Christmas On Nutcracker Court (23 page)

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Authors: Judy Duarte

BOOK: Christmas On Nutcracker Court
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He grabbed Hemingway by the Christmas collar, with its battery-operated lights blinking and twinkling, and snapped on the leash. Then, after locking up his vehicle, he walked the dog to the front door and rang the bell.
Hemingway stood at his side, wagging his tail like crazy, undoubtedly hearing the kids inside.
As the door swung open, Max was greeted by both boys, who appeared a little apprehensive upon seeing him—until they laid eyes on Hemingway.
“Hey, look at his collar,” Josh said. “It lights up and everything.”
The boys bent over the happy dog, scratching his back and stroking his ears. Hemingway, it seemed, was in heaven with all the attention.
“Can he come and play with us?” the younger boy asked, as he looked up at Max with wide-eyed wonder.
“It's okay with me,” Max said, “but maybe it would be best if you took him outside to do that.”
“Okay,” Mikey said, “but can he come into our room first so we can show him our toys and stuff?”
“He's housebroken, so it's all right with me, but you'll have to ask your mom.”
“She won't mind.” The little guy dropped to his knees and greeted Hemingway like a long-lost friend.
The dog, his tail wagging across the floor like an automatic whisk broom, wasn't any less excited to see the boys, which convinced Max that it had been a good idea to bring him after all.
He hated to admit that Maggie might have been right—and not just earlier this evening.
You know,
she'd told him,
your dog would be much happier if he had kids to play with on a regular basis
.
Max couldn't argue that. Hemingway probably would prefer to live with Carly and her sons, rather than with him.
The boys would be better off, too. At least, if they had a four-legged playmate around all the time, they might be more apt to stick around the house and stay out of trouble.
The same could be said for Hemingway, who wouldn't need to roam the neighborhood looking for excitement any longer.
Of course, if Max were to make an offer like that, he'd miss the crazy mutt.
There was also another reason to hang on to the dog, one that wasn't selfish.
Pets were both time consuming and expensive, so it was safe to assume that Carly couldn't afford the extra expense of dog food, vet bills, or an occasional new shirt for a neighbor.
On top of that, if she was forced to move to an apartment, she wouldn't be allowed to have animals, especially a big one that could be loud and clumsy at times.
No, giving Hemingway to the Westbrooks would only end up dumping more problems on Carly, something Max wouldn't do.
As footsteps sounded an approach, he looked up and spotted her coming his way, just as pretty as he'd remembered.
Maybe more so.
She had on a pair of snug-fitting denim jeans that could entice a man, as well as an oversized sweatshirt with a colorful Mother Goose appliqué that insisted she hadn't given flirtation a single thought.
After aiming a welcoming smile at Max, she placed her hand on the oldest son's shoulder and asked, “What are you boys doing?”
“Playing with the dog,” the little one said.
“But you're making Max—I mean, Mr. Tolliver—stand out in the cold.”
“Oops. Excuse me.” Josh took the dog by the collar and led him through the living room. “Come on, Hemingway.”
The boys didn't need the leash—or even the collar, for that matter. Hemingway would have followed them anywhere.
Now, as the two adults stood in the open doorway, Max returned his gaze to Carly, whose cheeks were flushed a pretty shade of pink.
“I'm sorry,” she said, stepping aside to let him in, “I really have tried to teach them manners.”
He was sure that she had. “Don't worry about it. I haven't forgotten what it's like to be a kid—even if the boys might have told you otherwise.”
She flashed him a grin, her green eyes sparkling, then closed the door.
As Max entered the cozy living room, with its hardwood floors, green walls, and overstuffed furniture with brightly colored decorator pillows, he spotted an antique rocking chair next to the brick fireplace, its white mantel laden with picture frames.
A forest green throw draped along the back of the old chair hid most of the wooden spindles, but it was similar to one he remembered seeing at his grandparents' house when he'd been a boy.
“I like your rocker,” he said. “My grandma used to have one like that.”
“I wish I could say that it's a family heirloom, but I picked it up at a garage sale a few years back.”
“You made a good purchase,” he said, deciding the only thing missing in the room was a fire in the hearth. “It looks good in your living room.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
They continued to stand in the center of the room, with him making more out of her décor than he would have normally done, but for a writer, he found himself at a loss for words this evening.
“In fact,” he added, trying to shake the awkwardness, “you've got a nice house.”
“Thank you. I'm going to miss living here when we move, but that's life. God must have another home in mind for us.”
Max didn't know about that.
“Can I take your coat?” she asked.
“Sure.” He removed the fleece-lined jacket and handed it to her.
As she hung it up on an antique coat tree by the door, he noted a plaque on the wall—one of several—entitled “Footsteps in the Sand.” On the other side of the entry, he spotted one of a couple of cherubs.
The simple artwork added to the warm and cozy feeling he had the minute he stepped into her house.
As he inhaled the spicy aroma of whatever she'd been cooking, he said, “Something sure smells good.”
“I made tacos tonight. I hope that's okay with you.”
“It's more than okay. I love Mexican food, so this is a treat. Thanks for inviting me to dinner.”
“You're welcome.” She led him to the overstuffed sofa, with a beige-green-and-brown plaid print. “I just need a few more minutes in the kitchen. Why don't you have a seat?”
“Can I help with something?”
“No, I've got everything under control.”
As he settled onto the sofa, he said, “Did you get a chance to look at my manuscript yet?”
“I've just read the first two chapters. When I started getting tired, I set it aside. I didn't want to miss anything.”
“I appreciate that.” He hated to quiz her, but since she didn't offer up any comments, he couldn't help pressing her just a little. “So what do you think so far?”
“You're a good writer, Max. The story opens with action, which was intriguing.”
Max had hoped the readers would feel that way. And knowing that Carly had been hooked from the start meant a lot, although he wasn't sure why he valued her opinion so much.
Still, since she hadn't gotten to Priscilla's introductory scene yet, there wasn't much they could discuss tonight.
“Would you rather have the kids play outside with the dog?” he asked. “I think they went into the bedroom.”
“No, it's getting cold, so they really need to stay in the house.”
He nodded, then struggled to come up with something more to say. They really had very little in common, although he wished that wasn't the case.
“Speaking of the kids,” he said, “I'm willing to talk to Josh. How do you want me to go about that?”
“I'm not sure. I was hoping you'd have some idea how to broach the subject.”
Max thought on it for a moment, then said, “I'll check on Hemingway, then try to strike up a conversation with him.”
“That should work. And while you're gone, I'll put the food on the table.”
As Max got to his feet and started in the direction the boys had taken his dog, he realized he had a lot more experience talking to hardened defendants who'd broken the law than twelve-year-old boys.
Hopefully, he wouldn't blow it and let Carly down.
 
