My Kind of Christmas
Page 26

“Wow. Did my leaving town make this happen?”
“Perhaps,” she said. “That and having you hang up on me. A lot.”
“Mom,” Angie dared. “I’m going to do things you don’t always want me to do. I’m going to make decisions you sometimes don’t agree with. You may even be right in your advice, but that doesn’t matter to me. It’s time I learned a few things on my own. Can you understand?”
“I can,” she said. “But, Angie, please be patient with me. I’m doing my best. And I swear to God, you will have a child one day and you’ll want that child to excel and have joy and never be hurt. It will sometimes put you on opposite sides. It’s not easy. It’s not.”
Angie was silent for a long stretch before she said, “It matters an awful lot to me that you’re trying. I appreciate that.”
* * *
There was hardly a person alive who didn’t find a visit to Jilly Farms purely magical. The big old Victorian on ten acres of farmland had roads leading around and through the various plots, sheds, greenhouses and fields, which were separated by snow-covered trees. The house was decorated for Christmas outside and in; Colin’s artwork gracing the walls in every room except one—the lone painting in the dining room was a modern rendition of a Native American woman and child done by a friend of his, a famous artist.
Patrick drove Angie around the grounds in what Colin called the gardenmobile. They went inside greenhouses and marveled at indoor winter gardens. There were inactive steppe gardens on the hill, presently snow covered, but from March and April planting until September harvest they were covered with plants and vines. Fruit trees bordered the property; berry bushes separated gardens.
But even more fun than the house and land were the people. The kitchen was full of women—Jilly, Kelly, Kelly’s step-daughter Courtney, Becca Cutler, whose young husband was Jilly’s assistant and partner, and Shelby Riordan. Kelly, she learned, was a chef and she was the one directing the activity.
“I can help,” Angie offered.
“Do you bake?” Kelly asked.
“Sure. Miserably.”
They all laughed. “Then partner up with Courtney—she’s getting scary good at this stuff at fifteen. She’s working on sweet bread rolls—the biggest, softest, most delicious rolls in California—my great-grandmother’s recipe.”
“Right over here,” Courtney invited, calling Angie down to the end of the work island. “Roll the dough balls about this size and we load them in the pan like so. Last fall Kelly, Jilly and I made tons and tons of zucchini bread, pumpkin bread and cranberry bread. Most of it we’ll thaw for the Christmas baskets.”
“Who do they go to?”
“A lot of people! First of all, those who have fallen on hard times, especially the elderly who live off the grid in outlying areas. Then there are lots in town who barely squeak by. And this year we’re putting together the baskets—er, I mean, boxes. Baskets are too pricey. We’re putting them together here because there’s so much more room than at the bar and because Jilly has ginormous freezers in the cellar. And pantry shelves for Kelly’s canned goods and sauces and stuff that she sells all over the place. Jilly grows it, Kelly uses it.”
“It’s special stuff,” Becca added. “Organic, heirloom fruits and vegetables. Very beautiful, healthy, delicious stuff.”
Angie rolled dough and listened to them extol the virtues of the farm, of the retail food business. Patrick had disappeared—the men were staying clear of the kitchen. And then, quite suddenly, the landscape in the kitchen changed. A huge pot came out of the refrigerator and went to the stove, bags of greens and vegetables joined forces in an enormous wooden bowl, the last batch of bread was some fresh-baked French loaves that were sliced and slathered with a garlic paste. Angel-hair pasta was rinsed, plates and flatware went to the table.
“My God, you all work together like a machine!” Angie exclaimed.
“We’ve done this before, many times,” Kelly said. “We’re all kind of related, at least by work and marriage. And when you get down to it, we share a common purpose—keeping the farm going, the people fed well and the food at the dinner table five-star.”
“Amazing,” Angie said. “It’s almost communal living at its best.”
“Sometimes more than almost,” Jilly said. “There have been many friends and family members under this roof.”
“But Jilly would rather be in the garden or traveling with Colin,” Kelly assured her. “Jilly is a master farmer and Colin is a brilliant painter, but neither of them is interested in running a hotel. For that, they need help.”
The table was crowded for dinner. Angie had never before been terribly impressed with spaghetti and meatballs, but today she was awed. “This is the best I’ve ever had,” she said. “The sauce is wonderful and the meatballs—God, they are perfect in every way.”
Kelly took the opportunity to brag. “First of all, Jill grew these tomatoes and they’re priceless. There’s a farmer in the valley with free range turkeys for the meat—he’s a love. I buy a lot of turkey meat from him. In fact, I like to pick out my turkey and—”
Several people at the table said, “Ewwww…”
“Well, I don’t name them!” Kelly said.
“She picks her calves, too,” her husband, Lief, said. “You probably don’t want to know any more about this process. Chefs like to go to the wharves and smell the fish, grow their lobsters and select their shrimp and crab. She’s very fussy about scallops but she’ll take just about any duck I shoot.”
“And deer?”
“She leaves the venison to Preacher.”
“He’s the best there is,” Kelly confirmed. “But you’re right about the turkey meatballs. And the sauce, my nana’s—the best recipe I’ve ever used. Perfect. And there’s tiramisu for dessert.”
