Take Me Home for Christmas

7

Ted sat in front of his computer and read what he’d just written, then proceeded to edit it. Nothing he wrote seemed any good today; he couldn’t concentrate.

Shifting restlessly in his chair, he tried to devise a more believable method of getting his protagonist out of the building that contained the bomb. But every idea he came up with seemed so...contrived. It’d all been done before and, in his current frame of mind, he was pretty sure it had been done better. Hot Pursuit was turning out to be his weakest book—and yet he’d loved the premise when he first started the story a month ago.

What was wrong with him?

His cell phone rang, but he didn’t bother to get up and find it. He didn’t answer calls during the day. Refusing to be distracted was the only way he could finish his page quota and have any hope of meeting his deadlines. But someone had been trying to get through to him for the past hour. And after what Kyle and Callie had said at Black Gold Coffee last week about the possibility of Sophia DeBussi applying to be his housekeeper, he was afraid of who it might be. She had to do something to support herself and her daughter, didn’t she? What else could she do except go after any menial job that might be available? In high school, she’d partied so much she’d barely graduated. She had no college credits, no work experience.

He supposed she could model. She was pretty enough. But she couldn’t do that here in Whiskey Creek. And if her situation was as dire as he suspected from all the news reports, she wouldn’t have a car—at least not for long. She wouldn’t even have a house once the bank foreclosed.

Pushing away from his desk, he got up to stretch his legs, spotted his cell on a side table and scooped it up. The call he’d missed had come from his agent. Damn. He should’ve taken that one. But he’d deal with Jan Andersen in a minute; he had another call to make first. He’d limped along without any domestic help for the past ten years, since he started writing. He figured he could manage for a few more months, until whatever was going to happen to Sophia DeBussi happened, and he could interview applicants without fear that she might knock on his door.

Ed down at the Gold Country Gazette answered on the first ring. “What can I do for you, Ted?” he asked.

Caller ID, no doubt. “I’d like to cancel my ad.”

“But it hasn’t even run yet.”

So far, he’d posted on Craigslist, but hadn’t received much interest. A woman named Marta, who’d actually used Sophia as a reference, had applied; however she had a slew of other clients and couldn’t focus strictly on him. Besides, she didn’t cook, and she didn’t know how to use a computer. He wanted someone who would act as maid, cook and secretary. An all-in-one assistant wouldn’t be easy to find, especially since he didn’t have time to sift through applications. So it wasn’t just that he was afraid Sophia might apply for the job, he told himself. Delaying the process meshed better with his schedule.

“I’m aware of that,” he said. “I’m planning to hold off until after the holidays.”

“But the holidays are the busiest.”

“I don’t have time to interview, Ed. And I don’t have time to train anyone. Just yank the ad, okay?”

“Does that mean you’re pulling it from Craigslist, too?”

“Of course.” He was walking to his computer to do that this very second.

“I’ll take care of it. Let me know if you change your mind.”

Another call was coming in. Ted said goodbye and switched over. He wasn’t getting any writing done, anyway. “Hello?”

“Ted?”

It was his mother, Rayma, who’d raised him as a single parent after his father left them for his female law partner. He and his mother had moved to Whiskey Creek from affluent Atherton, south of San Francisco, when he was three years old and she was offered the position of vice-principal at the elementary school. She was principal now, and had been for twenty years, but recently she’d been talking about retiring and moving back to the Bay Area to be closer to her mother and sisters.

“What’s up, Mom?”

“Rough day,” she said. “Since when do sixth-grade students bring guns to school?”

“A twelve-year-old showed up with a gun?”

“The nephew of those trashy people in the river bottoms. Carl Inera and his clan.”

“Drugs have a lot to do with Carl’s situation.”

“Chief Stacy said the same thing.”

“So...what? Are you planning to retire even earlier than we talked about?”

“No. Nothing’s changed there.”

“Something’s different. You don’t normally call me while you’re at work.”

“Mrs. Vaughn over at the middle school wanted me to hit you up for a donation.”

“For what? You usually reserve my resources for your own school.”

“She’s aware of how much you’ve done here and hoped you might see your way clear to helping over there, too.”

“What do they need?”

“They’re raising funds for a new gymnasium.”

