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A Little Christmas Spirit Page 10


  Not his problem.

  * * *

  “Brockie, you need to remember what we talked about on Saturday, about staying in the yard,” Lexie said firmly as she sat across from her son at their little dining table.

  He nodded but looked confused. “I didn’t wander off.”

  True, he hadn’t. And he had told her where he was going.

  “But you didn’t wait to ask my permission, did you?” she pointed out. “You just left, and without your coat.”

  His gaze dropped, a sure admission of guilt.

  “You knew I didn’t want to bother Mr. Mann.” Brock looked momentarily confused. “Stanley,” she clarified.

  “He didn’t mind,” Brock said.

  Oh, good grief, she was getting nowhere. “Well, it was still wrong to go running off like that without waiting for my permission. You need to spend some time thinking about that.”

  He heaved a sigh. “I don’t want to sit on the thinking chair.”

  “Well, you have to,” Lexie said firmly.

  “I just wanted lights,” Brock grumbled and made his way to the designated chair to begin his little-boy torture session.

  “I know. But I want you to think about what you did wrong. Okay?” He plopped onto the chair, his back turned toward her, shoulders hunched.

  “You’ll thank me someday.” Had she just said that? She was turning into her mother.

  That was okay. She was glad her parents had worked so hard to discipline and mold her. All those times she was sent to her room, deprived of candy for a week, grounded—how she’d resented them! But she’d learned to respect her elders and work hard, and she knew that was thanks to her parents working so hard to turn her into a civilized, responsible human being. She wanted the same for Brock, wanted him to grow up to be a good man.

  Her son, a grown-up. That felt a hundred years away. Only a hundred years to go until Brock was civilized and responsible. A long, lonely haul when you were doing the parenting all by yourself.

  Millions of women managed it somehow, she reminded herself. She would, too.

  Brock’s time-out ended and, after another little talk, they feasted on chicken strips, mashed potatoes and carrots for dinner. And chocolate milk. Punishment was over. It was time to end the day on a good note.

  Bath time was followed by story time and bedtime prayers. “God bless Mommy and Grandma and Grandpa in heaven and Dog and Grandpa Stanley,” Brock concluded.

  Lexie hoped their neighbor didn’t mind being dubbed an honorary grandpa. At some point she’d have to explain to Mr. Mann about her father’s death. She hoped he’d understand and that he wouldn’t mind. He wasn’t much of a talker.

  Or a smiler. It didn’t bode well for understanding.

  Oh, well, the world was full of grandpas. They’d find a better one somewhere.

  “How’s your foot feeling?” Shannon asked when she picked up Lexie and Brock for school on Monday.

  “Not too bad, really,” Lexie said. The pain meds worked wonders.

  “Let me know when you want me to take you to the specialist.”

  “I can probably get an Uber,” Lexie said.

  “Sure, why not? You’re rolling in the big bucks, right?” Shannon teased.

  “I don’t want to be a pain.”

  “You won’t be. Give me chocolate for Christmas, and we’ll call it even,” Shannon said with a smile. “You know, the kids are going to find that boot fascinating,” she predicted.

  She was right. They did and, of course, wanted to hear all about Lexie’s fractured ankle. “Did you cry when you fell down, Miss Bell?” Mirabella, one of her favorite students, asked.

  “I wanted to,” Lexie said.

  “But you didn’t?” Mirabella was amazed.

  “Maybe a little. It’s okay to cry when you’re hurt, isn’t it?”

  All the students nodded.

  “I cried when my turtle died,” volunteered a little boy named Jonathan.

  “That’s okay because it’s hard to lose pets we love. I bet you gave him a very happy life while he was here with you,” Lexie said.

  “I did,” Jonathan replied and looked up adoringly at her. Adoration, one of the perks of teaching little ones.

  Later, in the teachers’ lounge, her coworkers were equally fascinated as well as sympathetic. “You poor girl. Are you going to have to have physical therapy?” asked Mrs. Davidson.

  “Probably, but first I have to see a specialist. I need to call and schedule that,” Lexie said, thankful for the reminder.

  She brought up the information on her phone and called the specialist the emergency-room doctor had recommended. Happily, the doctor could squeeze her in that afternoon.

  True to her word, Shannon drove her to the doctor, who did, indeed, prescribe physical therapy.

  “We can see you tomorrow afternoon,” the receptionist at Healing Help Physical Therapy assured Lexie when she called them.

  “No problem running you there,” Shannon assured her. “I can play Cookie Jam on my phone while I’m waiting.”

  Thank God for Shannon.

  Except late that night Lexie got a text from her.

  Puking big time and have a fever. Going to have to call in sick. Sorry I can’t take you to school or PT. Don’t hate me.

  Her poor friend. She should take her some chicken soup.

  Sadly, she couldn’t deliver it since she couldn’t drive. Not to Shannon’s, not to school. Not with this big, clunky boot.

  Lexie frowned at her Frankenstein’s monster footwear. Well, they didn’t call it a walking boot for nothing. She’d walk to school and then she’d have to take an Uber to physical therapy.

