I'll Be Home for Christmas and One Golden Christmas. Lenora Worth
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She headed toward the refrigerator to pull out the milk. “Milk or coffee?”
“Milk.” Nick slid out of his khaki trench coat. “This looks good.”
“Well, it’s not coconut cake, but I wanted to make up for last night. I hate seeing grown men cry.”
He chuckled, then took the glass of milk and a generous slice of the still-warm cake, his eyes following her as he bit into the flaky lemon-flavored mound. Myla waited as he chewed it with glee, a little moan of appreciation escaping as he swallowed.
“I think I’m in love,” he murmured as he closed his eyes. After another hefty bite, he said, “Oh, you wouldn’t believe the phone calls I’ve been getting all day.”
Concerned, she asked, “About what?”
“About you. About the pizza party. We really impressed the stockholders. They’re throwing their support toward Rudolph Oil, and you.”
“Me?”
“They want to help you out.”
Myla had to turn away to keep him from seeing the tears welling in her eyes. Maybe there was hope, after all. Of course, these people didn’t know her background. She wondered how they’d feel about her if they knew the whole story. “I can’t take any charity, Nick,” she said to hide her fears.
“Of course you can,” he reasoned. “They admire your strength, Myla. Last night, you showed them something they’ve taken for granted.”
She shrugged, her back still turned away. “I only told the truth according to my beliefs. It’s what I live by.”
Thinking she was about to launch into another sermon, Nick cleared his throat. “I have some checks here. Will you take them? You can use the money after…after you leave here.”
“Charity,” she said, dreading the thought of not being self-reliant.
Nick came to stand beside her. “Yes, charity, but given with the best of intentions. And besides, they can write it off on their income tax, so take the money, Myla.”
She stopped stirring the steaming pot of vegetables. “The Lord loves a cheerful giver.”
“That’s the spirit. You can always pay them back.”
She smiled then. “Did they write checks?”
“Yes, why?”
“I’ll record their names and addresses and offer them my services. I want to start my own catering business.”
He stared over at her. “Catering…you’d be good at that.” Shaking his head, he added, “I admire your ingenuity. You’ll do just fine in life, Myla.” With that declaration, he finished the last bite of his cake.
Myla turned back to her cooking. She had to stop watching this man eat. She wanted to cook him hearty meals and take care of him. He needed more than a housekeeper; he needed a spiritual partner. And after ten years of marriage to Sonny Howell, she wasn’t sure she was ready for that yet.
Answering him finally, she said, “I have to do this, Nick. I have to provide for my children.”
Nick put his empty plate and glass in the sink. “I believe you will. Patrick was right. You are a good cook.”
“Thank you. Cooking’s about all I have to offer.” She faced him at last. “I need to tell you—the other job I came here to see about—it was a cook in a restaurant. I called today…and they’ve already hired someone.”
Nick put a hand on her shoulder. “You found this job, Myla. Maybe…maybe you’ll be better off here, for now.” Not sure how to comfort her, he added, “And hey, if you keep this up, I’ll be as fat as Santa by Christmas.”
She laughed then. “You can work it off by starting that fire Patrick and Jesse want.”
“Good idea. I rarely build a fire for just myself.” He headed toward the swinging doors, then whirled. “By the way, how’s Shredder doing?”
“He won’t come out of Henny’s apartment.”
She waited, but when he just stood staring over at her, she asked, “Is there anything else, Nick?”
“Yes,” he said, lowering his head a bit. “You’re wrong, you know.”
“About what?”
“Cooking isn’t the only thing you have to offer, Myla.”
He turned to go, leaving her to wonder what he’d meant by that statement. Careful, Myla, an inner voice warned. Nick was just being polite, trying to boost her ego. He didn’t know anything about her, and right now, she didn’t have the nerve to tell him the truth.
An hour later, Nick looked at the place set for one in the formal dining room. In spite of the Christmas centerpiece sitting in the middle of the long, shining Queen Anne table, the room still seemed empty and vast. In spite of the plate of steaming vegetables and hot-buttered noodles, the baked chicken and delicate dinner rolls, he couldn’t seem to get excited about eating.
Too much cake, he reasoned, plopping down on an antique chair to try to enjoy Myla’s marvelous efforts. “At last, peace and quiet.”
With his first bite, he heard Myla’s soft voice lifted in prayer. She was blessing their food in the other room. Sheepishly, Nick closed his eyes and listened. Glad when she’d finished, he whispered his own animated “Amen,” then straightened his linen dinner napkin to get on with his meal.
Before he got a bite of succulent chicken between his teeth, he heard giggles from the kitchen, followed by voices all talking at once. They were a close trio, his little pack of strays. Myla seemed very protective of her children. Nick had to wonder what kind of man would leave her and her two children with nothing.
It’s not your problem, Nick, he reminded himself. Sit up straight and eat your dinner.
With his first bite of the flaky roll, he remembered holding Myla the night before. Somehow, he’d managed to lose all decorum right there in his own kitchen. Carolyn would just love to have the details of that.
Of course, he didn’t owe Carolyn or anyone else any explanations. He liked having no strings attached, and no obligations to anyone. Memories of his loving parents moved through the room like ghosts, haunting Nick with a poignancy he refused to acknowledge. He couldn’t deal with the responsibilities of that kind of devoted love. He had other obligations—to Lydia and Rudolph Oil. Wishing Lydia didn’t always work so late, he tried once again to eat his dinner.
By his third bite, Nick could stand it no longer. Used to his house being quiet, he hopped up on the pretense of telling them to keep it down so he could eat. Making a beeline for the swinging door, he opened it to find three sets of surprised eyes looking at him as if he were the abominable snowman.
“Are we bothering you?” Myla asked, jumping up to take the glass he had in his hand. “Can I get you anything?”
Nick threw up his hands. “Yeah, a chair. You all are having entirely too much fun in here. I decided I’d better eat in here with you, just so we could avoid anymore surprises like last night’s.”
“Sure!” Patrick patted the stool nearest him. “Come on in, Mr. Nick. We don’t mind him eating with us, do we, Mom?”
“Of course not,” Myla replied softly. “After all, this is his house. He can eat in any room he chooses.”
Nick’s smile spread across his face like cream over strawberries. “I’ll go get my food.”
In a few minutes, he was settled in, packing away Myla’s dinner like a man starved. Between bites, he regaled the children with tales of the adventures of Lydia and Nick as they were growing up.
“See this scar?” He showed Jesse a faint white dent right in the middle of his forehead. “Lydia