How could he say no? The school system had provided the job that’d enabled his mother to make a living and provide for him. And with the way schools were hurting these days, he helped out whenever he could.

“How much?” he asked.

“Could you do $10,000?”

“That’s not exactly pocket change, Mom.”

“Is it too much?”

He considered his bank account; he could afford it. “No, I’ll do it.”

“I’m proud of the man you’ve become, of your accomplishments. I hope you know that.”

He smiled. “What are you talking about? You don’t even like my books.”

“All that murder...it’s too graphic for me, but I can appreciate your talent.”

“I’m glad. Because I’m proud of you, too,” he said, and it was true.

“Have you seen Sophia since the funeral?”

He’d been heading to the window overlooking the same river that ran past Carl Inera’s shack some miles away. But at this, he froze. “No. Why would I?”

“Just checking.”

His mother was an attractive, strong, capable woman. Unfortunately, she was also highly opinionated and often stuck her nose in his business, which he didn’t appreciate. “You mean you’re worried that I might take up with her again now that she’s available.”

“I remember how much you loved her.”

“Loved, past tense, being the key word. There isn’t much I even respect about her these days.”

“But let’s face it. You’re a sucker for a damsel in distress. And she’s attractive. I can’t deny that. Please don’t feel you have to swoop in and save her from her misdeeds, though.”

There was so much he wanted to respond to in what she’d said he hardly knew where to start. “You believe she’s to blame for what Skip did?”

“She’s the one who married him to begin with. I thought she was certifiable at the time. Just like her mother.”

Ted winced. “That’s kind of a low blow, don’t you think? She can’t help that her mother has mental problems. Even her mom can’t help that.”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve never liked Sophia, and I’ve never made any secret of it.”

He scratched his neck. “Because you were afraid I’d marry her before completing my degree.”

“And because her values are all screwed up.”

“How do you know she hasn’t changed? Grown up?” God, he was sounding like some of his friends. Only his mother could push him to the other side of an argument that easily. He loved her, but they were too much alike—both of them opinionated, take-charge people.

“It’s obvious.”

“A lot of people choose the wrong marriage partner.”

Although he hadn’t meant to imply anything about her own decision to marry his father, the silence that followed indicated she’d taken it that way.

He opened his mouth to clarify, but she spoke before he could. “At least I didn’t marry for money,” she said. “And it’s how she went about getting engaged. Leading you on while she was seeing Skip on the side. She agreed to marry him before she broke things off with you. We were almost the last to know!”

“Sophia and I were young. I was away at school so we could only see each other on weekends, and with all my extracurricular activities, even those visits were few and far between. Anyway, she was pregnant and probably felt trapped. And it’s time to let go of the past.” He was glad Callie couldn’t hear him now....

“You’re defending her?”

He shoved a hand through his hair. “No, of course not. Just trying to keep it all in perspective. We were together for a couple of years almost a decade and a half ago. That’s long enough to carry a grudge.”

“I don’t care how long it’s been. Her character is flawed, and you need to remember that when she sets her sights on you again.”

“How do you know she’ll try to get me back?”

“She needs money, and I’m sure it hasn’t escaped her notice that you’re now a wealthy novelist. I’d like to see you get married, but I don’t want you to end up with her. She caused you enough heartache the first time.”

“You’re being overprotective again. I’m an adult and perfectly capable of making my own decisions, thank you. Anyway, you have nothing to worry about. I haven’t seen her and I don’t plan on seeing her.”

“Good.”

Before he could respond, someone entered her office—he could hear it in the background—and she had to go. Which was fine by him. That interruption might’ve prevented an argument. Although Rayma wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already believe, he didn’t like her talking about Sophia.

His mother should’ve remarried and had other kids, he thought. Then she would’ve had to spread her attention around.

Determined to finish his pages for the day, he decided he’d get hold of his agent later and returned to the computer. But when he clicked over to check his email, as he often did before starting, he found a message that was being forwarded all over Whiskey Creek. Several of Skip’s investors were trying to connect with others so they could band together and meet Sophia tomorrow night to talk about how they might recoup some of their losses. They mentioned the two Ferraris and how much they were worth. The Mercedes that Sophia drove. The art and sculptures in the house. When someone piped up to say that Skip had probably taken out loans against it all, another member of the group mentioned Sophia’s clothes and jewelry.

