Battle of the Bulbs (Holidays in Willow Valley Book 1) Read online

  The problem with prohibiting alcohol meant his head had room for thoughts of Cheyenne to pop up.

  She was in town.

  He tried not to miss her, but he did. He practiced training his brain to forget about her, but it wouldn’t. He’d read the backlash over her revealed secret. People were mean, cruel, and worse online where they didn’t have to stand up behind their hurtful comments. He tried to pretend it didn’t bother him, but his feelings didn’t have a switch. When he’d left her, his heart hadn’t turned off. There was no off switch, as much as he wanted one. However, his caution button blazed red and the best thing for Booker right now included staying as far away from Cheyenne as he could.

  He recycled the empty bottle and resumed preparation, cutting thick slices of Italian homemade bread he’d picked up at Mrs. Calvert’s bakery.

  When he stuck his head into the living room he found Eddie had pulled a TV table in front of his chair, waiting for his meal. He wasn’t a regular old man who watched TV while eating. No, he watched the Christmas decorations on his front lawn and Booker had no problem with it. However, the music he chose to play irritated the hell out of him. Was this “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” again? How many times could the old man listen to this song? Or any Christmas song for that matter?

  Instead of trying to convince him to eat at the dining room table, he had to pick his battles. He placed Eddie’s plate, cutlery, and beer on the TV table before settling himself on the sofa.

  Draping one ankle over his knee, he set his drink on the table beside him, and dug into the mouth-watering meal, considering his options for the next week. Willow Valley was a small town and, in the winter, the tourism decreased, leaving mostly locals.

  Booker wondered how easy it would be to avoid Cheyenne. Maybe he would skip the lighting of the beach, the Christmas Eve service at the church and any other big event. Eddie would have no interest in attending those anyway, giving Booker an easy out.

  “I miss your grandma’s cooking,” Eddie murmured between bites. “Ellen knew how to fill my belly.”

  And throw a pan at him for overstepping. Ellen had been as much of a handful as Eddie was now.

  Booker agreed with a sound from his throat while he chewed a mouthful. The more he chomped, the more muffled the holiday tunes sounded.

  “At this time of the year, your grandmother’s homemade pies would line the counters. Apple, cherry, and buttermilk coconut. She’d always give them away to the neighbours on the street.”

  Booker said nothing, knowing his grandfather was traveling down memory lane, not looking for a response.

  “But it was the apple crisp I couldn’t wait to dig into. I swear, your grandmother won my heart with her apple crisp.” The harsh lines around Eddie’s eyes softened as he recalled his late wife. They had been perfect soulmates. “Perfect apple crisp. Not burned, but crispy. No soggy apples but moist sweetness and her special touch, adding nutmeg only for me.”

  Booker grinned at the gentleness of his grandfather. Tenderness was hard to find in the old man. Even when Booker’s grandmother had been alive, Eddie had been a hard ass. It was in the Banks blood, passed on to each generation. Booker’s father was a prime example. He ran the family newspaper back in Oakston stricter than Eddie ever had.

  When it came to the love of his grandfather’s life, Booker’s grandmother, the woman could persuade Eddie in whichever direction she preferred, included the decision to buy one half of the beautiful Eastlake Victorian duplex upon Eddie’s retirement. Ellen had loved the peaked rooftops and the balconies on the second floor. The wood shutters, painted a bold teal, offset the color of the house.

  For all the years Booker could remember Willow Valley had been his grandparent’s favorite vacation spot. Every summer, they’d rent one of the grand cottages along the lake, with open invitations to all their children and grandchildren to frequent as often as they pleased.

  When Eddie retired, Booker’s grandparents had packed up their house and moved to Willow Valley. Instead of retiring on the lake, they’d decided a short walk to the main strip of Willow Valley suited them better. They’d lived together, in this house, until Ellen’s last dying breath.

  Booker had his suspicions that those years kept Eddie stuck here, afraid to move on, or guilty for taking the next step in his life. Perhaps Booker was wrong and the old man enjoyed his new pastime, playing Santa’s decorator and grumbling at the passing kids.

