Dreaming in Technicolor (4 page)

Mouth full of mocha foam, I nodded.

Alex slung his arm around the former editor's shoulders. “Would you mind helping us out by writing a few articles? I'll pay you the going freelance rates, of course.”

Gordon beamed. “No problem, son, no problem at all. Can't afford not to have the Christmas edition. It's a
Bulletin
tradition, and folks would sure miss it. You just give me those assignments.”

Minutes later, Gordon bounded off with a newsman's zeal, the bell over the front door jangling behind him.

I shot a goopy look at my boyfriend, um, boss.
Could there
be
a
more perfect man? Gorgeous, funny, and kind too. What more could a girl
want?
That sixties song about going to the chapel swirled in my head, sticking on the ma-aa-arried part and playing over and over. “That was a very sweet thing to do.”

“Sweet nothing.” Alex grinned. “Good thing Gordon came back early; otherwise I'm not sure how you and I would have gotten the paper out.”

The bell over the front door jangled again.

“Whenever a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.” I smiled at Alex, knowing he'd get my reference to
It's a Wonderful Life.

“Attaboy, Clarence.” He chimed in with the Jimmy Stewart part.

“Who're you talkin' to?” The door slammed shut with a bang.

“Name's Esther, not Clarence. Thought you knew that.”

“Hi, Esther.” I raised my voice a notch. “Nice to see you.” I smiled to see the seventy-something former reporter sporting purple pants, a garish Hawaiian shirt, a thick lavender sweater, and a red wool beret.

Until a couple of months ago, I'd known Esther Blodgett as the hardworking, no-nonsense reporter for the Barley
Bulletin—
which just goes to show you can know a person all your life and never really know her. Esther had surprised us all by selling off a lot of land we didn't know she had, donating most of the proceeds to the Bijou—saving the theater in the process—and still retiring from the
Bulletin
with a nice little nest egg.

Since then, she'd spent much of her time traveling with one or more of her pals from the red-hatted, purple-clad ladies' club. She was trying to make up for lost time, cramming in as many trips as she could. This time she'd just returned from Hawaii.

Esther plunked down a perfect sand dollar and a couple of seashells on my desk. “Brought you all some souvenirs. They say if you put those shells up to your ear you can hear the sea, but you can't prove it by me. I can't hear a blamed thing.”

“Thank you.” I hugged her, hiding a grin. Esther couldn't hear most normal conversations, let alone a seashell.

“Now don't get all mushy on me.” She wriggled out of my embrace and handed Alex a plastic Santa clad in a tropical shirt and shorts and riding a surfboard. “This here's Aloha Santa. He's a little reminder that even ol' Saint Nick needs a little vacation now and then. You remember that.”

“Thanks, Esther. I'll remember.”

“'Course it's December.” She gave him a warning look. “Christmas is right around the corner. Hope you're prepared. Not good to wait 'til the last minute.” She adjusted her beret. “Gotta go spread me some more holiday cheer. Don't work too hard.”

“We won't,” Alex and I chorused as she jangled out the door. Then he turned to me with a meaningful look.

No, not that kind of look. I only wish. On the job he was Mr. Professional.

So was Spencer Tracy in
Desk Set
, but that didn't stop him from planting
a big one on Katharine Hepburn.

“You got flour on your nose, An Beebee. ” Lexie giggled.

“And you've got green sugar sprinkles on your chin,” I said, leaning over and kissing the sweet spot off my adorable niece's face. “Mmm. Delicious. Why, I don't even need a cookie. I'll just have Lexie-girl for my sugar cutout instead.” Swooping toward her, I made fake chomping Cookie Monster sounds.

Lexie squealed with delight and ran toward my sister-in-law, Karen. “Save me, Mommy. Save me.” Karen reached down for her, but she veered off at the last second, careening straight into Alex's flour-covered knees and dissolving into giggles again.

“I think perhaps someone's had too much sugar,” he said, hoisting my niece in his arms.

“Don't let her fool you,” observed my mother with a grin. “She's like that most of the time.” She glanced my way. “They all are.”

“And you love it,” I shot back, reaching for one of the cookies she'd just piled on a platter. She just smiled and swatted at my hand.

It was the first Saturday in December—traditional Christmas cookie-baking day in the Grant household. As a child, I'd loved the times when we gathered in our spacious kitchen to mix and cut out dough. In years that I'd been away from home, my brother's family had come over to Mom's to make the cookies. And this year, much to my delight, I was home to join in the fun. Even better, Mom had invited Alex to join us.

“You'd think you've never done this before,” Ashley, my eldest niece, teased him as he wiggled the cutter to release a very lopsided Christmas star.

“Actually,” he said to Ashley, “I never have.”

Seven pairs of stricken eyes swiveled to him. “You've never baked Christmas cookies?” ten-year-old Elizabeth asked.

“Nope. My mom always did the baking by herself. Besides, they don't have Christmas cookies in England.”

“Christmas without cookies?” Jacob and Lexie said in horrified unison. “But if you don't have cookies, what do you leave out for Santa on Christmas Eve?”