Ted told himself to stay out of it. He hadn’t invested, so this didn’t pertain to him. But the idea of everyone ganging up on her bothered him enough that he called Kyle.

“Are you planning to attend the meeting with Sophia about her remaining ‘assets’?” he asked.

“No,” Kyle replied. “I don’t want to take what little she still has. Her husband screwed her over. How’s piling on going to make things better for any of us?”

“What about Noah? Will he be going?”

“I doubt it. He doesn’t hold her responsible for what Skip did any more than I do.”

Ted’s mood improved after he hung up. His friends weren’t party to the next evening’s plans. But the image of Sophia being confronted by twenty or thirty angry men demanding her clothes and jewelry troubled him for the rest of the day.

* * *

Sophia had been grateful for Agent Freeman’s understanding and advice. She’d resolved to take advantage of it. But the depression that set in the following week proved so debilitating she could hardly get out of bed. She would force herself to get up and fix Alexa breakfast, then crawl back under the covers and sleep until Alexa came home.

At least her daughter talked about school as if it was going well. Considering how cruel kids could be, that came as an unexpected relief. Alexa insisted she was being treated kindly and that her friends rallied around her whenever she wasn’t. She seemed to be making the difficult adjustment. But the worry in her eyes whenever she took in Sophia’s bedraggled appearance spoke volumes. It said: You’re all I have left and I’m terrified I can’t rely on you. Look at you! I’ve never seen you like this. Maybe it even said: I guess Dad was right.

Sophia could remember all the times Skip had told her she was a bitter disappointment. Part of her believed she deserved to hear it. Perhaps that was what had stolen the fight out of her; she’d essentially defeated herself by giving him so much ammunition. But, regardless of the reason for her depression, she wasn’t going to the gym anymore. She couldn’t bring herself to clean the house. She couldn’t even face showering on a regular basis or brushing her teeth.

Although she scolded herself whenever she was awake, pleaded with herself to do better—for Alexa’s sake—she fell further and further into despair and self-loathing, and that made the craving for alcohol worse. She hadn’t succumbed, but only because there was no alcohol in the house, and she wouldn’t go out for fear of running into yet another Whiskey Creek citizen her husband had defrauded.

Soon they had very little food in their cupboards and were surviving on canned soup. But no one knew that the “Queen of Whiskey Creek” had fallen quite so far, because no one came to check on her. Although she didn’t normally get a lot of visitors, there’d always been the domestic help. Now even they weren’t coming since she’d had to let them all go.

Sharon had been her only visitor, and she didn’t come because she was concerned. She came to collect Alexa that first weekend after the funeral. Fortunately, Sophia hadn’t looked quite as bad then. Still, while waiting for Alexa to finish gathering her things, Sharon had stood in Sophia’s doorway, shaking her head in disgust.

“This can’t continue, Sophia,” she’d said, her voice harsh and low.

Sophia had ignored her. She’d just been grateful Alexa had a safe place to go for a couple of days, so she wouldn’t have to get out of bed at all. Part of her hoped Sharon would come back and take Alexa this weekend, too. If so, it might be possible to get a bottle of gin or tequila—anything. She could walk over to the liquor store late at night....

But when Friday rolled around again, Sharon didn’t come. She didn’t come the next day or the day after that, either. Alexa told her Grandma and Grandpa were putting their house up for sale and moving into a condo in a retirement village at Rancho Murieta fifty minutes away, so Sophia figured they were busy dealing with their own disappointments and concerns. Maybe they were being hounded by bill collectors, too. Although Sophia rarely answered the home phone—her cell had probably died; she didn’t even know where it was—she could hear voices on the answering machine in Skip’s office when someone left a message. Apparently, her late husband had been several payments behind on everything, including the mortgage.

That wasn’t good news. It shortened the time she and Alexa would be able to live in the house and Sophia had no idea where they’d go.

“Mom?”

She had to fight to drag herself out of the black abyss. She was pretty sure this was a Wednesday but maybe not. “Yes?”

“We’re out of food.”

