Christmas At Prescott Inn. Cathryn Parry

       CHAPTER ONE

      CHRISTMAS ARRIVED AT Prescott Inn the day after Thanksgiving.

      Nathan Prescott stepped into the lobby just in time to see two workers erecting a large blue spruce tree. The sharp smell of pine needles wafted to his nose. The annoyingly upbeat jingle of seasonal music—Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas”—met his ears.

      Nathan frowned. He didn’t mind if Christmas never came this year.

      The inn’s rooms weren’t filling up. Expenses were excessive. He was worried about his investors’ meeting tomorrow and what they would decide. They’d already threatened once to shut down his line of credit.

      Nothing could be worse than that.

      Gloom descended over his heart.

      “A cup of warm spiced cider, Mr. Prescott?” His front desk clerk held out a mug that steamed with the scent of apple and cinnamon. She gave him a tentative smile.

      Nathan just shook his head and continued walking toward his office.

      As he strode past the stone fireplace, the commotion of tree-decorating and decking-the-halls continued around him unabated. He scowled as a worker brought in a crate of red poinsettia plants.

      More money spent—expenses his investors expected him to be cutting. But as he opened his mouth to refuse the delivery, a movement behind the lobby couch caught his eye.

      Nathan paused. A dark-haired boy, about six or seven years old, popped up his head. A look of terror appeared in his hazel eyes.

      He recognized the boy as one of the kids from the homeless shelter. During the winter months, Nathan housed some families with young children from the shelter. This particular boy had moved in with his mother the week before Thanksgiving. His mother never seemed to be around—working, Nathan supposed. He’d noticed the boy because he always seemed interested in what was happening around the inn.

      As I was at his age, Nathan thought.

      Nathan should have kept walking. But the small portrait of his grandfather, Philip Prescott, seemed to wink down at him and ask him to stay.

      The boy flushed and pointed to a round, red Christmas ornament. “It fell down,” he stammered to Nathan, retrieving the delicate antique and carefully placing its metal hook around a sturdy branch of the spruce tree, cut down from a forest on the mountain. Both Nathan and the boy stared at the partially decorated tree. It still needed lights. And a star for the top, but the decorators would get to that.

      Nathan balled his fists in his pocket. The kid seemed so lonely, always hanging around by himself and watching whatever activity was going on in the lobby. “You like Christmas?” Nathan asked gruffly.

      The boy dipped his head, but he nodded. There was a short silence between them.

      “Well...” Nathan wasn’t great with kids. And he was usually so busy doing the best he could for his employees and for the shelter families, which to his mind meant putting a roof over their heads and food on the table.

      “Where are the stockings?” the boy suddenly asked. He stared directly at Nathan.

      “Ah...”

      The boy glanced at the stone fireplace, the centerpiece of the inn’s lobby. “The stockings,” he repeated. “For Santa Claus.”

      Nathan’s heart sank. The boy still believed in Santa. He was so young. Nathan couldn’t bear to see the kid’s heart get crushed with the truth. “Well, those don’t go up until Christmas Eve.” Nathan coughed, remembering his own childhood here, and added, “That’s the tradition at Prescott Inn.” He nodded to his grandfather’s portrait.

      The boy chewed his lip, looking thoughtful. “Is there an extra one I can borrow?” he asked in a small voice. “We didn’t bring our Christmas things with us.”

      Nathan’s heart was in his throat. He waited for more from the boy, but he just gazed at Nathan with his huge brown eyes.

      The boy’s situation reminded Nathan so much of his own childhood—of himself and his sister as children—left alone by their parents and living here in Prescott Inn, which was still owned in those days by their grandfather. Nathan’s grandfather had been the person who’d given them stability. A place to set down roots. A refuge amid all the confusion.

      “I’ll get you a stocking,” Nathan promised. “With your name on it.”

      “Jason,” the boy said.

      Nathan nodded. “Jason,” he repeated.

      Jason smiled and then darted over to the crate of multicolored ornaments. Nathan realized that they’d made a deal, the two of them. And now he had to honor it.