  She heard a soft pattering against her bedroom window. It was starting to rain, something they didn’t get a lot of in Southern California. She shut her eyes and envisioned a not-so-brisk three-quarter-mile morning walk to school in chilly, damp weather.

  Ho, ho, ho.

  * * *

  It was early morning, and Stanley was wheeling his garbage can to the curb when he saw the neighbor and her boy walking his way. It was cold and gray, not what you’d call a nice morning for a walk. But with that gigantic blue boot on her right foot she’d have trouble driving.

  She was young and fit, and the school wasn’t that far away. The rain would probably hold off.

  He quickly turned to walk back up his driveway before he got trapped in conversation.

  Too late. “Grandpa Stanley!” the boy called. “Grandpa Stanley!”

  This was followed by his mother calling, “Brock, no. Leave Mr. Mann alone.”

  Stanley picked up his pace.

  Stanley! What do you think you’re doing?

  It was just the wind, but it sure sounded like Carol. Stanley didn’t want to, but he turned around.

  “Hi, kid,” he said to Brock. Okay, he’d been friendly. Now it was time to go inside. A wet drop on his nose confirmed that, yes, he didn’t need to be standing around in his driveway.

  Except here came Lexie Bell, hobbling up behind her son. Couldn’t be much fun walking around in that thing.

  “I’m afraid Brock’s taken a shine to you,” she said, half apology, half what-else he wasn’t sure. Carol had been the one who read body language and translated conversational subtleties.

  “I guess,” he said, at a loss for any better way to respond. Two more wet drops fell, hitting the bald spot on top of his head.

  “Well, have a nice day,” she said and started walking away. “Come on, Brockie.”

  There. The woman was perfectly fine walking to school. A little rain never hurt anyone. Anyway, her coat had a hood, and that tote bag she was carrying looked waterproof.

  Her son stayed put. “Shannon was going to drive us to school but she got sick. I don’t think I like the rain,” he added, scr
unching up his face.

  “It does that here in Washington,” Stanley informed him.

  “Brockie, come on,” called Lexie Bell.

  The boy heaved a dramatic sigh and started to trudge off after his mom.

  Stanley frowned. Guilt was an uncomfortable thing.

  Then he called, “Hey, you two. Come back here.”

  What a way to start his day.

  10

  “This is so nice of you,” Lexie Bell said to Stanley as they drove off down the street. “I hope it’s not too much trouble.”

  It was a pain in the butt. “You don’t want to be walking around in the rain in that thing,” he said.

  “No, I don’t. I really appreciate the lift. My friend was going to give me a ride this morning, but she’s sick.”

  Which meant the woman would need a ride home, too. He sighed inwardly, resigned to his fate.

  “What time do you get off?” he asked.

  “Oh, Mr. Mann, you don’t have to come get me,” she protested.

  If he didn’t, he’d hear about it from Carol.

  “It’ll probably rain all day. You don’t want to walk home in it. You don’t even have an umbrella,” he pointed out.

  “You’re right. It didn’t rain that much where we lived. I guess I should invest in one now that we’re up here.”

  “Yeah, you should,” he agreed. “So, what time are you done with school?”

  “You really don’t have to bother. I have physical therapy scheduled right after. I’ll just get an Uber.”

  “You’re going to pay someone?” When she could get a ride for free? Stanley, not one to waste money, was horrified.

  “Well, yes.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t do that. What time do you get off?”

  “I’ll be ready to leave at three thirty. I’ll pay you,” she quickly offered.

  “No need,” he said.

  Paying him would make about as much sense as calling some sort of taxi service. Who had that kind of money to fritter away?

  He pulled into the drop-off lane and stopped, and she slid out.

  “This was so kind of you. Thank you,” she said as she opened the back door for her son.

  “Thanks, Grandpa!” he called and hopped down.

  “You go on in,” she said to the boy. “I want to talk to Mr. Mann for a minute.”

  “Okay. Bye!” Brock said and ran off toward the front entrance.

  “I wanted to explain about Brock,” she said to Stanley. The few drops of rain had turned into a shower. She put up the hood of her coat. “My father died two years ago. He was the only grandpa Brock had. I’m afraid he wants a grandpa desperately.”

  “Doesn’t your ex have a dad?” There had to be an ex somewhere in the picture. The kid hadn’t been hatched.

  “I’m afraid there isn’t an ex. Well, there is, but he’s not part of our lives and neither are his parents,” she said, her face reddening. “We were engaged but...”

  Stanley held up a hand. He wasn’t into soap operas. “That’s okay. I get the picture.”

  “Anyway, I appreciate you being so nice to him.”

  Nice to him? Stanley was doing his best to discourage the kid. Now he had two pests in his life, Mama Pest and Baby Pest.

  “You’d better get inside before you drown,” he said.

  “And I should let you get going. Thanks again.”

  He nodded. She shut the door, and he got out of there.

  Back home, Dog was waiting at the kitchen door to greet him, tail wagging, when he came in from the garage. She’d already devoured all the food in her dog dish.

  “You’d think nobody had ever fed you,” he said to her.