  Eddie lived on a friendly street. Booker had met plenty of his neighbours when he visited. He had come to learn his grandfather was the grumpy old man next door. It was a good thing the old woman next door, Millie, gave him a little sass—putting Eddie in his place. Sort of. He often argued back regardless of the words Millie threw at him.

  Truthfully, on most days, Booker enjoyed the banter between the two. He’d even noticed a change in his grandfather since Millie had moved in next door. She brought a breath of fresh air and blew life back into his unhappy grandfather. Eddie would never admit it, but Ellen had taken a piece of Eddie with her when she died. Booker didn’t suspect Eddie would ever fully heal from losing Ellen, but the conflict between Millie and Eddie kept him from longing for his beloved wife and it was good for him.

  To a limit.

  Now, his grandfather leapt to his feet so quickly, Booker sucked in a breath and choked on the food that flew down his throat. Sitting up, he hit his chest and drowned the choking by drinking half a glass of water.

  “What?” he demanded, setting the bottle and his plate of food on the coffee table, his eyes searching for the cause of the disturbance.

  “Hagwart,” Eddie hissed.

  To a limit.

  “Finish your supper.”

  Booker sat back down.

  His grandfather did not. He pointed out the window and continued his raging, instead. “That old hag thinks because she hangs a decoration on her side of the porch it’s acceptable when it blows onto my side because it’s hung on hers. Well, it’s not.” He started toward the front door, grumbling. “Let me tell you, I won’t stand for her baby Jesus banner blowing on my side of the porch. Hang it against a wall like normal people.” Eddie pulled his scarf from the hook. “She’s doing it on purpose and I wouldn’t doubt she’s laughing behind her window watching it pass the line.”

  Booker could have groaned at mention of “the line.” “It’s a nativity scene,” he said. “And it’s the heart of Christmas.”

  Eddie pulled on his boots. “Bah humbug.”

  “Says the man with the most festive yard on the street,” Booker muttered. Louder he said, “Millie can’t control the wind. Sit down and appreciate the food I made you. I worked long and hard on this meal.”

  Eddie waved an irritated hand at him. “Bullocks. I will enjoy the food when my decorations aren’t being bombarded by that…that…mad woman!” Eddie slammed the door behind him.

  Silence.

  Almost.

  Booker crossed the room and turned off the holiday music before settling back down and enjoying his meal in real silence. A man could only handle so much cheerful music. Silence was nice—refreshing—exactly what he needed to get Cheyenne out of his head.

  Then why did his bite of food taste like a mound of unflavored goo with Cheyenne bouncing into his head and stealing his thoughts.

  Damn it.

  Worse than that, he couldn’t ignore Eddie going outside to do God only knew what. And if Millie caught him doing whatever the old man had planned, they would need a referee to settle the fight. Plus, Millie’s great granddaughter, Lily, instigated trouble between the two elderly folks with only a look.

  Standing up, Booker glanced out the window and watched his grandfather. He decided immediate action wasn’t necessary so he settled into his grandfather’s rocker, eating the rest of his supper, facing the reality TV that was about to take place on the porch and ready to run in case it got out of control.

  He relaxed, deciding he would rather be refereeing these two than b
eing back home.

  Chapter Three

  FOLLOWING A DELICIOUS ham supper, Cheyenne gathered with Millie and Lily in the living room. While Cheyenne had been born and raised in Oakston, Millie had resided in Willow Valley as long as Cheyenne could remember. Being a cheeky little sprite of an older lady, she attended most town meetings and facilitated in a handful of town events year-round. Such events included the lighting of the tree this week, which she was baking up cookies for and the best decorated street contest. Millie insisted Cheyenne attend both events, but she could only promise to think about it.

  Lily told Cheyenne of her new employment at the Casalina Winery outside of town. Lily frequently bounced between Oakston and Willow Valley, her future unmapped, but now her full-time position prompted the young lady to pull her hair back, dress in sophisticated black attire and serve customers wine samples while assisting them in picking the perfect drink for their palate.

