Chapter Two

       Saturday, December 16, 2006

      Dear Candy,

      It’s going to be a hard Christmas for both of us. Would that I could send a hug through a letter, my sweet friend, for you would surely have one now and anytime you opened an envelope from me.

      Hard to believe that our parents both passed in the same year. And so young. I guess it’s true that someone can die of a broken heart. I watched Mom slowly dwindle over the years, losing whatever zest she’d once had for life. It seemed as though she had the energy to see me raised, but once I left for college, she had no reason left to live.

      Much like you say it was for your father.

      In answer to your question, no, I won’t be alone for Christmas. I was very glad to hear that you wouldn’t be, as well. I picture you surrounded by people you care about.

      I agree with what you said about heart—that it is the only true source that we can trust to guide us through life.

      At the same time, the whole heart thing has me perplexed. If it’s damaged by life’s trials and tribulations, how much can we trust it? How much does it control us and how much can we control it?

      Will I ever be able to open up and fully feel my heart, fully give it, or did the “incident” irrevocably change my ability to experience love on the deepest levels? Will I always be as I am now, moving through life without ever being fully engaged? Is there something I’m doing that keeps me trapped? Am I sabotaging myself? Or is this just the inevitable result to what happened when we were kids and a way of life for me that I can do nothing about—much like if I’d been in a skiing accident and lost a leg.

      Tough questions. I look forward to your thoughts on this one.

      In the meantime, know that I will be thinking about you through the season.

      Yours,

      James

      “MARYBETH?”

      Stuffing the letter she was reading into the writing desk drawer, Marybeth turned, smiling as a spry, little woman came through the kitchen into her living area, petting Brutus, two hundred and ten pounds of flesh and fur lounging in the doorway, as she passed.

      “Hey! I didn’t expect you until later.” Jumping up, Marybeth stepped over the two-year-old mastiff and hugged Bonnie Mather, her surrogate mother from the time she was twelve.

      “My garden club luncheon finished earlier than I thought—the speaker canceled.”

      “Well, come on in. The cookies are cooling, but I should be able to frost them if you want to wait.” She’d told Bonnie she’d bake six dozen cookies to take to the soup kitchen.

      “How about if I help?” Bonnie said, dropping the colorful cloth purse that was almost as big as she was onto Marybeth’s sofa. “I might not make frosting as good as you do, but I can wield a mean knife.”

      “Yeah, right.” Marybeth laughed. “My recipe is yours and you know it.”

      “That doesn’t mean I can make it as well as you do.” Bonnie stepped over Marybeth’s dirt-colored pal on her way back out of the room. “I know you argued about having that dog, but knowing he’s here with you sure gave your father peace of mind.”

      “I’ve gotten used to having him around.”

      “Your dad was beside himself when you first announced that you were going to run this place yourself.”

      That was putting it mildly. He’d done everything he could to get Marybeth to sell the bed-and-breakfast she’d inherited from a great-aunt she’d barely known.

      “He didn’t miss a single check-in from the time I opened until the day he died.”

      “Checking out the guests,” Bonnie said.

      Bonnie and Marybeth moved effortlessly in the professional kitchen of the Orange Blossom, assisting each other without word. As well they should considering the more than fourteen years they’d been cooking together. Bonnie had taught Marybeth, who had been written up in national travel magazines for her culinary talents and original recipes, most of what she knew.

      Reaching around Marybeth for a stack of cooled bellshaped cookies, Bonnie’s arm rested along her waist. “How are you doing?” she asked softly.

      “Okay,” Marybeth said, whipping green food coloring into a bowl of confectioner’s sugar and water icing. “Keeping busy. I have guests arriving today who’ll be staying through next weekend. And then another check-in on the twenty-third staying until the thirty-first.”

      “Over Christmas?”

      “Yeah.”

      “A family? Are they taking all four rooms?”

      “No, just one person. In Juliet’s room.” Her lone holiday visitor, on a holiday that was going to be very lonely.

      “You’re coming over for the day, though, right?” Since her mother’s death, Marybeth and her dad had spent every Christmas with Bonnie, Bob and Wendy Mather.

      “I don’t think so.” Marybeth delivered what she knew wasn’t going to be welcome news. She glanced at Bonnie, hoping the older woman would understand and not be hurt. “I…it’s going to be hard this year and I think it’d be better if I had a change. I feel like I need to do something different, to, I don’t know, start my own life or something.” It made a whole lot more sense when she thought about it to herself, than it did when she said it out loud. “Besides,” she added, “I don’t want to be a downer on your holiday.”

      “We loved your dad, too, missy,” Bonnie said in her most motherly voice. “We’ll all be missing him. Please come.”

      “I…maybe,” Marybeth told her, really feeling like she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Not this first Christmas anyway. “I have to see what my guest is going to be doing.”

      “You’re only responsible for breakfast and evening libations,” Bonnie said. “You’ll have the rest of the day free.”

      “I was thinking about going to the beach. Or…I don’t know. Can I let you know?”

      “Of course. And if you say no and change your mind, you can drop in, too. You know that. You don’t need an invitation.”

      Meeting Bonnie’s gaze, Marybeth blinked back the tears she was so valiantly trying to prevent. “Thank you.”

      “It’ll be strange having Christmas without you.”

      “I know. I just…I have to do this. Okay?”

      Bonnie’s okay didn’t sound happy. Or even satisfied. But at least the dreaded chore of telling her was done.

      “So what was that you were reading when I came in?” Bonnie asked after a few minutes of silence as the two of them, spreaders in hand, covered dozens of sugar cookie renditions of Santas and bells and Christmas trees with red and green and white frosting and sprinkles.

      Marybeth grabbed the nonpareils. They’d always been her favorites—even way back when her mom had been the one doing the baking. “A letter from James.”

      “A recent one?”

      “Yeah. His mom died this year, too.”

      “So you’re still writing to him.”

      “Mmm-hmm.”

      “Fourteen years and he continues to write regularly?”

      “Yes.”

      “I