The merry matchmaker, p.9
The Merry Matchmaker, page 9
“Life’s always full of challenges,” said Adele.
“At least you have each other, and that’s nothing to take for granted,” said Frankie.
Jonathan nodded but said nothing.
Stef filled in the silence. “I had an interesting letter for Santa. A little boy wrote in, asking Santa to bring him a mommy for Christmas.”
“What happened to his mom?” Jonathan asked.
Stef shrugged. “Don’t know for sure, but I suspect she’s dead.”
“What did Santa say to him?” Frankie asked.
“That Santa can’t fit mommies in his sleigh. I think Daddy needs to have a talk with his kid.”
“You’ve got to give the boy credit for working every angle,” said Adele. “Children are good at trying different ways of getting what they want.”
“Poor little guy. I hope he gets what he wants,” said Stef. “At least I’ve let Santa off the hook.”
“Maybe you should have told the boy to come see Santa at the Santa Walk and bring his daddy and they could talk,” suggested Frankie. Stef would be there, interviewing people and taking pictures for the paper. Who knew? Maybe she and Daddy would hit it off, just like in a Hallmark movie.
“I wouldn’t want to put Mitch on the spot. After seeing Santa, the little boy would be convinced he’d be getting one, and I wouldn’t want to disillusion him,” Stef said. “Kids have to grow up too fast as it is.”
Frankie knew she was talking about her own life; when she was five, Stef’s daddy had disappeared from her life forever. She, too, had written to Santa, asking him to bring back her daddy. Adele had read the letter and sat Stef down at the kitchen table that very afternoon after school, explaining again about Daddy being in heaven with the angels. Frankie had pretended to be absorbed in her twentieth-century history book, but she’d felt herself tensing and listening.
“I don’t want him to be in heaven,” Stef had protested.
Adele had pulled her onto her lap and with tears in her own eyes said, “I don’t, either, but that’s where he is.” She’d kissed the top of Stef’s head, then set her back on her chair, given her a cookie and fled the kitchen, off to her bedroom to cry.
“Daddy can visit you in your dreams,” Frankie had improvised.
Stef had looked at her with such hope. “He can?”
“Of course,” she’d said.
Stef had nodded, her tears drying.
The next morning, she’d announced to Frankie that Daddy had visited her and said he loved her. Who knew whether she’d really dreamed about their father or imagined she had? Either way, it had helped. Their father visited Stef again in her dreams, a week later, the night Adele had called the real estate agent about putting their house up for sale.
The house had sold in January, and they’d moved in February, and it had felt like their father wasn’t the only one whose life was over. Frankie had balked, and Stef had cried, but in the end, they’d found a new house in Carol, the one Adele still lived in, and life eventually turned onto a pleasant path. Paths never ran straight, though, and they never stayed smooth.
But you had to be grateful for the smooth parts.
Natalie returned Warner to the kitchen, all scrubbed up and ready to create treats. Frankie got her grandson busy taking the wrapping off Hershey’s peppermint Kisses and balancing them on top of mini-pretzels.
As they worked, she kept thinking about the little boy who’d written the letter, and his father. If the man was on his own, maybe finding the right woman was exactly what he needed for Christmas. A man who came complete with a little boy—how perfect would that be for Stef?
So much better than Brock.
The treats were put in a warm oven for a couple of minutes, just long enough for the Kisses to soften. Frankie removed the cookie sheet, and with Warner standing next to her on a stool, she demonstrated how to gently press a Christmas-colored M&M into a melted kiss to spread out the chocolate. It took Warner a few tries to find his finesse, but he did.
“Now we’ll put them in the fridge to harden, and soon you’ll have treats to take home,” Frankie promised as he hopped off the stool.
“Yay!” whooped Warner. He pointed to where the rest of the M&Ms sat. “Can I have some candy, Nana?”
“Of course.” Frankie picked up the bag. “Hold out your hands.”
The little boy held out two cupped hands and squealed in delight as Frankie emptied a small pile of candies into them. “These aren’t as good as what your mommy makes, but they run a close second,” she said.
“All that sugar—now we’ll never get him to sleep,” said Natalie as Warner stuffed the candies in his mouth. But she was smiling.
“’Tis the season,” said Frankie.
She smiled down at the little angel with the same green eyes as her daughter’s and those darling honey-colored curls. Here she was, surrounded by the people she loved. This was what a perfect day looked like. And days like this were what made life worth living—maybe it wasn’t the perfect life she’d once envisioned, but it was darned close.
Yes, it was a good life, she thought later as she settled with a big bowl of popcorn into the corner of Mitch’s leather couch that she had long ago claimed as hers.
“Glad you’re not mad at me anymore,” he said as the show started.
“I don’t hold a grudge.”
“Good. Anyway, you know I’m right.”
Her brows pulled down, and she lowered her handful of popcorn back into her bowl. “Right.”
“You ought to get busy and match Brock up with somebody.”
“Somebody...younger?”
Mitch was too busy watching the car chase on the TV screen to see her frown. “Maybe Elinor. She’s sweet. And isn’t she about his age?”
