Bride Under the Mistletoe: The Magic of a Family Christmas. SUSAN MEIER
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He stayed quiet the rest of the way to her home. Walking on the grass, he managed to slip only a time or two, but that provided Harry with a few laughs, and Wendy with something to talk about with Harry.
Suddenly she turned up an icy walkway to the right, and Cullen stopped.
Oh. Dear. God.
“Come on.”
Swallowing back a protest, Cullen carefully navigated the walkway and the five icy stairs to the wide front porch. They stepped inside a freezing-cold foyer with beautiful hardwood floors, a new paint job and a modern table holding a ginger-jar lamp and a stack of unopened mail.
She stripped off her coat. “As soon as I light the fireplace and turn on the oven, the downstairs will be toasty warm.” Heading for the kitchen, she called over her shoulder, “If you’re cold, don’t take off your coat until the place heats up.”
He slid Harry to the floor. The little boy immediately shucked his coat, found the hall closet and tossed it inside. Cullen grimaced. He’d look like a real wimp if he stayed in his coat, so he shrugged it off and followed Harry into the kitchen.
Wendy beamed at Harry. “Oh, you took off your own coat!”
Harry nodded. “I saw you put it in the closet before so I know what to do now.”
Cullen caught the exchange but he was too busy staring at the kitchen cabinets to comment.
Wendy winced. “I know they’re ugly.”
“My father hated them, too.”
Her pretty green eyes widened. “This was your house?Your family was the rich family that left town and neglected it?”
“That would be us.”
“And your mother is responsible for this floor?”
He shrugged. “It was the eighties. Linoleum was all the rage.”
“Yeah, but now I’m stuck with it. I should shoot at least one of you.”
Cullen heard her, but didn’t respond. Memories of conversations over breakfast with Gabby, the Barrington’s housekeeper, came tumbling back.
Are you ever going to learn to make pancakes?
No.
I like pancakes!
Little boys aren’t supposed to get everything they want. Makes them spoiled.
Gabby hadn’t been mean about it. She’d laughed. She was a fun, easygoing woman who sometimes even sat at the table and ate scrambled eggs and toast with him before she drove him to school.
“I asked if you wanted anything to drink.”
Hearing Wendy’s question, he spun to face her. Standing by the open refrigerator, she held a pitcher of something pink. “What is it?”
“Pink lemonade.”
“Got any bottled water?”
“I have tap water.”
“That’s fine.”
“Glasses are in the cupboard.” She pointed at the one by the sink. “Help yourself.”
Walking to the sink, he watched her pour a drink for Harry and one for herself then carry eggs, butter and milk to the center island after storing the lemonade. He tried to remember his mom even being in the kitchen, let alone cooking, and not one memory surfaced.
“We’re baking cookies, if you want to help.”
He turned at Wendy’s question. Her smile was forced. Her eyes not as bright as they had been. She obviously didn’t want his help and he wasn’t really in the mood to remember things that only made him a weird combination of angry and sad.
“No, if you have a book somewhere I wouldn’t mind passing the time reading.”
She relaxed. “I have a roomful of bookcases stuffed with just about anything you could want. Third door…”
“On the right. I know. It used to be a library and office. That’s why there are built-in bookcases.”
“Okay. Just open the drapes. When it starts to get dark, we’ll break out the candles and flashlights.”
“Great.”
He entered the library feeling a mix of nostalgia and disappointment. His mother had worked in this room every night and most weekends. But Wendy didn’t have a desk and leather chairs. Instead, a chaise sat by the bay window. A well-worn yellow comforter lay across the foot. The room that had been a place of work was now a place of peace and quiet. He scanned her titles, found a thriller by a favorite author, and settled in on the chaise.
After an hour, the scent of fresh-baked cookies drifted into the room. He closed the book and inhaled deeply before rising from the chaise and walking into the kitchen.
“Smells good in here.”
Green icing on the tip of his nose and flour across one cheek, Harry grinned at him from his chair beside the kitchen island. “I’m painting stained-glass windows on a church.”
Cullen laughed. “No kidding!”
Wendy looked offended. “Hey, I can get pretty fancy with my cookies.”
Glancing at the rows of already painted cookies on the far end of the island, Cullen nodded. “So I see.”
Harry nodded. “You paint one, Mr….”
“This is Mr. Barrington,” Wendy supplied.
“Since we’re kind of in close quarters and unusual circumstances I think you might as well call me Cullen.”
“Okay, Cullen!” Harry said, handing him a cookie. “You paint this one. It’s a bell.”
“I see that.”
“So paint it.”
“With frosting,” Wendy qualified. “But you should also wash your hands first.”
He was going to say no. He’d never done anything like this in his life and he was too old to start now. But just the mention of the word frosting squeezed his heart. Unable to catch every word said about him, Harry had repeated what he thought he’d heard and had called himself a frosting child. In a way he was. He was a sweet little boy left in the hands of a cold, sterile system. How could Cullen turn away the request of a child who’d just lost his mother?
“Okay.”
He washed his hands, picked up his cookie again and chose a paintbrush from those assembled beside the colorful cups of frosting. He watched Wendy dip her brush into the yellow icing and paint the bell she held a bright yellow, then switch brushes to add red icing to create a bow. He mimicked her movements, except he dipped his brush in blue. He covered his cookie in pale-blue frosting and painted the bow shape at the top white.
Harry approved it with a smile. “I like it.”
“I like it, too, but you know what? I’m kind of getting hungry.”
Wendy said, “Let me finish up here and I’ll make hamburgers.”
“Actually, I make a great hamburger. You said your gas stove will work, right?”
She nodded. “That’s how we made these cookies.”
“Then you guys just go ahead and keep painting. I’ll make burgers and by the time you’re done, dinner will be ready.”
Wendy smiled. Cullen’s heart tripped over itself in his chest. Now that they were in a comfortable environment, he’d begun thinking of things a little more normally. But that wasn’t necessarily good. Instead of envisioning off-the-wall images like sparkling angels when he looked at her, he was now thinking how he’d like