Page 4 of The Christmas Lodge
Lacy laughed aloud at that, the sound surprising her. “And the free fashion advice,” she agreed with a grin. “Okay, Madeline, you’ve convinced me—as soon as I wash off this mud mask I’m going to book a ticket to New Hampshire.”
“There’s the Lacy I know and love.”
Lacy rose to her feet, anxious to get her plan started right away. “Thanks, Madeline. Talk soon, okay?”
“Call me when you get to New Hampshire. I’ve got your back.”
CHAPTERTHREE
Colette Hillis pried off her snow-covered boots in the back mudroom of her employer’s house, grunting a little as her left boot refused to part with her foot. With one last mighty heave, the boot finally slid off, and she straightened up, blowing her hair out of her face. Now in stocking feet, she padded into the cozy, dated kitchen of Emma Cleaver’s house. For the past several years, Colette had lived in the guesthouse on Emma’s property and worked as her cook, cleaner, and companion.
In some ways, she felt like she and Emma had both rescued each other. Years ago, Colette had fled her hometown of Burlington as soon as she graduated high school, leaving behind a deeply troubled home life. Memories assaulted her, the way they still sometimes did when she least expected it—images of her alcoholic father, passed out on the couch with an empty liquor bottle beside him; her father screaming at her mother and punching a hole in the drywall; her mother packing up her things and moving out of the house, Colette in tow; her mother marrying a new man and building a new family where there wasn’t quite space for Colette.
Colette tucked her blonde hair behind her ears, straightening her shoulders.
Not today,she thought fiercely.That part of my life has been gone for years and years, and I never have to go back.
She wrapped her arms around herself for a moment, closing her eyes and breathing in the familiar scent of Emma’s house. After leaving Burlington, Colette had landed in Snowy Pine Ridge, lost and adrift. Emma had taken her in, offering her a home and employment, and the rest was history.
Over the years their relationship had changed from that of an employer and employee to that of a found family. And Colette knew it wasn’t just charity—the elderly lady had never married and had no children, and she knew that Emma needed her just as much as Colette needed her.
The old wooden clock on the kitchen wall chimed softly and Colette automatically counted the chimes. Eight.
She had already known the time when she’d struggled through the snow to Emma’s house, but the chiming of the clock every hour had become part of her routine, and Colette liked her routine. Stability and routine brought her peace, and there was peace in spades working for Emma Cleaver.
Walking over to the sink, she filled the coffee pot with water and got the pot percolating. Soon the kitchen would be filled with the comforting aromas of coffee and Emma would make an appearance, sniffing the air appreciatively the way she always did.
Humming softly to herself to banish the last of the unexpected memories from her past, Colette rummaged in the cabinet, pulling out the ingredients to make homemade waffles. Colette had perfected her recipe over the years, and now it was one of Emma’s favorite breakfasts. The old lady had something of a sweet tooth, and she loved slathering them in rich, melted butter and drenching them in maple syrup. Colette had warned her time and again that she needed to cut back on the sweets, but Emma always smiled at her and told her that the sweet things in life made it worth living. So, Colette made sure Emma had her sweets, but she also took care to sneak healthier foods into Emma’s diet.
Colette pulled on the drawer that held the spices, automatically giving it an extra yank since the drawer always stuck on the first pull, and rummaged around until she found the cinnamon. Cinnamon made her waffles sing, and she never made waffles without it. In no time at all, Colette was ladling batter onto the gridded waffle iron, the batter sizzling and popping as it hit the heated surface. She closed the iron, leaning against the counter and looking around the kitchen idly. Emma hadn’t updated the house since she had bought it in the seventies, and it showed.
The yellow patterned linoleum on the floor was shockingly ugly, but somehow that made Colette love it more. The appliances, all once white, were now a faded cream color, but Emma refused to purchase new ones, stating firmly that ‘they don’t make ’em like they used to’.
Honestly, Colette was inclined to agree.
The old oven might be ugly as could be, but Colette knew all its quirks and it was still going strong. Across the kitchen, a worn and scarred wooden table sat beneath a huge picture window looking out at the backyard. A doily sat in the middle of the table, ceramic salt and pepper shakers in the shape of two cats playing resting atop it. Everything in the house had a history, but Colette loved it. To her, every faded, dated detail spoke of home and safety.
Hearing footsteps, Colette looked over to see Emma walking slowly down the hallway. The old woman paused in the kitchen doorway, closing her eyes and sniffing appreciatively, the way Colette had already known she would. Her pillowy white hair was gathered into a loose bun at the back of her head in a banana clip, and she wore a colorful chunky knitted cardigan.
“Something smells good,” Emma said.
“The waffles will be ready in just a second,” Colette replied, pulling a mug out of the cabinet and pouring a cup of coffee for Emma.
Emma patted Colette’s cheek softly by way of thanks and took the proffered mug, carrying it over to the table and settling herself with a quiet grunt into her usual chair. She wrapped her wrinkled fingers around the mug for warmth, and Colette waited for Emma to say she wanted cream and lots of sugar, the way she always did, but Emma sat silent. Emma stared out the window, clearly lost in thought as she stared at the snowy landscape. Silently, Colette set the container of sugar and the pitcher of cream on the table in front of her employer.
As she returned to her station at the waffle iron, Colette kept an eye on Emma. “Did you sleep well?”
“Oh, about as well as an old lady like me can. I woke up sometime before dawn and tossed and turned until it was time to get up.”
“Maybe it’s time to see about getting you a new pillow or mattress.”
“Dear, at my age, sleeping through the night is a rarity.” Emma took a sip of her coffee, pulling a face when she realized she hadn’t added creamer or sugar yet. “Is the guesthouse staying warm enough? I don’t know how you sleep out there.”
“It’s plenty warm, I promise. The wood stove keeps it nice and toasty. Besides, you know I sleep with two of your handmade quilts.”
Emma nodded, lapsing once more into silence. She turned her head and stared out the window, resting her chin in one hand. Colette studied her, noting the way Emma slumped, as though too weary to hold herself up. Emma was getting on in years, but she usually had a good amount of energy and vim, but that was missing this morning. Instead, Emma’s eyes looked watery and careworn. Colette set a plate with two waffles stacked on it in front of Emma, then sat down across from her.
“Emma, is everything all right?”
