Coming Home for Christmas (4 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Coming Home for Christmas
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She slept soundly only to be awakened hours later by the sound of her doorbell. Groggily, she looked down at her watch. It was after twelve. Who would be visiting at this hour? She ran to the door, turned on the porch light, and was dismayed to see the huge golden dog slapping at her doorbell. She opened the door, and he bounded in like a whirlwind. He ran over to the fire and lay down on the cushions.
Amy threw her hands in the air. “What's this mean? You moved out? What?”
The dog barked as he squirmed and wiggled to get more comfortable on the cushions. “Does this mean you're staying here for the night?” The dog barked again, laid his head on his paws, and closed his eyes. “Guess so. Can't say as how I blame you. He sounds like a . . . like a . . . big jerk.”
Before she made her way to the second floor, Amy bent over to look at the collar on the big dog's neck. Churchill. “Okay, Churchill, see you in the morning.”
Chapter Four
Hank Anders staggered down the stairs a little before midnight. He was beyond exhausted from the past few hours with the twins, and he now had a newfound respect for his sister-in-law. Where in the name of God was she? Probably sleeping peacefully in some five-star hotel after being pampered by a trained masseuse.
The two dogs looked at him warily. Churchill ran to the sliding glass doors off the kitchen that led to a little terrace in the back. Earlier he'd seen the area was fenced, so he let the dogs out. His nerves were twanging all over the place as he prepared a cup of hot chocolate the way his mother had always done when things got dicey. Well, as far as he was concerned, things didn't get any dicier than this.
Dinner had been a disaster. The twins didn't like hard-boiled eggs. They didn't like toast either. When they wouldn't eat, he'd belatedly checked to make sure they had teeth, and sure enough they each had six. Then he'd tried peanut butter and jelly, but they didn't like that either. All they'd done was smear it everywhere. The two dogs licked it up, to his chagrin. Milk from a cup was spilled on the floor and on the walls, leaving a sticky residue. The dogs licked that up, too. He finally found a can of ravioli and handed out spoons. Probably his tenth or eleventh mistake. At least he didn't have to worry about the dogs'dinner.
Bath time had been a total disaster. He wondered if Alice would notice, if she
ever
returned, that the wallpaper was soaking wet or that the linoleum on the floor was buckling where the splashed water had seeped under it. Probably not. Why should she? She had other things on her mind. God, where was she? Was she going to leave him here
forever
with her kids or until Ben got back? He shuddered at the thought. She'd be a fool not to. A five-star hotel, a pedicure, manicure, hairdo, facial, massage, certainly couldn't compare to this experience.
And who the hell was that person who brought Churchill back? And how had the dog gotten out in the first place? “Please come home, Alice. Please,” Hank muttered over and over as he poured the hot chocolate into a cup.
Earlier, after the dinner the twins didn't eat, he had called the market and placed an order the clerk promised to deliver early in the morning. He'd lucked out when he called the only employment agency in town. The woman who operated it was running late and was still in the office. She'd promised a “day lady” or possibly a male nanny depending on availability and sir, we do not discriminate, who was capable of minding children and doing light cooking for $750 a week. He'd blinked at the amount but agreed. At that precise moment he would have paid triple the amount she quoted.
Hank was so hungry he thought he was going to pass out. He'd used the last of the bread, so he ate peanut butter and jelly right out of the jar. All of it. Though still hungry, he was too tired to rummage or try to cook something.
When Miss Sadie scratched at the door, he went over to open it. The little fur ball pranced in and looked up at the giant standing over her. She yipped and did a circle dance that probably meant something, but he didn't know what. He whistled for Churchill, and, when nothing happened, he turned on the outside light and whistled again. The small yard was lit up brightly, but there was no sign of the golden retriever. He ran out to the yard calling the dog's name, Miss Sadie yapping and nipping at his pant leg as he raced around. Pure and simple—the dog was gone. “Aw, shit!”
Miss Sadie leaped up, snagged his pant leg, and held on. He tried to shake her loose, but she wasn't budging. Somehow he managed to get back into the house in time to hear one of the twins wailing upstairs. “I hate you, Alice Anders,” he groaned as he made his way to the second floor. By the time he got to the boys' cribs, whichever one had been wailing, had stopped. Both toddlers were peacefully sleeping, thumbs in their mouths. Ben had been a thumb sucker.
