The Christmas Campaign. Patricia Bradley
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later a message pinged. Sure. But why the PLEASE?
Explain later. Nicole put her phone back in her pocket. Then in a voice loud enough to carry, she said, “Okay, Gracie, let’s get you back in your booster seat.”
Silence greeted her as she reentered the dining room and slid Grace into the high chair. “Did I miss anything?”
“Nope,” said her brother Aaron.
Nicole caught the look her mother gave him.
“Oh, by the way,” Aaron said. “I’m volunteering Saturday to help Peter Elliott fix up the shelter. What time do you want me to pick you up?”
“Pick me up for what?”
“Aren’t you going to help?”
She shook her head. “Sorry, I have a lunch date, but I hope you have fun.”
“Lunch date?” her mom repeated. “You never said—”
“Cheryl sent me a text a few minutes ago. We’re doing lunch and then we’ll pick up some Christmas presents.” Which wasn’t a lie. She glanced at her brothers, and the sympathy in their eyes burned her insides. Burned enough to make her blink back tears.
Her dad cleared his throat. “Hey, Nic, if you’re finished eating your cake, come see what I’m working on in the shop.”
She cut a sharp glance at him. No sympathy, just love in his face. She nodded.
Her dad crooked his arm for her to slide her hand through. “We will be back directly, unless Nicole decides to sand a little on that bookcase she’s making,” he said over his shoulder.
“Don’t either one of you dare!” her mother called after them. “You still have your presents to open.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As they stepped out of the house, her phone alerted that she had a text, and she glanced at it. It was from Cheryl, already canceling their lunch date because she’d remembered a prior commitment. With her boyfriend, no doubt, but Nicole would keep the cancellation to herself.
She strolled with her dad to his workshop.
“Can you believe it’s almost the first of December and seventy degrees?” he said.
Thank you, she replied silently. “I think it’s supposed to turn cold this weekend.”
One thing about her dad—he didn’t push her to talk about something she didn’t want to discuss. The fragrant smell of cedar washed over her when she stepped through the door. “You’re making a cedar chest.”
“Yep. It’s over here.” He led her to the chest, which was finished except for attaching the hinges.
She ran her hand over the smooth wood, admiring the red lumber that seemed to glow. “You never did make me one.”
“You know what they say about the cobbler’s children having no shoes,” he said with a laugh. “Except that’s no longer true. This one’s yours.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. She had so not expected this. “Oh, Pops, thank you. It’s beautiful!”
“Like you.”
“Stop that. You’re going to make me cry.”
He hugged her. “It’s true.”
Nicole laid her head on his shoulder. She knew better. Her mouth was too wide, and her hair too straight, just like her body. Guys never seemed to give her a second look.
She squeezed him and then walked over to the bookcase she’d been working on, half tempted to pick up her sanding paper. “Thanks for feeling sorry for me and getting me out of the house.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I heard Mom when I was in the hallway.”
“Oh.” He rummaged in his toolbox and handed her a sheet of garnet sanding paper. “She means well—she knows how much you want a family, and we’ve both seen the way you look at Sam and Amy. And little Grace.” He put his arm around her. “Honey, I know it was bad after Stuart married what’s her name—”
“Tiffany.”
“Yeah, her. But the point is, eventually you’ll have to risk your heart again.”
If only her heart wasn’t a block of ice. Nicole wasn’t sure she’d ever be willing to trust another man.
“Your mom just wants you to be happy.”
She quirked her mouth in a wry grin. “And Jake O’Neil and his cousin Peter Elliott are at the top of her list of eligible men in Cedar Grove.”
Her dad laughed. “Could be worse.”
“But pushing me on Peter isn’t the answer. I spend two hours a month with the man at the city council meetings, and not once has he indicated he might be interested in me. Other than to get my vote on one of his pet projects.”
“Speaking of votes, I talked to Hugh yesterday. He’s talking about not running for the mayor’s office again in the next election.”
Her heart kicked up a notch. She hadn’t heard that. “Really? Why not?”
“He said he’d been having a few health problems. If he doesn’t run, that would get rid of one of the obstacles you mentioned when we talked about you running for mayor.”
Her mind raced. She’d known and respected Hugh Gordon all her life, but he wasn’t the most effective mayor Cedar Grove could have. If he didn’t run, and if she could win the election, she could implement a plan she’d been working on with Judge Connors, an old friend of her dad’s.
“Whatever you’re thinking, I like it,” her father said. Then he wrinkled his nose. “Except if you become mayor, I’ll have to get someone to run the office.”
The family-owned company was small, and Nicole did it all, from bookkeeping to answering the phone. “Do you really think I could get elected?”
“I don’t know why not. You handily won the city council seat, and the mayor’s office will be a cinch, too. But you need to start campaigning now, let people see you helping out at places...like the children’s shelter. I doubt Cheryl would mind if you canceled your outing.”
“Pops!”
“I’m serious, Nic. You know as well as I do that you would have jumped on helping out if your mom hadn’t been the one to suggest it. I’ve heard you say a dozen times the shelter is a good thing for Cedar Grove. If you’re seriously considering the mayor’s race, you need to get your name out there and quit hiding your light under a bushel. And who knows, you and Peter might just hit it off.”
She stared at him. “Not you, too.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You never know—”
She put her hands on her hips. “I know this. South Mississippi will freeze over before Peter Elliott ever asks me for a date.”
Or his cousin Jake.
THE SUN HUNG low on the horizon as Peter walked to his car. He’d tucked the letter from his grandfather in his briefcase to read later tonight. Right now he had to answer a text from the director of the children’s shelter. Call me.
As he dialed Sarah Redding’s cell phone number, he shrugged out of his suit coat. It was unseasonably warm weather for the last of November. That was one thing he’d enjoyed since returning home—the odd days of warm weather in fall and winter. Of course, tomorrow it could be thirty.
Sarah answered on the first ring. “We have a problem.”
“We always have a problem,