 
Josh thought it was pretty cool that his mom would invite a dog over for dinner, even if Hemingway wasn't sitting next to them at the table, munching on tacos and dipping tortilla chips into salsa.
It was also nice to see how excited Mikey was to have Hemingway in their room. For a kid who'd been scared of the dog at first—and scared of his own shadow most of the time—Mikey sure had taken to the big, hairy mutt.
Of course, Josh couldn't blame him for that. Hemingway had grown on both of them.
Too bad they didn't have a dog of their own. If they did, Mikey would have a watchdog to protect him and wouldn't need Josh to sleep in the same room with him anymore. Then Josh could have a place where he could hang out alone, just like he used to before their dad moved out.
A light
rap-rap-rap
sounded on the doorjamb, and Josh looked up to see Mr. Tolliver.
“Come in,” he said.
It was weird having the man at their house tonight, just like he was a regular visitor. But if he was going to be their mom's boss, at least while she edited his book, he and Mikey would have to get used to seeing him around.
But that meant they could probably see Hemingway, too.
“How's it going?” Mr. Tolliver asked.
“Okay.”
“Mind if I take a seat?”
“No, go ahead.” Instead of looking at him as he sat on the edge of the mattress, just a couple of feet away, Josh studied his little brother and the dog.
“Has that bully been bothering you anymore?”
“Not really. I know how to stay out of his way.” Josh expected the man to try and talk him into tattling on Ross “the Boss,” like his mom kept doing.
“I'm glad to hear that.”
They just sat like that for a while, and Josh decided it was nice not to have an adult insist you do something you didn't want to do, like snitching on someone and setting yourself up to be called a crybaby for the rest of your life.
“Of course,” Mr. Tolliver said, “it's wrong to let that guy get away with bullying kids. Some of them might not be as tough as you are.”
He was right about Ross picking on other people, but Josh didn't feel that much tougher than anyone else. Of course, he wouldn't let Tolliver know that, so he said, “That guy isn't all that scary.”
If Mr. Tolliver thought Josh was lying, he didn't say anything. Instead, he glanced at the dog and chuckled. “Hemingway sure seems to like you and your brother.”
“Yeah, I know.”
They watched the dog and Mikey for a while, and it was kind of funny. Mikey set up his
Star Wars
figures, told Hemingway he could be Chewbacca, then stuck the plastic character in the dog's mouth.
“Do you think he'll chew up that toy?” Mr. Tolliver asked.
“Mikey probably won't care if he does.”
“I have a feeling you're right.”
Josh hadn't planned on talking to the man, but for some reason, he couldn't help adding, “Me and my brother were afraid of your dog at first. We thought he was mean when we heard him bark. Then, when we actually saw him, we thought he looked like a Yeti or a werewolf, know what I mean?”
Josh stole a glance at the man, saw him smile and nod.
“I thought the same thing when I found him on my porch,” he said.
For a minute, it almost seemed like they had something in common, which was impossible.
Still, they watched in silence as Mikey showed Hemingway his Millennium Falcon and pointed out how the doors opened, how the control panel lit up. You'd think that the dog was another kid who cared about stuff like that.
But maybe he did. Hemingway seemed to be amazed at everything Mikey said or did.
Josh shot another peek at Mr. Tolliver. He'd never really liked the guy, never trusted him, but he didn't seem so bad now.
When the man turned and caught Josh's eye, he said, “You look kind of . . . troubled.”
Josh shrugged. He had a lot on his mind these days, and not just because Ross “the Boss” was a jerk. But he wasn't going to open his mouth and start whining about it.
“Is something bothering you?” Mr. Tolliver asked point-blank.
Josh shrugged again.
“Is it me? Are you sorry that I came over tonight?”

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