“I’ll get some,” she mumbled.

“When?”

“Soon.”

“You always say that.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Why not now?” Alexa asked.

“I don’t feel well.”

“You’ve been sick for two weeks.”

“I’ll be okay soon. Have some more soup.”

Her daughter let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m tired of bean with bacon.”

“It’s better than going hungry, isn’t it?”

Alexa didn’t answer. She’d obviously heard the irritation in Sophia’s voice. “Will you let me go?”

“By yourself? It’s too far to walk.”

“Nature’s Way might be too far, but Mel’s Quickie Grocery isn’t.”

Sophia didn’t have the energy for this conversation. “They don’t have much.”

“They have more than we do! I could get bread, milk, cereal, cheese...”

She was so adamant. Why not let her go? Whiskey Creek was as safe a place as any. And Sophia wanted to be left alone. “Fine. But hurry back.”

“What money should I use?”

Money. God, just that word made Sophia freeze in terror. Soon they wouldn’t have a dime....

Alexa clasped her by the shoulder. “Mom? Did you hear me? Should I get your purse?”

Dragging her brain back to the problem at hand, Sophia thought of what she had in her wallet. Since she couldn’t use her bank accounts, she’d cashed the check Gail had given her. But the gardener, the young man who washed Skip’s cars and Marta, the once-a-month housecleaner—they’d all needed to be paid. Once Sophia had seen to that, there hadn’t been much left—maybe fifteen hundred dollars.

Knowing it wouldn’t last forever made the anvil of worry sitting on her chest feel even heavier, as if it would crush her.

“Take a hundred from my purse.” She rolled over because she couldn’t bear to face what her daughter had to be thinking.

Once Alexa was gone, silence fell, allowing Sophia to drift in and out of sleep. Then the phone rang, but instead of leaving a message, whoever it was hung up and called back, over and over again.

“Alexa?” Sophia wanted her daughter to put a stop to the noise. But then she remembered that Alexa wasn’t home.

Rousing herself enough to move, she crawled across the bed to Skip’s side and grabbed the handset from its base. She intended to set it down and ignore it, but the thought that her daughter might need help made her bring it to her ear.

“Hello?” God, she sounded drunk even though she hadn’t had so much as a drop.

“Mrs. DeBussi?”

“Yes?” It was the piercing voice of Clarence Halloway, the undertaker who’d handled Skip’s funeral.

“I haven’t received a check from you for your husband’s service,” he said. “Can you tell me when I might expect to be paid? Or do you plan on ripping me off like you did everyone else in town?”

She managed to shove herself into a sitting position. “Ripping you off! It’s Dale and Sharon who owe you. They made the arrangements.” She hadn’t wanted that expensive casket and headstone, or all those flowers. She’d wanted to have Skip cremated and be done with it, but her in-laws had taken over, and she’d let them because she didn’t have any money to insist one way or the other.

“I called them. They told me it’s your responsibility. I guess Gail DeMarco-O’Neal gave you some money while she was here? Sharon said that was supposed to cover Mr. DeBussi’s burial costs.”

What? Anger flooded Sophia’s system. She should never have told her in-laws about that kind gesture. Gail hadn’t given her that money for any such purpose. It wasn’t enough, anyway. Skip’s parents were the ones who’d ordered everything. Sophia had been shocked by how much they were willing to spend, considering he’d cost them their life’s savings, but she’d chalked it up to habit and that fierce DeBussi pride. They could never be honest about anything. Appearances were all that mattered. Perhaps she’d been guilty of the same thing earlier in her life. But she hadn’t been guilty of racking up nearly $15,000 in funeral expenses!

“I’m afraid most of Gail’s money is gone, Mr. Halloway,” she said. “I—I had to pay the people who were working for me. And what’s left is all I’ve got to take care of Alexa until...until I find a job.”

“I have a family to support, too,” he pressed. “I told you in the beginning I wouldn’t perform the service unless you paid me in advance.”

“Exactly. And you didn’t change your mind until Skip’s parents got involved. You were dealing with them.”

“They’ve been part of the community for so long I never dreamed they’d do this to me, but it seems Skip inherited his dishonesty from them.”