There it was again, that insinuation that Frankie wasn’t the right age, that she was past her prime. A fifty-year-old woman was not past her prime.
“What are you all of a sudden, Match.com?” she demanded.
He looked at her in surprise. “Just sayin’.”
“You sure have a lot to say lately,” she said. She stuffed the popcorn in her mouth and ground her teeth on it. Maybe Brock would like to try the peppermint martinis at Carol’s Place.
7
In addition to polishing up her interview with a local writer who had her first book coming out that week, Stef had more letters for Santa waiting to be sifted through when she went in to work Monday morning. She smiled as she looked at the ones already up on the paper’s website. She was happy to see that the page was getting plenty of positive comments from readers. Good for the paper. And for her.
Thanks for the heads-up, Santa...
I hope Jordy gets his drums...
Maybe Santa will bring earplugs for Jordy’s parents...
Tell Corcoran I could fit in Santa’s sleigh.
Stef read the last comment and frowned. Some women were such predators. The comment was horribly inappropriate and was going to get deleted that very minute. Whatever was happening with the boy’s family was serious. Hopefully, both Corcoran and his father would find better things waiting for them in the new year.
She sighed. Life could be so hard when things didn’t work out for people. She’d sure found that out. Everyone needed love, and it sucked when those who should have loved you the most treated you the worst.
* * *
Griffin Marks had just finished putting in an order for twenty-five more shares of stock that one of his Edward Jones clients wanted to buy when his phone dinged with a text. You are gonna be busy now.
What the heck?
He called his pal Joel, who’d sent the text. “What’s this about?”
“You haven’t seen the Letters to Santa page on the Carol Clarion website?”
“I haven’t had a chance to see if yours got printed yet,” Griff said.
“Funny. You probably won’t be laughing when you read one of them. Mandy just called me and wondered if you’d helped Corky write a letter to Santa.”
Corky. Letter to Santa. A premonition that he was about to hear something he didn’t want to hear settled in Griff’s gut like a giant lump of coal.
“You’d better read it,” suggested Joel.
Griff left business behind and went to the paper’s website. He pulled up the Letters to Santa page and scanned them, skimming down the page until he saw his son’s name. The words jumped out at him.
Can you bring me a mommy for Christmas?
Shit. How had this happened?
He didn’t have to read far to figure it out. “Jenn,” he muttered in disgust. His meddling, misguided sister was at it again.
“Every single woman within a twenty-five-mile radius of Carol is going to be contacting the paper, wanting to apply for the job of mommy,” Joel predicted.
“Don’t be a turkey,” snapped Griff.
“You think I’m kidding? Do you know how many generations of women have watched Sleepless in Seattle? You’ve just become the new Tom Hanks.”
Griff scrubbed his face. The last thing he needed was word of this getting out and women showing up on his doorstep with plates of Christmas cookies. That had happened the first Christmas after Kaitlyn died, and he’d felt like a hunted animal. He had no desire to start that circus again.
And he couldn’t have Corky see the page. If his son saw his request there on the paper’s website followed by Santa’s reply, his hopes would rise quicker than a helium balloon.
“Nobody’s gonna replace Kaitlyn, dude. I get that. But maybe Jenn’s right.”
Griff cut him off. “Don’t even say it.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
He wasn’t going to shoot the messenger, but he was going to take aim at the paper. Why don’t you ask Daddy to find you a mommy? I’m sure he’d like to help Santa out. Of all the idiotic, ill-considered, thoughtless, stupid replies. There was nothing Griff would have liked better than to hang this Santa from a chimney in nothing but his long underwear and let him freeze.
He said a grumpy goodbye to Joel, then searched the page to find the name of the culprit. There it was: Santa’s letters delivered by Stefanie Ludlow. If Corky’s letter didn’t come down as of yesterday, Stefanie Ludlow would be delivering the paper instead of writing for it.
He found the newspaper’s number and punched it into his phone. “Put me through to your editor,” he snapped at the operator taking calls. “And don’t send me to voicemail. This is urgent.”
“Of course,” she said, and left him to listen to some tinny Christmas music.
Urgent or not, he wound up getting sent to Camille Carlisle’s voicemail. He ground his teeth as he waited for the beep. Then he left his message. “My son’s letter to Santa got put on your paper’s page without my permission, and the answer to it is completely inappropriate and unappreciated. If you don’t take down the letter from Corcoran immediately, you will be hearing from my lawyer today.”
He stabbed End on his phone and banged it down on his desk. He didn’t have a lawyer, but if somebody didn’t get back to him within the hour, he’d find one.
He sat for a moment and fumed, then snatched the phone back up and called his sister. She, too, was hiding behind her voicemail.
“Jenn, what the devil were you thinking letting Corky sucker you into helping him with that letter? The paper will be taking it down, and I’d better not see it pop up again or you’re gonna lose your aunt rights.”
He stabbed End again and half strangled his phone before slamming it back on the desk. Great. Now he’d cracked it. He swore and glared at his computer screen.
And reread his son’s letter and wanted to cry.
