A Knights Bridge Christmas

“I am. Sorry.” She gave a small laugh. “Owen’s had so much new to deal with—with the move. New home, new school, new friends. And six isn’t five. He’s getting more independent. I don’t want to suffocate him but he’s still so young.”

“She’s in mama-bear mode,” Logan said, walking down the porch steps with Owen trotting happily next to him, ice skates in hand.

“Got it,” Brandon said with a grin.

“The skates are fine,” Logan added.

Clare knelt in front of her son. “Now, Owen, you can go skating with your friends, but you have to listen to Brandon. Understand?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Aidan and Tyler have more experience skating than you do. That’s okay. You don’t have to keep up with them. You’ll learn. Be patient with yourself.”

Logan adjusted Owen’s hat. “Best way to learn to skate better is to get out on the ice and go for it. Have fun.”

Owen smiled up at him. “Thanks, Logan.”

Already he was Logan, not Dr. Farrell? Clare kept her mouth shut as Brandon collected the three boys and headed across South Main to the common. She breathed deeply, her mind racing with possibilities of what could happen. Hurt feelings, the two more experienced boys running off and leaving Owen because he couldn’t keep up, kids teasing him because he was the inexperienced skater—the new kid in town who didn’t know anything.

Hypothermia. Stitches. Concussion. Broken bones.

“Clare.”

She dragged herself out of her thoughts and gave another small laugh to cover for herself. “Mind wandering. Thank you for helping with the skates.”

“Not a problem.”

She remembered the boughs from the Frosts and returned to her trunk. “I don’t know what we’ll do with them, but they smell nice, don’t they?”

“Sure do,” Logan said, grabbing most of them.

She gathered the rest and followed him inside through the front door and down a center hall to a cozy kitchen with white-painted cabinets. They set the evergreens on the table.

He brushed off his arms. “I think I got spruce needles down my neck.”

Clare laughed. “Me, too. At least we’re not allergic. I mean—I assume you’re not if you carried...”

“I’m not allergic.”

She glanced around the kitchen, its cabinets and countertops worn but serviceable. The gas stove looked fairly new—within the past decade, anyway. Windows by the table and over the sink looked out on the backyard, covered in light snow. She imagined it in spring, with flowers, green grass and shade trees.

Logan stood next to her at a window. “Gran gave up keeping bird feeders. She had a bad fall hanging a feeder a few years ago. She doesn’t give up easily, but she didn’t want birds counting on her if she couldn’t get out there in the snow.”

“She’ll enjoy the bird feeders at Rivendell, then.”

“I’m sure she will. She’ll have Grace Webster to instruct her.”

“I understand that Grace is the Knights Bridge resident bird expert.”

“That’s what I hear.” He nodded to the evergreens on the table. “Any plans for what to do with them?”

“I figure ideas will emerge as we get into the decorating. I assume we’re only decorating outside. No point decorating inside if no one will be here.”

“I did tell Gran I’d light a candle on Christmas Eve. I suppose I could delegate it, or drive straight back to Boston.”

“Have you ever spent Christmas in Knights Bridge?”

“When my sister and I were kids. Grandpa would take us out on the tractor on the Farrell farm to cut a Christmas tree.”

“You must have great memories.”

“I’d give anything to cut a tree with him now. I don’t care if I’m in my thirties.”

“I gather from everything I’ve heard about him that your grandfather was something. I can see for myself your grandmother still is. Shall we get started?”

His eyes steadied on her. “What about your grandparents, Clare?”

“All four are still with us. My paternal grandparents retired to South Carolina and love it, and my maternal grandparents live in Amherst with my parents. We have roots in the area. My family on my mother’s side settled in Enfield early in the nineteenth century.”

“One of the Quabbin towns.”

“I always thought I’d be a small-town librarian, but I ended up in Boston.”

“Because of your husband?”

“In part. I liked my job, too. And I like Boston.”

Logan leaned against the counter, his arms crossed on his chest. “But it came time to leave and make a fresh start.”

“Yes.”

“Not just for Owen’s sake—for your own, too?”

It didn’t sound like a question. It sounded as if he already knew the answer. Clare nodded. “Owen didn’t need a fresh start. He was happy in Boston, but I thought the move would be good for both of us.” She grabbed a pair of heavy-duty scissors out of a pottery container on the counter. “Why don’t I trim some of the dead stuff off the evergreens while you check the front porch for a good spot for them?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

His gaze lingered on her for a few more seconds. It was obvious he knew she’d deliberately changed the subject. She couldn’t tell if he also knew he’d gone too far in asking about her reason for leaving Boston.

Did Logan Farrell ever worry about going too far with anything?

He headed down the hall without another word. Decorating his grandmother’s house for Christmas couldn’t be his idea of an exciting Saturday. He could have hired out the job, Clare thought, but he was here, doing it—if with her help.

She heard a screech and jumped, immediately thinking of Owen, but then realized it was a car hitting its brakes. But before she could relax she thought, why? Why was a car hitting its brakes hard on South Main? Had Owen slipped away from his friends to come find her?

She shook her head. “Stop. Just stop.”

She realized Logan had come back down the hall and was standing in the doorway. “You all right?”