A Knights Bridge Christmas

“I’m a Bruins fan. I played hockey in high school but I was never any good at it.”

“We can’t be good at everything.” Randy motioned toward the mostly dark house. “Daisy’s got you decorating the place?”

Logan raised his eyebrows. “Your mother told you that, too?”

“She’s her own Knights Bridge All News Network, but no, Clare Morgan mentioned it the other day.”

“I see,” Logan said, although he didn’t.

“She lives in an apartment at the sawmill my wife and I run. It can be hard to be new in town, and everyone here loved her predecessor at the library, Phoebe O’Dunn. Phoebe’s engaged to Dylan’s business partner, Noah Kendrick. Southern California tech guy.”

Logan smiled. “I’m lost.”

Randy winked at him. “That’s because you’re not from around here. If you were, you’d follow right along. When do you plan to put the house on the market?”

“That’s up to my grandmother.”

“Right. Well, we know old houses around here. Let me know if you need to do any work on it before you put up the For Sale sign.”

“I will.”

Logan expected Randy Frost would turn around and walk back to the common, but he stood there. Scrutinizing the big-city doctor, Logan thought, feeling the older man’s distrust. Logan understood Randy’s wariness, shared by other people in town. To them, he was a busy physician from the city who hadn’t visited his grandparents as much as he’d have liked—maybe as much as he should have. Obviously he hadn’t visited as much as the people of Knights Bridge thought he should have.

“Good luck with decorating,” the older man said finally, about-facing and heading back across the street before Logan could answer.

Relieved that little encounter was over, he went inside. The house was heating up nicely. He put away his groceries in a cupboard above the sink that his grandmother had cleared out for him before her move. “You’re always welcome to stay here,” she’d told him. “As long as I have this place, it’s your home, too. You can toss out the rest of the stuff in these cabinets. I won’t be needing it.”

There’d been no self-pity in her tone, but that didn’t mean other people in town didn’t pity her—and blame Logan for her move into assisted living. His father, too. Logan understood that his grandmother could have decided to move and put on a positive face to spare her family, but he’d been looking for hints of doubt and hidden meaning and had seen none. She’d been adamant that whether to move was her decision to make, and she’d made it.

There wasn’t any arguing with Daisy Farrell once she’d made up her mind, and if the rest of Knights Bridge thought he was a lout, then Logan figured so be it. He didn’t owe them an explanation.

As he wandered through the first floor of the house, he noticed the places where the few possessions she’d taken to her new apartment had been. He could see her and his grandfather reading by the fireplace in the front room, watching the Red Sox in the family room, painting the woodwork in the hall. It was hard to imagine them apart, but after his grandfather’s death, his grandmother had taken Logan’s hand into hers and warned him not to feel sorry for her. “I’m thankful for the years your grandpa and I had together,” she’d said. “We were truly blessed.”

More stiff-upper-lip nonsense, maybe, Logan thought with a hiss of impatience. How was he supposed to know if she was leveling with him? What had she done when he’d returned to Boston after his grandfather’s funeral? Had she been at peace, filled with gratitude, on dark nights alone in this place?

But “alone” was relative, wasn’t it? Knights Bridge, not just this house, was Daisy Farrell’s home.

Or was that just a rationalization on his part?

Maybe he was a heartless SOB.

He smiled to himself, shaking off his melancholy. Time to get down to business. He texted Clare Morgan.

9 a.m. start still all right with you?

He tucked his phone into his jacket pocket and went out to the car for his boots. If he needed them, he wanted them warm. Shoving his feet into cold boots wasn’t on the top of his list of fun things to do.

When he got back inside, Clare had responded. I’ll be there. Can I bring anything?

He couldn’t think of what. Glue? Fresh greens? A nail gun? Tape? He had no idea what was involved in decorating a village house for the holidays. He settled on a vague response. We can decide what we need when you get here.

Sounds good. See you then.

