Shenandoah Christmas. Lynnette Kent
months since his mother died—Ben stifled a sigh of frustration and looked at Maddie again. “This is Wednesday, so you went to choir right after school, didn’t you?”
“Brenna’s mom took us.” The little girl’s face brightened with enthusiasm. “Miss Caitlyn played her guitar and sang us some of the songs she wrote. They’re so beautiful, I can’t believe it.”
This wasn’t the first time Ben had heard about the wonders of Caitlyn Gregory. “I bet you’ll be glad when Miss Anna can come back, though. I know how much you like her as your regular choir teacher.”
“Miss Anna’s really nice.” Maddie nodded. “But Miss Caitlyn kinda…sparkles.” She gave a worshipful sigh.
“I’m sure she’s fun to sing with. Just remember—” He debated the warning for a second, then decided to go with it. “Remember she won’t be here for very long. She’s pretty famous and she has lots of work to do in other places. It’s nice of her to come and help out, but once Miss Anna’s baby is born and the doctor says she can get back to normal, Miss Caitlyn will be gone.”
“I know.” Maddie’s smile dimmed. “Brenna said Miss Caitlyn’s some kind of big rock star or something.” She slid off his lap and started toward the door, then turned back, her face shining again. “But Christmas is only nine weeks away. Maybe she’ll be here at least until Christmas. Wouldn’t that be neat, Daddy? I bet she sings carols like an angel!”
Ben called up a halfhearted grin. “I wouldn’t be surprised. You and Shep go into the house and get started on your homework. I’ll close up and be right there.” He turned to straighten his tools and clean up the workshop while the kids streaked across the backyard in the gathering dusk.
As he swept cherrywood shavings into a corner, he realized with surprise that more than two-thirds of October had come and gone. Having accustomed himself to the slow pace of life in the country, Ben rarely looked very far ahead anymore. He hadn’t realized how soon the holidays would arrive.
Another Christmas, he thought, deliberately relaxing the set of his jaw and the tight grip of his hands on the broomstick. I can hardly wait.
THE THIRD TIME her brother-in-law David commented on the number of meals they were eating out of cans, Cait’s redheaded temper caught fire. She spent Friday morning studying Anna’s cookbooks and making a grocery list. Just after lunch, while her sister napped, Cait headed for the only grocery store in Goodwill, Virginia.
Driving through the little town, Cait rolled down the car windows to catch the breeze. In the past ten years she hadn’t had time to notice the seasons much, and she was realizing what she’d missed. Old trees lined the narrow streets, their leaves turning gold and maroon and brilliant orange with the arrival of chilly fall nights. The forested mountains to the west blazed in the early afternoon sunshine, an impressionist collage of all the reds and yellows imaginable. Eastward stretched the rolling pastures and fields of the Shenandoah Valley, their gentle summer greens fading now to tawny. Under a wide blue sky, the ancient hills imparted a sense of time to spare. Cait hadn’t felt so free of obligations in years.
Time had, in face, been kind to Goodwill. Set on lush lawns among the colorful trees, many of the houses in the area dated back a century or more; the town had been settled before the American Revolution and had escaped most of the ravages of the Civil War. Windows paned with antique wavy glass looked out over a brick-paved main street called, simply, the Avenue. Old buildings of brick and stone and painted wood siding had aged gracefully, adapting to changed circumstances and purposes with dignity. What had once been the schoolhouse was now a computer software business. The one-time blacksmith’s stable had become a bookstore, and a dress boutique occupied the shoemaker’s shop.
Yet the bakery still used wood-fired ovens built two hundred years ago; descendants of the first attorney in town still practiced in his original building and the physician’s office still housed a pediatrician. Modern intrusions were few and carefully designed, including Food Depot, one block east of the Avenue. Old brick with white wood trim disguised a very modern grocery, while the mature trees standing between the parking spaces out front created an arbor on what would have been a bare asphalt plain.
Inside the store, Cait pulled out her list and prepared to concentrate on shopping. Her dinner preparation usually consisted of making reservations or ordering take-out food. But she didn’t expect to have much trouble cooking a real meal. How hard could pot roast be?
Potatoes were the first problem. Idaho? Golden? Red? New? Cait tried to visualize the last pot roast she’d eaten, but ten years on the road, staying in a different town every night, had buried the memory too deep. She decided she liked the look of the small red ones, and moved on to carrots. Organic versus…what? Did organic change the taste? Would David notice? And should she peel them herself, or be lazy and get the ones already peeled?
The vegetables were easy, however, compared to the meat department. All the plastic-wrapped roasts looked the same. The recipe called for rump roast or shoulder roast or round roast. Which was the best? How was she supposed to choose?
She flipped her braid over her shoulder. “Why isn’t beef just beef?”
“I beg your pardon?” A baritone voice, soft southern vowels, obviously startled.
With her cheeks heating up, Cait glanced at the man standing beside her. “I…um…was talking to myself. Sorry.” He flashed a half smile and returned to studying packs of hamburger.
She took advantage of his preoccupation to steal another look. This was a man to write songs about. Dark-blue eyes, wheat-gold hair in short curls that reminded her of an ancient Roman statue, impressive shoulders under a cinnamon-colored sweater. He reached down to pick up a package of meat, giving her a view of lean hips and long legs in faded jeans.
Wow. Cait mentally fanned herself. She’d shared the stage with several of Hollywood’s biggest heartthrobs at an awards ceremony a few months back, but none of them had left her breathless like this. Who knew Anna’s tiny town could offer such interesting options?
“Excuse me.” Following her impulse, she tugged on the elbow of his sweater.
Her reward was another chance to gaze into those deep, deep eyes. “Yes, ma’am?”
A gentleman all the way. Better and better. “Do you know anything about pot roast?”
His brows, slightly darker than his hair, drew together. “Pot roast?”
Cait gestured at the meat case. “Which one works the best?”
That small smile of his broke again. “Oh. No, I don’t do the fancy stuff. But I think my mother-in-law uses chuck roast.” Leaning across her, he lifted a huge hunk of meat out of the cooler one-handed. “Like this.”
“Ah.” Cait held out her hands and he eased the roast into her grasp. Mother-in-law. So much for options. “Thanks for the help.”
He nodded. “Anytime.”
Don’t I wish. Feeling like a kid denied her lollipop, Cait pushed her cart toward the dairy section. Anna needed to drink milk every day. Two percent? Whole? Skim?
And why were all the really great men already married, anyway?
The ultimate torture was standing behind that same guy in the checkout line—her chance to pick up all the details she’d missed before. An easy stance, a strong jawline, square, long-fingered hands which saw their share of physical labor, if a few healing cuts were anything to go by. Not to mention all the kid groceries in his cart—small juice cartons, boxes of animal crackers, fruit roll snacks and cereal with marshmallow shapes. The guy not only had a mother-in-law. He had children.
A tune from a few years back came to mind, a daughter singing about the strength and love in her daddy’s hands. This man had that kind of caring, working hands. Lucky kids.
Lucky wife.
Cait shook her head and fixed her gaze on the tabloids in the rack beside her cart. After ten exhausting years,