Hank went back downstairs and opened the front door. He whistled and called the golden retriever's name. He felt like crying when the dog didn't appear. It was so cold and windy and he could see light flurries of snow in the lamplight at the end of the driveway. Miss Sadie was still protesting whatever it was she was protesting by yapping and whining. He told her to shut up in no uncertain terms. She growled, a funny little sound that made the hair on the back of Hank's neck stand on end. He'd read somewhere that little dogs could be killers.
Back in the kitchen, Hank looked at the hot chocolate in his cup. “Good for the nerves, my ass,” he mumbled as he searched the cabinets for something a little more powerful. He finally found a bottle of scotch behind a giant-size bottle of ketchup. He removed the cap and swigged directly from the bottle. One gulp. Two gulps. Three gulps. “Where are you, Alice?” he singsonged as he made his way into the family room. “Please come home, Churchill.” He immediately retraced his steps to the kitchen and made coffee. He stood in the middle of the kitchen as the coffee dripped into the pot. What kind of child-care provider was he? The worst kind, the kind that drank on the job, that's what kind. Well, that was never going to happen again.
Hank opened the door again and whistled for Churchill. He looked down at Miss Sadie, who just looked sad, like she knew Churchill wasn't coming back. He bent over to scoop the little dog into his arms. She cuddled against his heart, and he swore that she sighed with happiness. At least someone loves me, he thought. Either that or she's desperate for attention. More than likely she missed Albert.
The clock on the kitchen stove said it was one o'clock. What time did the twins get up in the morning? Not that he was going to be any more prepared for them when they did than he was when he arrived. He just knew Alice was sleeping soundly and peacefully on thousand-thread-count sheets while he was afraid to close his eyes.
Somehow he managed to pour his coffee and drink it without disturbing Miss Sadie, who appeared to be out for the count. Who was his earlier visitor, the one who brought Churchill back? Maybe the chick from next door, the one with the fancy set of wheels in the driveway.
As he walked around the well-lighted kitchen he felt sad that the Leigh house had finally, after all these years, been sold. And, without a doubt, the Carpenter house would go up for sale, too. This house, Ben's now, would be all that was left of the old childhood neighborhood. All the other houses on the street had recycled themselves, and, once again, small children played in the yards and even on the road because there was no traffic on the cul-de-sac. His memories seemed like they were a hundred years old.
Hank finally locked the door when he realized Churchill wasn't coming back. Obviously, the dog had jumped the fence. The best he could hope for was that the dog wasn't freezing somewhere. Miss Sadie squirmed, stretched, and licked at his chin before she went back to sleep. He just knew that Albert Carpenter had carried her around just the way he was doing.
Good Lord, how was he going to go to Albert's wake and funeral? He made a mental note to order flowers first thing in the morning. He'd have to find a babysitter. Suddenly, he wanted to cry all over again. How was he going to get the news to Alice? If she ran true to what she was doing, she wasn't going to be watching the news or reading papers. Ben needed to know, too. Tomorrow he would figure out what he was going to do about that.
The coffee had sobered him up, but he knew he couldn't sleep, so he switched on the television and watched a rerun of the daily news on Fox. Eventually he dozed, his arm around Miss Sadie.
 
Dawn was breaking when Hank finally stirred. Something had woken him. What? Miss Sadie was no longer sleeping in his arms. The house was silent except for a scratching noise on the sliding glass door. Miss Sadie wanted to go out. Then he remembered that Churchill was still missing. He ran to the door and opened it, but there was no sign of the golden retriever. What he saw made him blink. A good inch of snow covered the ground. Miss Sadie was no fool—she took one look at the white stuff, stepped over the threshold, squatted, and raced back inside.
Hank ran to the front door to see if the golden dog was waiting outside. He whistled and called. No dog prints could be seen in the snow. Shoulders slumped, he closed the door and went back to the kitchen to make coffee. While it dripped, and the twins were still sleeping, he used the first-floor bathroom to shower and shave. He wanted to be ready when the groceries and his new day lady arrived to take charge.
Fifteen minutes later, Hank was ready for whatever the day was going to throw at him. To pass the time until the twins woke, he checked out the little computer station Alice had set up in a small alcove off the kitchen. He was surprised when he clicked the computer on that it opened up to Alice's e-mail on AOL. At least he wouldn't have to worry about a password—it was all here, right in front of him. And there was an e-mail addressed to him.
