But would she marry Greg now, if he came back to her on bended knee? Definitely not. That ship had sailed. Only her mother still clung to the hope that there’d be a last-second wedding to save the day.
“Auntie Merry, Auntie Merry!” Skip and Georgie, her rambunctious nephews, burst into the foyer. “Grammadear said you’d help us make the church window cookies.”
“Not tonight, I’m afraid. I have the hors d’oeuvres to do.”
Georgie tilted his face upward. He was six years old, blond and freckled like his older brother. “What’s ‘oardurves’?”
She ruffled his hair. “Nibbly bits before dinner. Dolled up veggies and bread.”
“Like crackers spread with Cheez Whiz,” Skip said with authority. He was three years older than his brother and terribly sure of himself. With his father away on a sea tour, then on shore duty for the past six months, Skip had become serious about his role as man of the family. “And olives.”
“Can I eat them?” Skip asked.
“You can try one,” Merry agreed. The anchovy-and-pepper mix she’d planned for the bruschetta was sure to be too spicy for the boys. What had she been thinking? Her family was accustomed to plain home cooking, not the five-star cuisine she’d discovered in Chicago’s best restaurants. They’d be baffled by amuse bouche and dumbstruck by dim sum. Her parents shared their insulated community’s general distrust of visitors with sophisticated ways and a taste for change.
But I’m not a visitor. Meredith herded the boys to the kitchen. I’m here to stay.
When heart troubles had prompted her father’s retirement at the same time her relationship with Greg was cracking like an overboiled egg, she’d returned to take over the family business. Thus far, every improvement she’d wanted to implement had been a struggle for control. Her parents had run the York Tree Farm since their wedding forty years ago, with Charlie overseeing the Christmas tree operation and Grace managing Evergreen, the seasonal gift and sandwich shop that served the cut-your-own-tree customers who began showing up in November.
Meredith glanced into the family room, where her father jiggled the baby on his knee while she goggled at the sparkling ornaments and blinking lights of the Christmas tree. In the kitchen, her mother hummed a carol to herself while seasoning a pot of frozen green beans.
They’ll learn to adjust. Meredith smoothed the drape of her oversize cable-knit sweater. So will I.
After the elation of Nicky’s return, her mood had turned into melancholy. Although surrounded by family, there were times that she felt very alone.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, the pot roast was out of the oven and the hors d’oeuvres well underway. Meredith heard the stomping of boots in the foyer. She hastily pulled a pan of bread slices from beneath the broiler. “It’s called bruschetta, Mom.”
Grace flapped a pot holder at the wisp of smoke rising from a charred crust as if it were a spark from Mrs. O’Leary’s lantern. “I know what bruschetta is, Miss Meredith. I watch the Food Network. All I’m saying is we don’t need more carbs. I already have the potatoes and the rolls. Your father’s diet…”
“I’ll keep him away from the hors d’oeuvres.” The cream and butter in the mashed potatoes was more of a concern, but Merry held her tongue. She took the pot holder and nudged her mother toward the doorway. “Sounds like Nicky’s back. Go say hi to our guest.”
Grace removed her apron. “You’re coming, aren’t you?”
Merry added chopped parsley to her anchovy mix. “As soon as I’m finished here.”
Her mother paused significantly. “Nicky’s pilot friend is single.”
“I know, Mom.” He’s also six feet of gorgeous, clean-cut masculinity. Don’t embarrass him. The man’s only on leave for a week. He’s not looking to get involved with…” Merry gestured at herself. No other explanation was necessary.
Grace’s face instantly clouded. She hurried from the kitchen without another word.
“Kryptonite,” Merry muttered. She couldn’t blame the woman for being old school, growing up as she had with strictly religious parents. And the wagons would certainly be circled if criticism came from outside the family. Even so, her mother’s disapproval did make Merry feel self-conscious. She couldn’t help but think of herself as Grace York’s cross to bear.
“Merry,” Nicky called from the family room, where the meeting and greeting was going on. “Come and see Mike. I want to show off my prettiest sister.”
Meredith brushed off her hands and went to join the group. Her nerve endings were jingling and jangling like a triangle chorus, but she folded her arms across her midsection and put on a serene smile. She glanced at Nicky first, ignoring Michael Kavanaugh’s presence. “You say that only because Noelle isn’t home from college yet.”
“Both my girls are lookers. They get it from their mother.” Charlie put his arm around Merry’s shoulders and urged her forward into the crowded room when she’d have rather hovered in the background. “Meredith, hon, this is Lieutenant Commander Michael Kavanaugh, ace pilot of the Blue Knight squadron. He flies a Super-Hornet, an F/A 18E. They call it a Rhino.”
“Yes, sir, but I’m not an ace.”
“Not yet,” Nicky put in.
There was no more delaying it. Merry pulled in a deep breath and looked up at the handsome Navy aviator. Her voice cracked, but she managed a placid, “Hello, Michael. How do you do?”
Then she put out her hand, waiting for the moment when the pleasure that had sprung to Mike’s face at the sight of her would disintegrate into polite withdrawal as he got a second, closer look.
That didn’t happen.
MIKE TOOK THE BLONDE’S hand and used it to pull her closer for a polite kiss on the cheek. “Fool me once,” he whispered in her ear before retreating a few inches. He winked, then stepped away. She seemed defensive, not wanting to be crowded. “Nice to meet you, Meredith York.”
Her smile wavered. “Call me Merry.”
“As in Merry Christmas, or Mary and Joseph?” Amusement danced in his eyes. “How could I have forgotten that the Yorks are named by theme? Merry and Nicholas—though he’s no saint—and what was the other sister’s name again?”
“Noelle.”
“Ah.”
“Corny, I know, but blame my parents.” She nodded her head at the beaming couple. “They’re the town’s unofficial Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus, in charge of all things Christmas.”
“Not even unofficial,” Nicky said. His baby daughter was cradled in the nook of one arm. “I must have mentioned that my dad plays Santa at all the town functions.”
Mike looked at Charlie. “Now I see why.” Nicky’s father was five-ten or so, and stockily built. Beneath a crop of gray hair, his face was flushed with good cheer and vigor. He could easily pull off an authentic “Ho, ho, ho.”
Charlie winked as he tugged at his full gray beard, which was liberally streaked with white. “I only grow it for the holidays.”
“But Grampa’s not the real Santa Claus,” said Georgie. “He’s an actor.”
Mike caught the sly look that crossed Skip’s face. He remembered informing his own younger brother of the truth about Santa Claus, after he’d put together hearsay with the hard evidence of the pile of presents they’d found stashed in their parents’ closet. The five-year-old had been inconsolable for days, and Mike had been forced to give up a soccer game and endure a two-hour wait in line to visit Santa at the mall. After that, he’d kept the news about the Tooth Fairy to himself.
He squatted