  Maybe nobody had in a while. Her owners had to be going crazy looking for her. Stanley checked his voice mail. Someone should have seen those posters.

  No messages.

  “Where the heck are your owners?” he asked the animal.

  She sat on her rump, swept the floor with her tail and yapped.

  He pointed a finger at her. “You’re not staying.” He called the animal shelter to see if anyone had been in looking for a white West Highland terrier. No. He looked down at the dog, who looked up at him and wagged her little tail some more. “I don’t want another dog,” he informed her.

  She cocked her head at him as if trying to understand.

  He ignored her and made himself some coffee. At least there was coffee. That was something in his life that hadn’t been turned upside down.

  * * *

  Lexie had packed the children’s day with activities ranging from working on learning the alphabet and all the sounds the various letters made to running one of their favorite math drills, which involved marching around the room, air punching while counting by twos. The story-time selection was The Ninjabread Man, a tale about a sensei’s creation that comes to life and runs away.

  Next came a craft project. She’d copied a pattern of a bell on red and green construction paper so the children could make their own Advent calendars.

  “We’re going to make paper chains to hang from our bells,” she said, showing them the one she’d made as a sample.

  “Bell, that’s your name, Miss Bell,” one of the children piped.

  “Yes, it is. And what letter does the word bell start with?”

  “B!” they chorused.

  “And that makes the sound...”

  “Buh,” came another chorus.

  “Very good. Now, starting December first, every day we’ll take off one link in our chain. Then we’ll count how many links we have left, and that way we’ll know how many days we have until Christmas.”

  The children wriggled with excitement.

  “But we won’t be in school until Christmas,” Mirabella said, worried.

  “No. But you’ll all get to take your bells home with you when we leave for our winter break, so you can still take off the links,” Lexie said.

  She set them to work with safety scissors, cutting out the bells—a good motor-skills exercise for little hands. As the children worked she walked around the room, stopping at desks to help guide some of those little hands, offering compliments and encouragement as she went. “Good job following the lines, James... That’s looking nice, Ilsa.”

  In addition to the Advent bells and Santa, Lexie had come up with a new favorite character, the Gingerbread Boy. She’d decorated the room with plenty of them before leaving school for Thanksgiving break, Brock helping her. There would be a hunt for the Gingerbread Boy, more stories about him, and on the last day of school, the children would find and decorate gingerbread boys (gluten-free for the children with allergies so everyone could enjoy the treat), all with the help of her two room mothers. It would be a month of learning, of course, but also of festivity. After all, Christmas was about joy, right?

  The Christmas bell project went off without a hitch, and names were written on the bells and paper chains made, attached and counted. Lots of good learning there. By the end of the morning class, Lexie and her students were smiling. She took some ibuprofen and made her way to the teachers’ lounge, humming “Joy to the World.”

  The afternoon slipped by as quickly as the morning had, and before she knew it, the school day was at an end and it was time for the children to collect their coats from their cubbies and line up at the door to go home. Another day successfully logged in. Lexie’s ankle was screaming. Time for more ibuprofen.

  She found her neighbor waiting for her when she and Brock walked outside. The rain had stopped but the trees were drippy, and the sky was still gray.

  This was a variant Lexie hadn’t thought to plan for when she took the job in Washington. Gray skies were rare in her corner of California. She’d never considered how much emotional warmth the sun provided. This constant gray was gloomy and made he
r feel a little gloomy, too.

  Or maybe it was only that her ankle hurt.

  “You’re right on time,” she said to Mr. Mann as she opened the back door for Brock. Rather an inane thing to say. Like he was a taxi driver or something. “Thank you for coming to get us.”

  “Where’s the physical therapy place?” he asked, cutting to the chase.

  “It’s on Emerson Street. Do you know where that is?” Of course, he probably did. She was willing to bet he’d lived in this town for decades.

  “Yeah, it’s right around the corner from Main.”

  Main was the downtown street where the bank, the grocery store and drugstore and gas station were. It was dressed up for the holidays, the small trees in giant pots stationed along the sidewalk, all individually decorated. At the far end of Main were Daisy’s Dairy Delight and a Taco Bell. Did every town in American have a Main Street? Probably.

  On the corner of Main stood Great Escape, a small independent bookstore. The window display showed a Christmas tree made entirely of books with several teddy bears sitting nearby, each with a book propped in its lap.

  Lexie had been in a couple of times since moving to town. On her last visit she’d learned that the owner, an older woman, had sold the store, and it would be passing into new hands soon. Lexie had been a little sad to learn this. She’d liked the woman and had been hoping to become better acquainted with her.

  She’d also liked to have become better acquainted with her uncommunicative neighbor, to have been able to chat with him and ask him about his wife, and how long he’d lived in Fairwood. But Brock kept up a steady stream of chatter, telling Lexie all about his day, so Mr. Mann was neglected. He didn’t seem bothered by that, though; he simply drove silently along.

  He waited in his SUV while she met with the physical therapist for an assessment and was given her first easy exercises to do, Brock sitting on a chair nearby, then following her into the little gym area, taking it all in.