Hank gawked at what he was seeing. Well, that certainly took a lot of nerve. He clicked on the e-mail and saw a to-do list. Not one word about where she was, what she was doing, or that she was sorry. A damn to-do list. He lashed out with his foot to kick the side of the little desk and was instantly sorry. He looked down at his bare feet and howled in pain, knowing damn well that he'd broken his big toe. What the hell else could go wrong? This was way beyond Murphy's law.
Hank read the list.
• Twins get up around 8. Diaper change. Dress.
• Breakfast. Oatmeal with milk and a little sugar. Applesauce.
• Lunch is soup, crackers, cheese cubes, and peaches.
• Milk as often as they want it.
• Dinner is whatever you want, cut up small or mash all food.
• Churchill gets fed at four. His food is in pantry in a bag. Do not let anything happen to that dog or Ben will kill you.
• Do the grocery shopping. List is on the fridge. Money is in the tea canister.
• Buy Christmas tree. Set it up. Decorate it. Buy wreath for front door. Hang wreath.
• Put gas in car, it's on empty.
• Give Churchill a bath today. His stuff is over the sink in the laundry room. Keep him warm. Build a fire and do NOT let him outside. Walk him. He can jump the fence.
• Twins get bath at 7. They like to play in the water. Do NOT flood the bathroom. They go to bed at 7:30. Give them a treat, ice cream will be fine if you buy it. They will scream for hours if they don't get it. Churchill gets a dog treat at the same time.
• Do laundry twice a day. Fold neatly and take upstairs. Do not leave in laundry room.
• Do not, I repeat, do not, drink while you are taking care of my sons.
Nursing his broken toe, Hank looked around wildly for something to hit, to smash. “In your dreams!”
Miss Sadie hopped up on his lap. She whimpered softly against his chest. “I can't do this, Miss Sadie. I wasn't cut out for this. How could she leave me here with this . . . this mess? Do you see how ill equipped I am to handle this? I don't even
want
to handle it. I bet ten dollars she's frolicking in some hot tub somewhere having a grand old time while I'm here . . . suffering. What's wrong with this picture, Miss Sadie?” The little dog licked his chin in sympathy.
Hank was on his second cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. Clutching Miss Sadie to his chest, he ran to the door just as the twins started to cry. He pulled it open to see the grocery delivery boy and directed him to the kitchen. He'd charged the food to his credit card when he ordered it, so all he had to do was tip the delivery boy. He took five dollars from the tea canister and handed it over. The boy looked at him in disgust, so he popped another five into his hand. “I used to get fifty cents for going to the store for my mother.”
“Yeah, well, that was then, this is now. That's so like, some dark-age time. I have to buy gas, use my own car, and drive through snow and hope the person I'm delivering to isn't going to shoot me dead.”
The kid had a point, Hank thought as he ushered him to the door just in time to see his new day lady/man walking toward the door. He groaned. Miss Sadie was yapping her head off, and the twins were bellowing at a high-decibel level. There was no sign of Churchill anywhere.
Hank sighed as he introduced himself to his day lady, who just happened to be an older man who said he was Mason Hatcher. He had quirky-looking hair that stood up in little spikes. Rosy cheeks, wire-rim glasses, and a mouth pursed into a pout. He wore a heavy black coat, sensible shoes with laces, and it looked like he had thick ankles. He was thick all over, Hank decided when Mason removed his coat, hat, muffler, and gloves and folded them neatly on the bench next to the door. Mason looked at him and said, “I don't much care for dogs.”
“Yeah, well, the dog goes with the deal. And one is temporarily missing. I'm sure he'll be back soon. He's . . . a little bigger. I'll pay you extra for the dogs.” Hank hated how desperate he sounded.
“We'll see,” was Mason's response. “Now, where are my charges?”
“Huh?”
“The children. Where are they?”
“Upstairs, second door on the left.”
Mason stomped his way up the steps as Hank made his way to the kitchen, where he started to unpack the groceries. There wasn't one thing fit for the twins. Obviously, broken toe or not, he was going to have to go to the market himself with Alice's list. Damn, his toe was killing him. And, to his horror, his whole foot looked swollen. He also had to go out to look for Churchill.
Don't let Churchill out. He can jump the fence. Ben will kill you if anything happens to him
. The words rang in Hank's ears until he thought he would go out of his mind.

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