He didn’t detect anything tentative in her response but wouldn’t be surprised if she regretted agreeing to help. He supposed he’d taken advantage of her newness in town. It was natural for her to want to make a good impression. Helping decorate beloved Daisy Farrell’s house would be a plus. But that hadn’t been his intent. Logan wasn’t quite sure how to describe his intent, but it probably had something to do with not wanting Clare to think he was a jerk who’d browbeaten a receptionist and forced his grandmother into assisted living.

Then there was Clare Morgan herself. He doubted she’d expected to run into anyone under seventy, except for staff, when she’d carried her box of books into the assisted-living facility. How could he have not noticed the curve of her hip and her unmistakable annoyance when she’d overheard him?

He noticed a library newsletter on a table by the fireplace. It included a note from the chairman of the board of trustees welcoming their new library director.

Logan sat on the couch and read.

Clare Morgan comes to Knights Bridge from the Boston Public Library, our nation’s oldest public library. It’s been her fondest dream to work in a small-town library, and with family roots in the lost towns of the Swift River Valley, she’s pleased to be in our small town. Please take the time to welcome her and her son, Owen, to Knights Bridge.

“Well, well,” Logan said aloud.

So, the fair-haired, book-toting small-town librarian knew something of the big city herself. He wondered how long it would take him to find out what had happened to her husband, then dismissed the thought. He could push people and rules to the limit when it suited him, but he wasn’t crossing that line. If Clare wanted him to know, she could tell him.

Whatever her background, Logan figured he could do worse for decorating help. It could be Randy Frost showing up at nine o’clock tomorrow instead of pretty Clare Morgan.

* * *

Fruit, carrot sticks, cheese and a glass of wine sufficed for dinner. Soon after, Logan, bored, went upstairs to the back bedroom where he used to stay as a boy. It had been his father’s room and he doubted it had changed since then. It had two twin beds with a matching dresser and bookshelves. He found a biography of Abraham Lincoln and crawled under the covers in one of the beds. He’d made it up when he’d stayed over earlier in the week. Until then, he’d never slept in this house alone. He remembered his grandfather chasing a bat that had swooped down the attic stairs, but that had been in the summer. Logan wouldn’t have to deal with bats tonight.

Nightmares, maybe.

The pipes dinged and pinged with a rush of heat. Wind rattled the windows. A cat yowled in the backyard. Kids—teenagers, he thought—laughed and shouted at each other in the distance, presumably as the skating rink shut down for the night.

As an emergency physician, Logan had developed the skill for falling asleep anytime, anywhere, but he knew he had his work cut out for him tonight.

Three

“The happiness he gives is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.”

—Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

“WE NEED A bigger house, Mom,” Owen announced over breakfast. He was still in his pajamas, seated across from Clare at the small table that had come with their apartment.

“You have your own room,” she said. She was still in her nightgown and bathrobe, enjoying the lazy winter morning.

Her son raised his gaze to her. “But you don’t have a room.”

“That’s why there’s a sofa bed. The living room turns into my bedroom.”

He looked dubious. He pointed his cereal spoon at her. “And I can hear the brook at night.”

“Even with the windows shut?”

“Uh-huh. It keeps me awake.”

“Some people find water soothing. The brook will probably freeze before long, and you won’t hear anything but the occasional trickle, if that.”

“There are bears and foxes in the woods. Aidan and Tyler said so.”

Probably true, Clare thought. “I saw three deer last night after you went to bed,” she said.

Her son’s face lit up. “Deer!”

“You’ll see them soon, too. Now let’s finish our breakfast and get dressed. We have a big day ahead of us.”

He dug his spoon into his cereal. “I want to go ice-skating.”

“I have something I need to do this morning. You can help me. Maybe we can go skating this afternoon.”

“Aidan and Tyler said I could go with them and their dad.”

“I want to be with you when you go out on this rink for the first time. It’s not like the indoor rinks you know. Maybe we can go later.”

“You said that last time.”

“Did I? All right. We’ll talk about it on the way into town. Hurry up.”