“You will die, it’s so good,” Becca said.
And it was during dessert that Patrick urged her to fill them in on Megan. Before they’d even picked up plates, everyone was eager to add to the fund.
Late that night, back at Patrick’s cabin, Angie snuggled up against him in bed and said, “I envy them in a way. I mean, I don’t want to teach or garden or cook, but still…”
“What do you envy, then?”
“They know exactly what they want. And who they want it with.”
Chapter Twelve
Luke and Shelby were the last ones to leave the Victorian after dinner. Luke held his hefty son; Brett’s head rested against Luke’s shoulder, sound asleep.
“He’s going to f**k it up,” Luke said as Colin walked him to their car.
“Luke!” Shelby admonished. “My God, I hate to even think what Brett’s language is going to be like! Besides, what are you talking about?”
“Paddy,” Luke said. “He’s in love with her, with Angie. And he’s going to move on without her.”
“Did he tell you he’s in love with her?” Shelby asked.
“He didn’t have to,” Luke said. “Right, Colin?”
“I’m pretty sure Luke’s right. I’ve seen Patrick with other women. That last one, Leigh, he was with her for four years and we’d never have met her if we hadn’t gone to Charleston. He didn’t look at her like he looks at Angie. And when Angie looks at him, she lights up.”
“I should have a talk with him,” Luke said.
Everyone laughed.
“How is that funny? That’s not funny.”
Colin put a hand on Luke’s back. “Mind your own business. He’ll figure it out.”
“Maybe, maybe not. The Riordan men aren’t known for figuring things out. And he’s only got another couple of weeks here.”
“He does look better than he did two weeks ago,” Jilly said. “Better rested, I think.”
“Of course he’s rested. He probably hates to even get out of bed these days!”
“Oh, Luke,” Shelby said. “Let’s get you home before you say something stupid.”
“I’m just making an honest observation,” he grumbled. “I should really talk to him....”
* * *
Since that first night together, Angie and Patrick hadn’t spent a night apart. He loved falling into bed with her, loved waking up with her. He knew how much his heart would ache when they ended this, and he worried that it was going to scar hers. But she always reminded him that, even if they did have a future together, he would be deployed often. And she had plans of her own. So Patrick tried, somewhat successfully, to take this comforting routine at face value and not to think about it too much.
Right now, his relationship with Angie out in the open, life was good. They could spend time with his brothers and her family, have a beer or dinner at the bar without ruffling Jack’s avuncular feathers. In fact, in the past week, Jack had become downright friendly.
Angie worked every day, though Mel encouraged her to take as much time to play as she wanted. But Angie was setting up a surgery and wanted to be one hundred percent involved. Megan was scheduled for the operation in one week—on the seventeenth. Angie planned to travel to Davis with her, to get her own hotel room so that after the doctor saw Megan, she could bring her home. Megan’s mother would stay in Megan’s room all night, along with Dr. Hernandez’s nurse.
Paddy begged his way along.
“I’m not sure it’s proper,” she said.
“We’ll get two rooms if you want,” he said. “We won’t use them, but we can get them. Let me do the driving.”
They’d had such a wonderful weekend together, first with the group at the Victorian and then a day of adventurous snowmobiling. And always, no matter what went on during the day, they had that time together alone at night. And there hadn’t been anymore nightmares.
But Patrick still called Marie daily, promising to be with her for Christmas when grief might hit her hardest.
On this particular day, he went to Fortuna to shop. He wanted to stock his refrigerator for that night. He was planning to meet Angie at the bar along with others from town. They’d have a beer or glass of wine, then she’d follow him home and he’d make her a special dinner—Italian beef that had been simmering in the Crock-Pot all afternoon, drowning in spices and gravy, potatoes whipped into silk, peas and carrots. He grabbed a chocolate cake, her favorite wine, his favorite beer, eggs, milk and a few other staples.
He had loved cooking for Leigh, too, but she never seemed to care much, always preferring dinner at a restaurant. Angie, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy everything he made for her and spending the time alone together.
Heading for his car in the grocery store parking lot, he heard a sound that stopped him in midstride. It was that telltale click of a dead battery. Click, click, click. And then a woman got out of her car and lifted the hood. She was a tall woman around fifty years old who looked good in jeans. She had short auburn hair and wore a leather jacket. She stared at the engine. Patrick had seen this before—she thought her problem might jump out at her.
He walked over, holding his two bags of groceries. “Battery,” he said simply.
“I know,” she returned, irritably. “Why now? I’m headed to my brother’s and I’m almost there. I wanted to grab a few things—gifts for his family—and now the car won’t start.”
“Is he close by?”
She shook her head. “Another half hour or so up the mountain. But I can call him....”
“Here’s what we can do,” Patrick said. “I can give you a jump and you can either carry on, let your brother help you. Or, I can follow you to the auto supply and put in a new battery for you. I have a toolbox in the Jeep.” He gave a shrug. “If you need a new battery, which I’m pretty sure you will, you’re going to have to come all the way back here to buy it, anyway.”