“I don't know. A mince pie, perhaps?”

Seven pairs of raised eyebrows met his.

“Mince pies are a British institution and are nothing if not compulsory at Christmas,” Alex explained. “From the beginning of December onward, if you call in at any friend or family member's house, you will be offered tea, coffee, port, mulled wine, or some other beverage, but always a mince pie.”

Elizabeth frowned. “What's it made of?”

My mother reached over to gather up scraps of dough. “Isn't it the same as our mincemeat?”

“Meat? In a pie?” Jacob licked a couple of chocolate sprinkles from his five-year-old fingers.

“Like chicken potpie, silly,” Elizabeth said.

“There's actually no meat at all, but it does resemble a potpie, only smaller. It's filled with fruit preserves, cinnamon, nutmeg, and brandy.” Alex released a wistful sigh. “But even more than that, what I really love is Christmas pudding.”

“I like pudding too.” Jacob beamed up at him. “Especially chocolate.”

“What's Chwismas pudding?” Lexie frowned. “Is it 'stachio?”

“No. Sorry.” Alex knelt down to her three-year-old level.

He's great with kids. He'll make a wonderful father . . .

“In England,
pudding
means dessert,” Alex explained. “Christmas pudding is a fruitcake cooked in a large bowl and steamed for two or three hours, then turned upside down and served hot as the final course of Christmas dinner.”

“Fruitcake?” I recoiled in horror. “You don't really like fruitcake, do you? Not that hard, dry thing that's heavy as a rock and has those icky red and green candied cherries and loads of nuts.” I shuddered.

“You've obviously never had good fruitcake.” He glanced at Mom. “No disrespect, Gloria.”

“None taken.” Mom grinned as she slapped more flour on her rolling pin. “I never make fruitcake, because no one in my family likes it.”

I snorted. “There's no such thing as good fruitcake.”

“Oh yes there is. When made right, it can be moist and rich.” Alex kissed his fingertips like a television gourmet. “A subtle culinary triumph. Some people just don't know how to appreciate it.”

“Oh, I appreciate it. The same way I appreciate a doorstop.” He laughed as I made my exit through the dining room door.

I passed Karen in the hall on my way to the bathroom. “You and Alex sure make a cute couple,” she whispered.

Uh-huh. So cute that he hasn't even kissed me yet.

But patience is a virtue, and I was willing to wait a little longer. After all, Christmas is coming up soon.

And if not then, there's always New Year's Eve.

I made it back to the kitchen just as a car door slammed and muffled feet bounded up the back steps. “Hey, is this Cookie Central? I've got the eggnog and some chocolate-chip cookie dough.”

“Mary Jo!” Elizabeth hurtled out of her chair and hugged her plus-size, jeans-and-flannel-clad riding instructor, who also happened to be my best friend in Barley. “How's Pluto? Does he miss me?”

“Something terrible. Told me to say hello, in fact.” She leaned her head back and whinnied, her thick, straight maple hair falling away from her square-jawed face.

“Hey Mom,” I said, “I think our equine pal needs a few sugar cubes.”

Mary Jo Roper stuck her tongue out at me and examined the plate of sugar-cookie cutouts the kids had decorated. “I'd settle for a frosted snowman.” Under her breath she added with a chuckle, “Or any man, for that matter.”

I choked back a laugh as she pulled a CD out of her backpack and held it up. “Gloria, mind if I put on some Christmas tunes?”

“Go right ahead, dear.” My domestic-goddess mother removed a batch of cookies from the oven. “You know where the stereo is.”

Soon a strange noise filtered in from the living room.

I raised incredulous eyebrows. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but is that Diana Ross and the Supremes singing ‘White Christmas'?”

My Motown-loving friend grooved her Supreme-wannabe-self back to the table. “Sure is.”

“Sorry, Mary Jo, but some things are sacred.”

In seconds Bing Crosby's baritone filled the air.

“That's a little more like it.” I looked around the table. “Don't you all agree?”

Everyone, including Alex, nodded, although a loyalties-divided Elizabeth scampered to her teacher's side and slipped her hand in hers. Karen smiled and patted Mary Jo's shoulder. “You learn pretty quick that this family is tradition-and-nostalgia-bound when it comes to music.”

“Should have guessed, especially with Phoebe's old-movie mania.” She shrugged her shoulders and grinned. “No problem. I'll just listen to my
Motown Christmas
in my car on the way home.”

I grinned back at her and shook my head. “I'm surprised you didn't bring your favorite Beatles Christmas album.” Mary Jo's parents had raised her on their favorite music—R&B, gospel, and the Beatles. Instead of rebelling, she had become a fan, her car radio perpetually tuned to classic rock.

“I would have,” she said, “except the Beatles Christmas albums—no carols, by the way, just funny songs with Christmas references—were only issued to members of the Official Beatles Fan Club in the sixties.” Mary Jo tucked her hair behind her ears. “Just a little bit before my time. And it costs a fortune to get one now—I've checked on eBay.”

She whipped out another CD from her backpack and grinned. “But I do have Paul's
Wonderful Christmastime . . .
”