There were times when Owen so reminded her of his father. Like now, she thought. He had the Morgan scowl, and somehow it made her notice his Morgan chin more, too. He finished his cereal, needed a reminder to take his bowl to the sink and then was off into the sole bedroom. Their apartment was charming and worked well for the two of them, but it was small—even compared to their apartment in the city.

But she loved the atmosphere of the renovated nineteenth-century sawmill, still with its original dam on a rambling, rock-strewn stream. Once she was settled in to her job and had a better feel for the town, she would buy a house in Knights Bridge. Right now, thinking about such a major change—planting real roots here—made her heart race. Her sawmill apartment was fine at least through the winter.

Owen came out of his bedroom chattering about ice-skating. There’d be no talking him out of it, Clare knew. The boy had the bit in his teeth and wouldn’t let go. She had to find a way to make it happen that would satisfy him but reassure her. She hadn’t told him about the secondhand skates yet. She couldn’t place her finger on why skating made her nervous—perhaps because she couldn’t skate worth a hoot herself.

Randy Frost greeted them as he walked down from Frost Millworks, located in a modern building above the original sawmill. The small mill provided high-quality custom millwork for construction and renovations throughout the Northeast, focusing on older buildings. Clare didn’t know much about millwork, but she knew if anyone needed to duplicate a vintage window, this was the place to come. That had already happened with an 1830 Knights Bridge home during her short time in town.

“Louise has some extra greenery if you could use it for the library and Daisy’s house,” Randy said. “I’ve got it in the truck if you’re interested.”

Louise was Randy’s wife, who ran the mill with him. “That would be great,” Clare said, not sure how he’d found out about Daisy’s house. “I’m on my way to town now.”

“The good doctor will be there?”

She nodded without comment. Randy chatted with Owen as they walked up to the parking lot. He grabbed live evergreen boughs from the bed of the truck and put them into her trunk. Clare smiled. “They smell heavenly, don’t they?”

That obviously hadn’t occurred to him. She thanked him, and he wished her luck with the decorating. Once in the car, Owen immediately resumed pressing his case for ice-skating. To add to the cards on his side, when they arrived on South Main, Aidan and Tyler Sloan were skipping up the sidewalk with their father, all three carrying ice skates. The boys eagerly invited Owen to join them.

“I have a pair of skates for him in the trunk, but he’s never used them,” Clare explained. “I haven’t checked them out yet.”

But Logan Farrell came out of the house. “I can take a look at them and make sure they’re in decent shape. What do you think, Clare? Would that be all right with you?”

She nodded, trying to ignore the tightness in her stomach as she popped the trunk to her car.

Brandon Sloan, a strong, competent-looking man, eyed her as if he could tell what she was thinking. “I’ll stick close to Owen.”

“He’s only skated a few times and always indoors.”

“Nothing like your first time skating outdoors. It’s not a lake or a pond. Even if the ice cracks, nothing will happen.”

“He’s excited,” Clare said. “It’s easy to get ahead of yourself when you’re excited. He needs to pay attention to the other skaters.”

“I won’t let him get bowled over,” Brandon said, cuffing Owen on the shoulder. “Right, kiddo?”

Owen giggled. “What’s bowled over?”

“Flattened.” Brandon grinned at Clare, matter-of-fact. “Helps to be clear with kids.”

She appreciated his nonchalance but couldn’t shake her concern. “There’s also hypothermia—”

Logan eased in next to her. “It’s not that cold today. He’ll work up a head of steam.”

“It’ll be fine,” Brandon added. “Relax, okay?”

Clare breathed, tried to smile. “Thank you.”

Logan grabbed the skates and took Owen onto the porch to try them on and make sure they were okay.

Aidan and Tyler were clearly getting restless. “Two more minutes,” their father told them, turning back to Clare. “Dylan McCaffrey will be out on the ice this morning. He was a professional hockey player. He’s had stitches a few times, but he still has all his teeth.”

“Hockey players wear helmets and play in indoor rinks with walls.”

