Page 2 of A Very Barrie Christmas
“Hi, Susan. Are you out of coffee already?” His roasting apprentice, Vick Johnson, had just delivered fifty pounds last week.
“No, no. It’s not that. Everyone’s loving the new blends. Rudolph’s Roast! Blitzen’s Brew! So fun and festive!”
“You can blame Vick for those.” He’d argued that reindeer didn’t drink coffee, and Vick had responded with, “How can you be sure? Maybe coffee is what gives them the ability to fly,” to which Frank had merely grunted, admitting defeat. No point in quibbling over the caffeine consumption of air-bound mammals that didn’t exist.
“Please tell him they’re delightful,” Susan chirped. “But I’m not calling about coffee this time.”
“How much money do you need?” He was used to cutting a check whenever the shelter needed a cash infusion. Several years ago, he wrote a book calledThe Mariposa Method—his manifesto, chronicling his foray into the world of coffee and the development of his proprietary roasting method—that took off, hitting all kinds of hoity-toity bestseller lists, and subsequently stuffed his bank account with more money than he could ever spend. Especially since he preferred to live a quiet life in a small, rural town with the woman he loved who only ever splurged on books and tea. Tea! Not coffee. Her only flaw.
“Actually, I need a different kind of favor.”
Uh-oh. Something in her tone made him nervous. It sounded as if whatever she was about to ask him, she knew he wouldn’t like it.
He waited for her to fill the silence.
“There’s this young man at the shelter. Private Nathanial Henderson. He stayed with us briefly last year, but now he’s a volunteer. He’s here almost every day, helping other struggling vets get back on their feet. He’s kindhearted and a hard worker. A really upstanding young man.”
“Uh-huh,” Frank mumbled. The last time he’d received a sales pitch this enthusiastic, some flimflammer had tried to sell him a 1955 Buick Roadmaster with a busted transmission.
“He had a tough time when he left the military,” Susan continued. “He has no family. Aged out of foster care. Mostly group homes. He had no one waiting for him when he got back from Iraq. You know how hard it is when they come home and have no support system.”
He did. And he’d made it a personal goal to help out in as many ways as possible.
“Anyway, he’s been a godsend at the shelter, and I’d love to find a way to thank him, which got me thinking,” Susan rambled on at a mile a millisecond. “He has this fascination with all things Christmas. Probably because he’s never really experienced the holidays the way most of us have. It would be so wonderful to give him a real, homey Christmas. Snow. Caroling. Sugar cookies. Quaint small-town events. All the trimmings.”
It was a nice idea, but what did it have to do with him?
“I was thinking about all the things Beverly’s said about your hometown during the holidays,” Susan continued, as if she’d read his thoughts. “Poppy Creek sounds magical. Like a tiny slice of heaven tucked away, right here in Northern California.”
Oh, no. The other shoe finally dropped. And it kicked him in the tokus on the way down.
“I was wondering if you and Beverly might let Nate visit you for a few days? Maybe give him a taste of Christmas? He won’t be a bother. And you’d be doing something wonderful for a young man who served our country. Be a hero for this hero, Mr. Barrie.”
Laying it on a little thick, Susan. Although, she sure knew his weak spots.
But as Susan spouted more of Private Henderson’s admirable qualities, every muscle in Frank’s body clenched. Invite a stranger into his personal space? And during the holidays? He’d rather get a root canal and a colonoscopy at the same time.
He was about to tell Susan as much, when a thought struck him. Why did her proposition sound so familiar? Hadn’t he heard of a similar scenario somewhere else recently?
He furrowed his brow, mentally rummaging through the discombobulated filing cabinet of his memory where reruns ofJeopardy!mingled with images of his childhood. The other night, Bevy made him watchChristmas in Connecticut—her favorite Christmas movie she watched every year right after she packed up the Thanksgiving leftovers.
He wasn’t too keen on sappy holiday romances. Too much faffing about and not enough gunfire. But that Barbara Stanwyck sure was a looker.
Anyway, in the film, Barbara Stanwyck’s character invited a war hero to her home to experience the perfect small-town Christmas.
If he couldn’t make Bevy an edible fruitcake, maybe he could help her reenact her favorite Christmas movie? Minus the falling in love with the soldier part, obviously.
Every time she watched the film—which she knew by heart—her eyes took on this misty sheen, and she’d murmur something about how wonderful it would be to give someone the gift ofChristmas. Personally, he preferred to give practical gifts, like a savings bond. But if Bevy wanted to hand out Christmas cheer, he would help make it happen.
“Mr. Barrie?” Susan said cautiously, as if she’d interpreted his silence as a bad sign. “If it’s too inconvenient, I completely under—”
“We’ll do it.”
“What?” Her surprise echoed through the speaker.
“I said we’ll do it. I can’t promise snow, but we can handle the sugar cookies and Christmas carols. Except for ‘Jingle Bells.’ I draw the line at ‘Jingle Bells.’”
“Okay. Well. Um. Wow. Are you sure? Do you need to discuss it with Beverly first?”
