Ruth didn’t know why this possibility should please her so much. Or why it should bother her that her sister was so quick to pick up on their nonexistent blood ties.
“I don’t know.” Aunt Shirley idly rubbed the wattle of skin under her left arm. “I think Helen and her first husband are still together. But I could be wrong. I haven’t heard from them since right after Brooke was born, which would be about fourteen years ago.”
A trickle of concern flowed down Ruth’s spine, leaving goose bumps in its wake. Even if Helen had divorced and remarried a Maddock after that time, there was no way she could have a son who, by Ruth’s best estimate, was about thirty years old.
Ruth smelled a rat, albeit the best-looking one she’d ever laid eyes on. Although Ruth Marsh was normally an easygoing person—so easygoing, in fact, that her fourth-grade students had nicknamed her “Miss Marshmallow”—she could not sit idly by while some stranger with an ulterior motive invaded their home. Right in the midst of their Christmas celebrations, no less!
Like the rest of the Babcock family members, Aunt Shirley was a trusting soul, welcoming anyone and everyone into her life. In fact, it was that very generosity of spirit that had led the older woman to raise Ruth and her older sister after their parents had died.
Aunt Shirley had protected her when Ruth was a child, and now it was Ruth’s turn to repay the favor. She would not let this situation unfold like that roofing repair sham her family had fallen for. Or the unsecured-bond investment scheme Aunt Shirley had naively bought into.
“I don’t know, Aunt Shirley,” Ruth said. “Something doesn’t seem right about this particular long-lost relative. For all we know, he could be another shyster, or even an ax murderer.”
“Nonsense.” Aunt Shirley disengaged her hand from Boris’s grasp and closed the musty book. “I won’t have you talking about your own cousin that way. In every family there are three horse thieves for every prince. Regardless of whether his branch of the family tree is represented on a coat of arms or has a noose hanging from it, he’s still family.”
She straightened and addressed Ruth with an expression that made it clear she hadn’t learned the lesson taught by the roofer and investment crook. “I’m sure that nice young man has a perfectly reasonable explanation for his name not appearing in our Bible.”
Ruth shook her head at her aunt’s complete trust in other people. The older woman had a reputation around Willow Glen as being wealthy and more than a little eccentric. She hated to think that another unscrupulous person might try to take advantage of that trust.
“Cousin Tucker is a fine fellow,” Aunt Shirley said, trying to reassure her. “Just give him a chance.”
Give him a chance to do what? Rob them blind? Murder them in their sleep? It was clear she would get nowhere with her family, so she let the subject rest for now. With a few well-chosen questions, she would soon ascertain the newcomer’s genealogical background as well as his intentions.
As Tucker came down the curved staircase, he saw the group huddled over a large Bible. They were probably reading the nativity story. He had serious doubts about his own sanity, agreeing to join in the Christmas celebrations when that was specifically what he’d been trying to avoid this year. If it weren’t for the brown-eyed brunette, he’d be in his room reveling in a game of solitaire right now.
If he’d been a suspicious man, he would conclude that certain women have the ability to zap men with a mysterious pheromone that robs them of their reasoning powers. If that were the case, he must have been hit with a double dose of the stuff.
By the time he entered the parlor, the group had finished their discussion or prayer or whatever, and all turned as one to face him. Discomfited by their scrutiny, Tucker glanced down to make a quick assessment of his appearance: turtleneck tucked neatly into jeans, zipper up, and both socks matched. Nope, nothing wrong there.
When he looked up, they were still staring at him. Especially the brunette. Only she seemed to be studying him harder than the others.
The sandy-haired teenager with too much makeup spoke first. “Hey, cuz.”
Tucker wrinkled his eyebrows. Cuz? He wasn’t up on teen slang, but he hoped it was a compliment.
“Glad you could join us,” said Aunt Shirley.
Oren spoke next. “She didn’t twist your arm, did she? Shirley is the bossiest woman I’ve ever had the misfortune to know.”
Rather than coming to her defense, the others smiled and nodded their agreement. Aunt Shirley smiled, too, as if she were proud of the distinction.
“No,” Tucker said, “my arms are just fine.” It was his brain he had to work on. He had come here to be alone, so why on earth was he standing amid ten strangers with the intent of celebrating the very holiday he’d been trying to avoid?
“Good,” said Aunt Shirley, “then you can climb that ladder and use those arms to string the electric lights on the tree.”
“There she goes again,” Oren griped. Turning to the proprietress of the inn, he added, “The least you could do is introduce him to everybody before you start bossing him around.”
The brunette stepped closer to Tucker. “That’s okay, I’ll take care of it.” Then she rattled off their names, pointing to each as she did so.
Aunt Shirley, he already knew, and her boyfriend Boris Schmidt. Then Oren Cooper and his wife Ada May. And their son, Dewey, who appeared to be in his fifties. Eldon and Rosemary Givens, and Brooke, their teenage daughter. The brunette’s sister, Vivian Marsh, with blue eyes so enormous she reminded him of a Siamese cat.
And, finally, the brunette.
“I’m Ruth,” she said, extending her hand.
Her hand was small yet strong. Just like the rest of her, he suspected. He couldn’t help wanting to get to know her better. Much better.
“Any of these names ring a bell?” she asked, sweeping a hand to indicate the people she’d just introduced.
Schmidt, Cooper, Givens, Marsh. He didn’t recognize the family names, but it had been a long time since he’d been home to Willow Glen. Even so, most of these people were older than his own thirty-one years, save the Marsh sisters, who appeared to be about his age or a little younger. And Brooke. Tucker shrugged, giving a gentle shake of his head.
A question niggled at the back of his mind. Assuming these people were all from Willow Glen, which was what Ruth had led him to believe by her implication that he should know them, why were they here instead of celebrating Christmas in their own homes?
Well, they’d been grilling him about his family. Now it was his turn to ask a question or two. “I’ve heard of people whose Thanksgiving tradition is to drive to the Checkered Tablecloth on the other side of town for a turkey dinner with all the trimmings. Is gathering at Willow Glen Plantation a new Christmas tradition around here?”
Ruth quirked her mouth, her lips pressing firmly together as if she weren’t satisfied with his negative response. Or the question he’d lobbed at her. “Something like that,” she said as if he should have known.
In the next few minutes, the previously tidy parlor was strewn with ornaments, bows, lights and tinsel. Ruth reeled out the seemingly endless strings of lights as he attached them to the tree. The task threatened to overwhelm him with memories of the Newland family decorating a fresh-cut tree in this room so many years ago. Stringing the lights had been Mr. Newland’s job, and he and Chris had hung the ornaments while Mrs. Newland stood back and pointed out bare spots. The only thing that kept him from bolting from the room was the woman who stood at his elbow, patiently handing up lights. And every time their hands touched, he had to fight the urge to pull her to him and kiss her breathless.
All