Brandon rested back on his heels. “You’re getting yourself spooled up, aren’t you, Clare?”

“I am. Sorry.” She gave a small laugh. “Owen’s had so much new to deal with—with the move. New home, new school, new friends. And six isn’t five. He’s getting more independent. I don’t want to suffocate him but he’s still so young.”

“She’s in mama-bear mode,” Logan said, walking down the porch steps with Owen trotting happily next to him, ice skates in hand.

“Got it,” Brandon said with a grin.

“The skates are fine,” Logan added.

Clare knelt in front of her son. “Now, Owen, you can go skating with your friends, but you have to listen to Brandon. Understand?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Aidan and Tyler have more experience skating than you do. That’s okay. You don’t have to keep up with them. You’ll learn. Be patient with yourself.”

Logan adjusted Owen’s hat. “Best way to learn to skate better is to get out on the ice and go for it. Have fun.”

Owen smiled up at him. “Thanks, Logan.”

Already he was Logan, not Dr. Farrell? Clare kept her mouth shut as Brandon collected the three boys and headed across South Main to the common. She breathed deeply, her mind racing with possibilities of what could happen. Hurt feelings, the two more experienced boys running off and leaving Owen because he couldn’t keep up, kids teasing him because he was the inexperienced skater—the new kid in town who didn’t know anything.

Hypothermia. Stitches. Concussion. Broken bones.

“Clare.”

She dragged herself out of her thoughts and gave another small laugh to cover for herself. “Mind wandering. Thank you for helping with the skates.”

“Not a problem.”

She remembered the boughs from the Frosts and returned to her trunk. “I don’t know what we’ll do with them, but they smell nice, don’t they?”

“Sure do,” Logan said, grabbing most of them.

She gathered the rest and followed him inside through the front door and down a center hall to a cozy kitchen with white-painted cabinets. They set the evergreens on the table.

He brushed off his arms. “I think I got spruce needles down my neck.”

Clare laughed. “Me, too. At least we’re not allergic. I mean—I assume you’re not if you carried...”

“I’m not allergic.”

She glanced around the kitchen, its cabinets and countertops worn but serviceable. The gas stove looked fairly new—within the past decade, anyway. Windows by the table and over the sink looked out on the backyard, covered in light snow. She imagined it in spring, with flowers, green grass and shade trees.

Logan stood next to her at a window. “Gran gave up keeping bird feeders. She had a bad fall hanging a feeder a few years ago. She doesn’t give up easily, but she didn’t want birds counting on her if she couldn’t get out there in the snow.”

“She’ll enjoy the bird feeders at Rivendell, then.”

“I’m sure she will. She’ll have Grace Webster to instruct her.”

“I understand that Grace is the Knights Bridge resident bird expert.”

“That’s what I hear.” He nodded to the evergreens on the table. “Any plans for what to do with them?”

“I figure ideas will emerge as we get into the decorating. I assume we’re only decorating outside. No point decorating inside if no one will be here.”

“I did tell Gran I’d light a candle on Christmas Eve. I suppose I could delegate it, or drive straight back to Boston.”

“Have you ever spent Christmas in Knights Bridge?”

“When my sister and I were kids. Grandpa would take us out on the tractor on the Farrell farm to cut a Christmas tree.”

“You must have great memories.”

“I’d give anything to cut a tree with him now. I don’t care if I’m in my thirties.”

“I gather from everything I’ve heard about him that your grandfather was something. I can see for myself your grandmother still is. Shall we get started?”

His eyes steadied on her. “What about your grandparents, Clare?”

“All four are still with us. My paternal grandparents retired to South Carolina and love it, and my maternal grandparents live in Amherst with my parents. We have roots in the area. My family on my mother’s side settled in Enfield early in the nineteenth century.”

“One of the Quabbin towns.”

“I always thought I’d be a small-town librarian, but I ended up in Boston.”

“Because of your husband?”

“In part. I liked my job, too. And I like Boston.”