  Cheyenne couldn’t be more proud of her and enjoyed listening to Lily’s praise of the Casalina family. According to her, they paid a good salary, were kind to their employees, and hosted more than generous gratitude dinners for the staff and their families.

  As Cheyenne listened to the countless entertaining stories, Cheyenne noticed a pattern: they all involved one of the Casalina sons. It was obvious Lily had a crush.

  Cheyenne held back her smile, realizing Lily didn’t even know she was crushing. But even Millie sent knowing looks and winks at Cheyenne. Her niece’s innocence was adorable.

  Conversing and laughing with her family formulated an ounce of relaxation over her tense nerves, making her grateful she’d decided to come home for the holidays. This was the right decision among a load of wrong decisions piling up behind her.

  Eventually, she would be forced to examine everything happening and respond to the doctor files that had been leaked. She shuddered as she remembered the numerous articles headlining “Director of the Lilith House. Not a saint” or “Lilith House Leading Lady’s Secrets Revealed.”

  Each media outlet were milking her secret to the bottom of the barrel. While the Lilith House had their supporters, a number of wealthy investors Mary Banks had roped in with her first-class status, there were also plenty of people who disliked the Lilith House. Closed-minded people who thought the center’s presence in their city encouraged youth to become young mothers. When in fact, the Lilith House broke that chain. The women temporarily staying in the house worked at the Lilith Second Hand Store where they made enough cash to eat and save for a place of their own. And the day care at the house provided a resource to pursue full-time jobs.

  However, those narrow-minded people with their noses in the air would use Cheyenne’s past to close the doors of the Lilith House…unless she stepped away, distanced herself.

  Cheyenne gulped down the last of her wine and poured another, almost downing the entire contents in one swig again. Tomorrow, she would assess. Tonight, she would enjoy her family. Easier said than done, especially when everyone wasn’t on the same page as her.

  “How is that beau of yours?” Millie asked.

  “Beau?”

  Her grandmother’s lips quirked together. “That man Lily told me all about. The one you’re dating. He must be wonderful to have won over our sweet Cheyenne. I’m so happy for you. Is he meeting you here?”

  Hadn’t she told them that she and Booker had broken up? She was sure she had…but maybe not. After he’d left, she had immersed herself into work, deeper than ever, filling her days by helping others instead of herself. It had been a difficult task with Booker’s mother stopping by her office almost daily to check on her, update her on her son’s activities and reminisce over what went wrong.

  Cheyenne answer to her was always “just a difference of opinions.” It was better than telling her he’d snooped into her past and was the only person, besides Cheyenne’s mothers who knew about her young pregnancy.

  Cheyenne sent her mother, Karen, a cheque when she ran out of money and in return, her mother kept her secret. They’d been following this arrangement for almost ten years and it worked.

  Cheyenne knew Booker had planted the leak as revenge for her lies to him. She would never forgive him for dragging innocent people into their personal affair, and, yet, she battled strong feelings for him every single day.

  Shame pounded her for allowing him access to her heart and bringing up weaknesses she didn’t know she possessed.

  “We broke up,” Cheyenne said now. “Months ago.”

  Two months, one week and four days ago to be exact. Lord, she was weak when it came to men, just like her mother.

  Millie frowned. “That’s too bad. He sounded quite lovely.”

  If you can call a back stabbing jerk lovely.

  Cheyenne finished her wine hoping her silence would be the end of the topic. “It was a long drive, I think I’m going to retire for the night.”

  Lily walked to the front window as Millie rose to give Cheyenne a hug.

  “Tomorrow we will set up the Christmas tree,” her grandmother said, stepping back, and gently rubbing her arms. “We waited for you, hoping you would come. The holidays and cheer will lift your spirit, child.”

  Cheyenne welcomed the distraction—if she could drag herself from bed come morning.

  “Hit the lights,” Lily’s hoarse whispered sent goose bumps down Cheyenne’s arms. She waved one hand in their direction, then cupped both hands like binoculars against the window she peered outside.

