Page 127 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“He’s a six-year-old boy named Aidan, and he’s funny as hell, even if he doesn’t intend to be.” A smile tweaks the corners of my mouth. “He’s a good kid. I like him.”

“Reminds you of Ben, huh?”

I hesitate. “Yeah. A lot in some ways, not so much in others.”

“How old is Ben now?”

I swallow, hating to think about the years I’ve lost with my nephew. “Fourteen.”

“He was eight when you got arrested?”

“Yep,” I say warily, hunching over my plastic tray. I’ve told him all of this, and Roger’s not senile, which means he’s working his way up to a point.

“Maybe you should try calling your sister again.”

And there it is.

“I’ve called her multiple times, Roger. She won’t change her mind.”

“When was the last time you tried?”

“Two Christmases ago,” I say in exasperation. “She made it very clear she wasn’t feeling generous of heart. In fact, I think her exact words were, ‘Don’t call here again.’”

“You should try anyway,” Roger says. “Maybe you’ll get a Christmas miracle.”

I look up from my food and take in Roger’s cloudy eyes “I know what you’re doing, and you need to let it go.”

“I should hope you know what I’m doing,” Roger scoffs. “I wasn’t trying to be subtle.”

“When were you ever subtle, Roger Ditmore?” a woman’s voice calls from outside the door, and then Mrs. Rosa appears, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled up into a loose, messy bun. She’s barely fifty, but she’s wearing a housedress like the one my grandmother used to wear. It’s covered with an apron that says, “Life is short! Lick the bowl!” She has black orthopedic shoes on her feet, and she’s carrying a pie plate in both hands. “Today’s pie is butter pecan.”

“My favorite,” Roger says.

“I know,” she says impatiently as she sets the pie tin on the table.

“Hey,” Roger protests. “Half the pie’s gone!”

“I had a few people who only wanted a slice.” She shrugs and lifts her hands in awhat are you gonna domotion.

“That’s ridiculous,” Roger grumps as he pushes his partially eaten meatloaf dinner to the side and digs his fork into one of the pieces of pie. “Who stops at one slice?”

“Hey,” she says, pulling the pie tin from him. “You’re not a five-year-old. You know better. Eat your dinner first.”

Roger grumbles about the unfairness of life, but he returns his attention to his plastic tray, stabbing several green beans with his fork.

“What were you two talking about before I walked in?” Her dark eyes glint with amusement. She clearly overheard part of our conversation, and she’s waiting to see what I’ll admit to.

Releasing a sigh, I push my tray away. I could try to dodge her questions, but that never works with her. Better to get this out of the way. “My sister.”

Her forehead creases with a frown. “How about I bake a lovely cake and have it sent to her? We’ll tell her it’s from you. No one can stay bitter when they’re eating one of my cakes.”

Roger leans over to sneakily scoop up a bite of pie, then pops it into his mouth and nods. “She has a point,” he says past his mouthful.

I expect Mrs. Rosa to scold him, but she’s too busy preening over his compliment. Roger is like Scrooge McDuck when it comes to praise.

“A cake isn’t gonna solve this,” I say gently. “If I’d thought there was a single chance in hell it would, I’d have had you make your red velvet, and I would have personally delivered it with a marching band.”

A pensive look crosses her face. “A string quartet would go better with the red velvet. The vanilla sprinkle seems more like a marching band type cake.”

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