Logan leaned against the counter, his arms crossed on his chest. “But it came time to leave and make a fresh start.”

“Yes.”

“Not just for Owen’s sake—for your own, too?”

It didn’t sound like a question. It sounded as if he already knew the answer. Clare nodded. “Owen didn’t need a fresh start. He was happy in Boston, but I thought the move would be good for both of us.” She grabbed a pair of heavy-duty scissors out of a pottery container on the counter. “Why don’t I trim some of the dead stuff off the evergreens while you check the front porch for a good spot for them?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

His gaze lingered on her for a few more seconds. It was obvious he knew she’d deliberately changed the subject. She couldn’t tell if he also knew he’d gone too far in asking about her reason for leaving Boston.

Did Logan Farrell ever worry about going too far with anything?

He headed down the hall without another word. Decorating his grandmother’s house for Christmas couldn’t be his idea of an exciting Saturday. He could have hired out the job, Clare thought, but he was here, doing it—if with her help.

She heard a screech and jumped, immediately thinking of Owen, but then realized it was a car hitting its brakes. But before she could relax she thought, why? Why was a car hitting its brakes hard on South Main? Had Owen slipped away from his friends to come find her?

She shook her head. “Stop. Just stop.”

She realized Logan had come back down the hall and was standing in the doorway. “You all right?”

She smiled. “Just crazy.”

“Ah. Crazy I can understand.”

“I’ve been...” She snipped a browned twig off a bough. “I’ve been a little hyped up since we moved. Life’s different here. We don’t know a lot of people. Owen’s making friends but I worry. A mother’s prerogative, right?”

“Within reason,” Logan said.

“A straight answer. I try not to let worrying get out of hand. I don’t want Owen to be fearful because of me, or to decide not to do things because he doesn’t want to upset me. It’s a balancing act.”

“He’s moving from being a toddler under constant supervision to branching out a bit more.”

“Owen’s still under supervision.”

“But he’s six, not two.”

“Or sixteen,” Clare added with a smile. “I know what you’re getting at. I had a dozen different scenarios flash before me as Owen went off with the Sloan boys.”

“Did any of them end with happy, flushed faces and hot chocolate?”

She laughed, snipping another dead twig. “That’s a perfect image.”

“Gran’s probably got cocoa in a cupboard.”

“A plan for the day is developing.”

“And,” he said, entering the kitchen, “I found a good spot for your evergreens.”

He grabbed a knife and helped Clare trim the boughs. Once finished, they took them out to the porch and arranged them on the rail, tacking them down with string he’d found in a kitchen drawer.

“Not bad,” Logan said, appraising their initial handiwork. “It’s a start.”

“We can do more once we find out what all is available to us.”

“Gran says she stores Christmas decorations in the attic. Are you game?”

Clare nodded. “Sure.”

“You’re not thinking about what could go wrong in the attic of an old house, are you?”

“Are you suggesting I catastrophize, Dr. Farrell?”

“Sorry. I was out of line.”

“I guess you couldn’t be an ER doctor if you worried too much about other people’s feelings. You have to stay focused on what you’re doing.”

“It helps, but there’s no excuse for being an inconsiderate idiot.”

“Maybe, but I’d rather have a doctor with no bedside manner who’s good at medicine than a doctor with great bedside manner who’s not as good at medicine.”

“You can have both in the same person.”

“That’s the best-case scenario, of course.” Clare stopped herself before her mind could drift into the past. A Boston emergency department, rushing doctors and nurses and the worst news she could imagine. Aware of Logan’s scrutiny, she pulled open the front door. “I love old attics. Shall we?”

“After you.”

* * *

Logan led the way up to the second floor and then up steep, narrow stairs to a full attic under insulated eaves and heavy beams. Clare had expected an overstuffed jumble of dusty furniture and old trunks, but the attic, although jam-packed, was tidy, with cardboard and plastic boxes neatly stacked and labeled, two large trunks, four ladder-back chairs, a mahogany desk and several old bed frames.

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