Sophia didn’t want to be seen as a crook. She supposed it was a good sign that she still cared enough for that to bother her. But he was just one of many who were clamoring for money. She couldn’t possibly satisfy them all. “I’m sorry, I really am, but...I can’t help you.”

“I don’t feel it’s fair for me to take the loss,” he said. “I buried your husband, didn’t I? Now I’d like to stop by and pick up at least a partial payment.”

She had so little left. But how could she say no? It wasn’t fair that he shouldn’t get paid for the funeral. She didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else getting hurt.

“I can give you a hundred bucks,” she told him.

“That’s better than nothing. I’ll be right over,” he said and hung up.

With a sigh, she slumped onto the pillows. She had such a blinding headache, couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten and was beginning to feel dehydrated.

She hoped Alexa would get home in time to handle Clarence, but the doorbell rang while her daughter was still gone. Summoning what remained of her strength, Sophia managed to get up and force her leaden feet to move. She pulled on a robe, collected the money from her purse on the kitchen counter where Alexa had put it, and went to the door.

The undertaker raised his eyebrows when he saw her, but he glanced away and took the money. “I’ll come by next month,” he said tersely and turned to leave without another word.

Sophia stood in the doorway, watching until she couldn’t see his black Cadillac anymore. Next month? Fine. That sounded like an eternity from now. She had no idea how she’d survive until then—and part of her hoped she wouldn’t.

8

“What are you looking at?”

Eve Harmon glanced over as Cheyenne Amos came to stand next to her at the window. Since Chey had married Dylan, she didn’t usually work late at the B and B, not like she used to. When she’d been living with her sick mother and troubled sister, she’d taken advantage of any reason to stay out of the house.

“I thought you’d gone home,” Eve told her.

“I wanted to finish the new brunch menus.”

“Dylan must be working overtime at the body shop.”

“Aaron’s closing tonight. Dylan’s at the house, making dinner.”

“God, he cooks, too?” Eve grinned. She often teased Cheyenne about her sexy husband. She was happy for her best friend—she’d never seen Cheyenne happier—but she couldn’t help feeling left out, maybe even a trifle jealous. She’d never believed she needed a man in order to be fulfilled, but with so many of her friends marrying, she wished she could find someone to share her life with.

“It’ll be steak,” Cheyenne said. “That’s what he makes whenever he cooks.”

“There could be worse foods.” Eve almost said something about inviting her over next time Dylan’s brother, Aaron, would be there. She’d thought of mentioning it before. But Aaron had anger management issues. As gorgeous as he was, she’d be stupid to get involved with him, especially when Cheyenne’s sister had already traveled down that road and it had ended in a broken heart.

“True,” Cheyenne agreed.

Eve felt her smile wilt as she returned her attention to the scene outside the window.

Cheyenne looked out, trying to follow Eve’s gaze, but the lonely figure Eve had noticed a few minutes earlier was sitting too far to the right, in the shadow of a large headstone.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Cheyenne said. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of Little Mary again.”

Six-year-old Mary Margaret had been strangled in the basement over a century ago. She was their resident ghost—maybe. Eve wasn’t convinced that Mary hadn’t moved on. “Not this time.” She pointed to the newest plot in the Whiskey Creek cemetery. “Alexa DeBussi is out there.”

Cheyenne frowned as she finally located the young teen, who had a grocery bag at her side. “Poor girl.”

It was obvious that Sophia’s daughter was crying as she sat there, huddled against her father’s headstone.

“I wonder if Sophia knows she’s here,” Cheyenne said.

“I haven’t seen Sophia for the past couple of weeks. Have you?” Eve had placed a few calls to Sophia’s cell phone, including the one in which she mentioned the job Ted had available, but they hadn’t been returned.

Cheyenne shook her head. “No. I sent flowers since I couldn’t attend the funeral. And I’ve stopped by twice, but no one answered the door.”

The fact that Cheyenne hadn’t been able to come to the funeral reminded Eve of Wyatt. “How’s your nephew doing?” she asked. Cheyenne’s sister had the cutest little boy. He meant everything to his mother. He meant a great deal to Cheyenne, too, which was why she and Dylan had been at the hospital in Fresno, where Presley lived, instead of at the funeral.