officer, he'd had to stay on top of the defendants who were on his caseload.
He didn't blame Mrs. Westbrook for ignoring his question, though. And he should be glad she didn't snap at him for even asking.
All that really mattered was that he would finally be able to have the peace and quiet he needed to get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep each day.
Now, focusing on the screen before him, he grabbed the mouse, scrolled up, and reread the paragraph he'd been working on before placing that telephone call.
Logan stood at the living room window, his breath fogging the glass as he peered at the driveway. He watched Priscilla throw a suitcase into the back of her black Toyota Prius. She was leaving, she'd told him earlier, heading back to the small Texas town that she'd once called home. And if her parting words rang true, she wasn't ever coming back.
But Logan Sinclair didn't need her.
He didn't need anyone.
 
 
Max's fingers were braced on the keyboard, itching to continue, to add a line or two more of introspection. He even closed his eyes and stroked the keys, hoping to get into Logan's head and let the character speak for himself.
But Logan Sinclair, the cynical cop who was up to his ears in trouble, wasn't talking, and Max had no idea why. Logan had certainly gotten himself into one heck of a mess without much help from the author who'd created him.
So what was the cop feeling now, as his wife backed out of the driveway and sped off, leaving him to face his enemies and the internal affairs department on his own?
Max wished he knew, but the character, who'd become so real to him over the past four hundred pages, suddenly seemed like a stranger.
And Max had no one to blame but Mrs. Westbrook.
Why'd he have to go and talk to her now? Why couldn't he have made that call before he'd started working this evening?
He should have known better. Interruptions to his writing process usually stopped him cold, which was why he found it easier to work at night and into the wee hours of the morning, when most of the world had gone to sleep.
Earlier this evening, after dinner, he'd put on a fresh pot of coffee, hoping a rush of caffeine would stimulate the muse. But even the hearty aroma of his favorite Kona blend hadn't done the trick.
The house was quiet, just the way he liked it. Yet, for some reason, the blasted
tick-tock-tick
of the clock on the mantel seemed to echo off the walls and play havoc with his ability to concentrate.
As Max glanced back at the blinking cursor that mocked him, he blew out a ragged sigh.
What if he'd actually been contracted to write this book and had a real deadline looming, rather than the self-imposed one he worked under now?
He'd given himself a year to write a novel, a dream he'd had since his teenage years. A dream that had continued to build until he hadn't been able to ignore it any longer.
Last January, when he'd been a probation officer, dealing with people who'd gotten themselves in legal trouble for one reason or another, his dream of writing the great American novel had grown too big for him to put off any longer. And fictitious Logan Sinclair, a rogue cop with a checkered past, had been on his mind more often than not. So he'd taken a leave of absence from the county and had given himself until the end of this year to finish the book.
Trouble was, he'd gone through the bulk of his savings and would have to either quit writing and go back to the “real job” or put his house on the market, risking it all for a dream that might never come true.
Of course, he had a solid proposal for a series of books featuring Logan Sinclair, but the last literary agent he'd queried had suggested that he complete the first book and then let him take a second look at it.
That response was the closest he'd ever come to having his dream validated by someone in the publishing business, so he'd dug in and started working. In the story, he'd just reached the part that would become the black moment and would lead to the climax and resolution.
But Priscilla Sinclair had really thrown a wrench into the machinery when she'd decided to leave her husband. Their heated argument, which had taken place a couple of pages back, had come out of the blue and exploded on the page while Max had been deep in the writing zone.
If the dialogue between Logan and Priscilla hadn't been so crisp, so real, Max might have considered deleting it and starting over. But their argument seemed reasonable, and so did her leaving.
He'd read about how this sort of thing happened to writers, how characters came alive and the story took off in a completely different direction than originally had been plotted. So while this didn't surprise him, it did back him into a corner.
Max blew out another sigh.
So why did Priscilla throw down the gauntlet at a time like that? Poor Logan had enough on his plate and could really use some feminine support at this point. He certainly hadn't needed an ultimatum from her now.
Why didn't Logan just tell her, “Good riddance” and be done with it?
After going through a messy divorce of his own a little over a year ago, Max thought of all kinds of ways to end the scene.
Priscilla's car could blow a tire, and she could lose control and slam into a tree. The vehicle could explode upon impact....
Okay, so he was a little angry with women these days, especially wives who left their husbands. And since he hadn't foreshadowed those kinds of problems in the Sinclairs' marriage before now, he'd have to come up with something else.
He tapped his index fingers on the J and F keys.
“So now what?” he asked himself.
Priscilla could realize that she'd made a terrible mistake by leaving the one man in the world who really loved her. Then she could make a U-turn, drive back home, and beg Logan to take her back.
But that was too cheesy for the book he was writing.
Hemingway, who'd been curled up beside the desk, began to stir and stretch his lanky body. The dog, which by all outward appearances was one part wolfhound and three parts mutt, had once been a stray in the neighborhood before becoming a pet.
Max liked to think that he'd merely sympathized with the overgrown pup and had taken him in, but he really hadn't had much of a choice in the matter. The crazy dog had plopped down on Max's front porch and stayed as if he'd had squatter's rights.
The dog yawned, then got to his wooly feet, padded to the entryway, scratched at the door, and whined.
Max really ought to let him out into the backyard, but the main entry was just a few steps away. So at night, it had become a lazy habit to let him pee in the front.
“Okay, okay,” Max said, as he pushed back his desk chair, stood, and made his way to the entry. Then he opened the door and waited while Hemingway trotted down the steps, across the lawn, and over to the big elm in the center of the yard, where he liked to hike his leg.
Nutcracker Court was quiet this evening, but Max sensed he wasn't the only one outdoors. In the glow of a streetlight, he spotted a long-haired, bearded man standing near the curb in front of Helen Pritchard's darkened house.
Helen, a divorcée in her midfifties, had left early this morning to join her family on a three-week Mediterranean cruise. Max knew that because he was supposed to be watching the old Victorian while she was gone.
The lights were off, as they should be. But what was that guy doing out here at this time of night?
Before Max could quiz him, a woman with platinum-blond hair crossed Helen's lawn and joined the man on the sidewalk.
Max didn't like the thought of vagrants milling around the neighborhood, especially when most people were sleeping. He had half a notion to chase them off, but realized he wouldn't have to do it, once Hemingway noticed them.
But the dog seemed oblivious to the strangers and continued to sprinkle each bush in the front yard, marking his territory.
When Hemingway had made his rounds, he glanced out into the street, finally taking note of the couple.

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