I wrot last year abot bringing me a new mommy but daddy furgot to mal it.
Daddy didn’t furgot. Daddy lied about furgotting. It had been easier than trying to explain to his son that the aches piercing his heart had left him emotionally crippled. Corky hadn’t been that old when his mom died, but he remembered enough to know he missed her hugs, missed her tucking him in at night. He wanted a mommy like the other kids had, and even though Jenn did a lot to help out, it wasn’t the same. As a real estate agent, she was busy, and her hours were all over the map. She couldn’t be around all the time. And she shouldn’t have to.
“Somebody’s got to help fill the gap,” she often reminded Griffin when he told her she needed to pay more attention to her own life.
Their parents lived a couple of towns away, so Jenn had been stepping in a lot since Kaitlyn died. Maybe she was tired of wrapping so much of her life around his. She never said, but he was pretty sure it was why things hadn’t worked out with her last man. Now she was starting to see someone new. He shouldn’t have to stand in line for Jenn’s attention behind Griff and Corky, although Griff suspected he already was. She did so much for them. Griff turned down the heat on his anger with his sister.
They were still going to have to have a talk though. Maybe they would even revert back to their childhood and there would be some yelling involved.
His phone rang, showing the number of the Carol Clarion. He answered with a curt, “Hello.”
“Mr. Marks, this is Camille Carlisle, returning your call. I do apologize for this mix-up. We will, of course, take down your son’s letter to Santa immediately.”
“Good,” he said, and could almost hear his mother scolding, Not your sweetest voice, dear. Well, he didn’t feel all that sweet.
“I want you to know that the page does state clearly that, by allowing their children to write to Santa care of the Clarion, parents are giving the paper permission to print those letters.”
Covering her butt. Had she talked to their legal team? “Well, I didn’t allow it, and it was sent in without my permission,” he snapped. Now he was really sounding like a jerk, but he didn’t care. “And I didn’t appreciate Santa’s answer, either. ‘Why don’t you ask Daddy to find you a mommy? I’m sure he’d like to help Santa out.’ Where does your Santa get off dishing out advice?”
“Again, I’m very sorry. It will be taken down immediately,” she said. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Unlike his, her voice was calm and rational.
“No. Thank you.”
“All right then. Have a good day,” she said, and was gone.
He hadn’t had a good day since Kaitlyn died. He rubbed his forehead in an effort to stop the dull throb that was starting. He’d have to have a talk with Corky and explain that mommies weren’t that easy to replace. In fact, ones like Kaitlyn were impossible to replace. She was impossible to replace. Corky was going to have to learn to be content with his dad and his aunt.
And Griff was going to have to continue working on getting up every morning and setting aside the bitterness that kept him company all through the night, keeping him tossing and turning.
The first year after she died, visions of his wife had lurked around every corner of the house. He’d see her when he first awoke, lying next to him, her hair spread out on her pillow like thick threads of gold. She greeted him when he walked into the kitchen to get cereal for Corky. It felt so real, envisioning her leaning on the counter in that big, ugly T-shirt she loved to sleep in, holding out a mug of coffee and smiling at him. He’d catch sight of her sitting in one corner of the couch, keeping him company as he watched a football game, cheering at all the right moments because she was determined to be a Seahawks fan like him.
He managed to get through the new morning ritual with just him making coffee and pouring cereal into a bowl for Corky. And Corky always cuddled up next to him on the couch when he was watching a game. He’d explain the plays to his son, they’d eat chips and he’d try not to squeeze too tightly when he tucked his kid in bed although he wanted to.
But he’d learned the hard way that when Hades came to take someone, it didn’t matter how tightly you held them. They’d be gone anyway.
He could even take a shower now and turn from the image of her in there with him, naked. The steam they’d created in there had had nothing to do with the temperature of the water.
He sighed. He missed being married, missed having his wife to talk to at the end of the day. Missed shared jokes and fighting over the last popcorn in the bowl during movie night. He sure missed getting laid.
But this was his life now. He and Corky were on their own, and that was how it would have to be. They were both going to have to accept that, and so was his meddling sister.
He punched in her number again.
“Hey there,” she answered cheerfully. “What’s up?”
“You know what’s up,” he growled. “What were you thinking encouraging Corky to write that letter to Santa?”
“I didn’t encourage him. He wanted to,” she said in her own defense.
“Well, you didn’t have to send it.”
“I did, since you conveniently lost last year’s.”
“I would have lost this year’s, too!”
“That’s why Corky asked me to help him. What was I supposed to say?”
“That Santa doesn’t bring mommies, and Daddy’s not looking.”
“Maybe it’s time Daddy started looking. It’s been three years, Griff. Kaitlyn wouldn’t want you to wall yourself up for the rest of your life. She’d want Corky to have a mom.”
“He’s got you,” Griff said, forgetting his earlier guilt over taking up so much of his sister’s time.
“That’s not the same, and you know it.”
“Nothing’s ever going to be the same again, and you know it.”
“Of course, I do, and darn it, I miss her, too. She was my best friend.”