  Cheyenne stood in the middle of the room dumbfounded, not understanding why they would turn off the lights, but Millie ran to the switch and the room went black.

  Together, Millie and Lily hunkered down by the window like two cougars waiting to pounce on their prey.

  “What are you two doing?”

  They ignored her question, whispering to themselves, but loud enough for Cheyenne to hear. She stopped beside the front window to glance outside, and to hear the women better.

  “Eddie’s touching our banner,” Lily said.

  Eddie. King Cranky had a name. Good to know.

  “His cranky old hand is on our side of the porch touching our banner.” Her niece huffed.

  “His arm has passed the line,” Millie agreed.

  “He’s trying to take it down…” Lily’s voice rising an octave “…wait…are those…scissors? They are scissors. He’s planning on shredding our banner. I’ll grab the gun.” She darted out of the room, pulling open the hallway closet door.

  Gun?

  Millie quickly slipped into her red winter jacket and knee-high boots. She held her hands out to Lily, with a deviously playful look pulling at her soft features. She looked ready for war.

  “One warning,” Millie said, in a threatening tone, her lips curling upwards like the Grinch after stealing Christmas. Maybe these two needed to sit down and watch some good old hearts-of-Christmas sort of movies to remind themselves what the holidays were all about. Maybe Cheyenne would look into healthy movies tomorrow and hide all the rest, but today, what did “one warning” mean?

  Lily shook her head, still gripping the gun even though it was in Millie’s eager hands. “Two,” she said, sternly. “He’s hard of hearing and the wind makes it twice as hard for him to understand us.”

  Cheyenne’s heart pumped faster and a different kind of fear ran through her.

  “Hogwash,” Millie said. “He chooses not to listen and therefore one is suitable.”

  Cheyenne glanced from the women plotting their “warning” to King Cranky plotting to destroy their banner. In no way could any of this plotting result in a good outcome.

  “Two,” Lily repeated, still with a killer grip on the black weapon and a killer look even Millie couldn’t disregard.

  “Fine,” Millie finally said.

  Fine?! What had they agreed to? What was happening?

  Cheyenne’s breath caught in her throat.

  “You’re growing soft, child,” Millie said to Lily who only laughed a
t the insult.

  Soft on two shots?!

  As Millie’s hand touched the door, Cheyenne’s voice returned. “Wait!” she yelled, stepping away from the window. “What are you two doing?”

  “Teaching King Cranky to keep his hands off our side of the house,” Lily said.

  “By shooting him?” Horror laced Cheyenne’s question, but it was nothing in comparison to her racing heart.

  The two ladies exchanged looks. “Well, we never considered that solution,” Millie said.

  “It’s not a solution,” Cheyenne said, fearing she’d fed the fire of doom.

  “One time and it would be the last time he trespassed,” Lily agreed.

  The two looked at each other and nodded.

  “No,” Cheyenne said. “Absolutely not.”

  “We could hit like his shoulder or a leg.” Lily tapped a finger to her chin, ignoring Cheyenne. “You know, like they do in the movies. Sort of like we want to make him stop, but at the same time not kill him.”

  “I can try, but my aim isn’t very good these days. My eyes, you know.” Millie squinted her eyes to make her point.

  “Lily, stop baiting her,” Cheyenne hissed. “Grandma, you cannot shoot someone with a gun.”

  “It’s only a paintball gun,” her niece replied.

  A paintball gun? Thank goodness…sort of.

  Cheyenne glared at Lily. “Do you understand what stop baiting her means?” She brushed two fingers across her mouth as if zipping them closed then turned back to her grandmother. “A paint-ball gun is considered a weapon if you are using it as a weapon. Shooting someone declares the use—weaponry.”

  “Weaponry?” Lily said, making an overly dramatic and confused face. “Is that even a word?”

  “Cheyenne has her fancy city lingo.” Millie winked. “I don’t understand half the things that come out of her mouth.”

  “Weaponry is a word!”

  “Are you using it right?” Lily asked. “Wouldn’t it be like weapontry?”

  Cheyenne could shoot them both with the paintball gun. “Weapontry is not a word.”