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“I don’t have my glasses on. What does it say?”
“‘To my dearest friend Charlotte. May your heart be filled with joy this Christmas season. I leave you with the long requested true love story of my parents from years ago. May it bring you the happiness and peace it has always brought to me—and maybe a love of your own. I will miss you sweet friend. Yours Affectionately, Elizabeth Chambers’ If I remember right, Miss Chambers fell in love over Christmastime too.”
Liza sputtered. “That sounds like a fairy tale.”
“I thought so too.” Erin flipped page after page, noting the handwritten comments in the margins. “But look at all these comments. ‘This book is the real deal,’” Erin read aloud. “‘A heartfelt thanks to Miss Chambers.I thought I’d never find that special someone, but I truly believe this book made it happen.’ That doesn’t sound like a fairy tale.”
“Well, it sounds to me like either a giant coincidence or a whole lot of hooey. Trust me, honey, as a woman who’s been around the block a time or two, true love doesn’t come over Christmas like a gift from Santa. It takes hard work, dedication, and a truckload of luck.”
“You don’t believe in fairy tales?” Erin asked with more than a little sarcasm in her voice. She knew for a fact Liza had been married four times and constantly prowled for a fifth. Someone with that kind of optimism had to believe in fantasies.
“I believe that famous quote from Helen Keller that says something about how having a positive attitude gives you the faith to achieve your goal. If you believe you’re going to meet the love of your life over Christmas, you’re going to open your heart to the possibility. Just because some story weaves a pretty tale doesn’t make it true.”
“Well, that’s a good point.” Erin held out the book. “Why don’t you take the book and read it? Maybe you’ll find your one true love this Christmas.”
Liza laughed and shook her curly white head. “Honey, with my luck, I’d fall head over heels for Mr. Hafner—and that ain’t no fairy tale no matter how you try to spin it. Besides, I’m an audiobook girl. These old eyes get too tired to read most days. And I love listening to the different voices in my head. It’s like my thoughts coming to life in the most delicious ways.”
“I’m happy to record this story for you. I’m very good with computers and I like to think I’ve got a lyrical voice.”
“I wouldn’t put you to the trouble.” Liza looked over Erin’s shoulder and a grin sparked her wrinkles into action. “I knew it. There’s my yoga mat. I did leave it here after class.” She stepped around Erin and her pile of decorations to retrieve the hot pink mat. On her way out the door, she spun around, her tennis shoes squeaking in protest. “Why don’tyoutake the book home and read it? You’re too young to spend all your time with us old folks. You need a little love in your life before you end up like one of us.”
Erin would love to spend her golden years in CCR surrounded by friends who were like family. “Happy and living your best life?”
“Alone and gossiping because we’ve got nothing better to do with our time. You’re young. It’s time you started acting like it and acting on it. If you need a fairy tale to open your heart to love, have at it, girl.” Liza winked and opened the door. “That’s my Christmas present to you this year.”
ChapterFour
In the deepest,darkest depths of sleep, Brock struggled to ignore the annoying buzzing echoing from somewhere in the distance. He folded the pillow over his head and tried to place the maddening sound. It wasn’t the buzzer in his condo ringing someone up. It wasn’t his alarm—no way would he have chosen such an irritating sound. When it rang again, buzz buzz, followed by three peppy raps, Brock’s sleep-addled brain knew his blessed time in bed had come to an abrupt end.
He forcibly opened his eyes and blinked around the too-bright room, trying to identify the scene. Recognition hit like a solid left hook. He was in Pawpaw’s place. The guest room, specifically. He recalled stripping down to his boxers and tumbling into bed just a few short hours ago when he could no longer trust himself to handle sharp blades and operate power tools without risking life and limb.
He tossed the covers aside, set his feet on the floor, and rubbed his palms against his face. Whoever was banging on the door—he scowled at his phone—at eight fifteen in the morning, had better have a cup of coffee and a spine of steel for waking him up before he’d recharged his batteries. He felt every strained muscle in his back during his march through the maze of boxes to the front door.
He turned the deadbolt and yanked the door open wide, growling, “What?” at the trio of faces standing on his doorstep.
A woman with mink-brown hair and yellowish-brown eyes gaped at him from beneath the longest lashes he’d ever seen not manufactured in China and applied with glue. She wore a red knitted beanie with a huge furry pompom and matching gloves that complemented the rosy hue of her cheeks. She swaddled a basket of unknown objects against her puffy white parka. A couple of women old enough to be her grandmas flanked her on either side.
She looked him up and down and then marshaled her composure, closing her mouth and pasting on a smile that was as authentic as the fur on her hat. “Welcome to Cherry Creek Reserve,” the younger woman croaked. “I’m Erin Collier, and this is Liza Fletcher and Patty Granger. We’re from the welcome committee.”
He took in the ragtag group, watched the grandmas bump elbows and gawk at the vicinity of his chest. As soon as Brock looked down, he realized he’d answered the door wearing nothing but his underwear—a greeting if there ever was one—and felt the glacier-cold breeze pelt his skin.
“Ummm,” the young one said. “Would you like to put on a robe or”—she swallowed, and her eyes skittered away—“some clothes?”
Brock didn’t own a robe. No self-respecting man did. However, that wasn’t the point, not with his nipples freeze drying on his chest and an embarrassed woman and her pervy sidekicks watching his every move. With no other way to escape the cold, he stepped aside and waved them into the house. “Come on in.”
They filed in one by one with Erin leading the way, her steps tentative and her shoulders hunched. She stopped just inside the foyer.
Brock closed the door and delved deep for his dignity, rubbing a hand over his chilled-to-the-bone flesh. “If you’ll excuse me for just a moment.” He didn’t wait for their reply before hightailing it to the bedroom and retrieving yesterday’s clothes from the floor. “Welcome committee,” he mumbled under his breath. “Unwelcome committee is more like it.”
He shoved his legs into his jeans and yanked the Henley over his head, grumbling as he corralled his frozen feet into socks. He contemplated dipping into the bathroom to brush his teeth but decided against it. Anyone who showed up before nine deserved to savor the smell of his morning breath.
He didn’t make it out of the guest room before his conscience stopped him cold. This place was to be Pawpaw’s home, and these women were his new neighbors. Being a Bartlett didn’t mean much to his family, but to Brock and his pawpaw, it meant doing what was right even when you didn’t want to. He pivoted into the bathroom for a quick tooth brushing and attempted to tame his out-of-control hair.
He found the ladies where he’d left them, congregating just inside the front door. With the type of greeting they’d received, he didn’t blame them for not moving deeper inside the house—that and the multitude of boxes blocking their way. “Ladies, I’d offer you a coffee, but you woke me up, and I haven’t found the pot in all the boxes just yet.”
“That’s okay,” Erin said. She held out the basket in her hand. “This is for you. From us. The neighborhood, I mean.”
Brock took the basket from her arms and surveyed the items hidden under a bouquet of clear cellophane. He didn’t have a clue what he was looking at. “Ah … thanks. Appreciate the gesture.”
