Page 1 of Bear for the Holidays

CHAPTER ONE

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Deanna Ly hummed a bright holiday song as she made her way from her ancient Datsun to the rear door of Delmonico’s coffee shop, a large and unwieldy box balanced on her hip. At just before six in the morning, it was still dark enough that there were a few stars out, and the winter chill turned each breath into a puff of steam and put a stinging red blush in her cheeks.

We’ll get snow for Christmas,shethought idly. It wasn’t a huge deal to her, but some of her extended family loved the holidays, especially the kids.

She unlocked the back door, maneuvering the large box inside, startled to find that the lights were already on. She set the box down and then picked up the snow shovel that rested close by. It was probably overkill, but some kids had broken into the sandwich shop across the road. No one had gotten hurt, but Deanna wasn’t taking any chances. The kitchen was empty, but a scuffling noise came from the front of the shop.

“Hey,” she called. “Hey, if there’s someone out there, I’m going to be really nice and let you out, all right? We don’t keep cash in the place overnight, so no harm, no foul, okay?”

The scuffling noise came again, and she gritted her teeth, pushing the door to the front of the shop open and lifting the snow shovel high. It occurred to her as she did so that this was maybe a situation where she should have left to call for help from the car, but too late now.

She was ready for anything. She was a strong independent woman with a snow shovel, there was nothing she couldn’t handle. Then she saw Mrs. Shevchenko sitting hunched and miserable at one of the tables, and she realized, no, she absolutely was not ready for this.

“Mrs. S? Are you all right?”

Mrs. Shevchenko made a strange grumbling, groaning noise, resting her face in her hand. Alarmed, Deanna put down the shovel to go to her side, kneeling down by the chair and stroking her round shoulder. Both Shevchenkos, who owned Delmonico’s, were large people, tall and broad, but right now, you couldn’t tell it by Mrs. Shevchenko, who sat curled over as if she were hiding. She made another pained noise and Deanna’s eyes went wide.

“Mrs. Shevchenko, it’s Dee. Can you hear me? Are you in pain? Um. Can you spread your arms out and smile at me?”

It was apparently such a bizarre request that Mrs. Shevchenko finally looked at her, blinking in confusion.

“Why would I do that?” she asked, and Deanna smiled in relief at how normal she sounded.

“My cousin was telling me that’s how you checked for a stroke.”

“I am not having a stroke,” Mrs. Shevchenko said indignantly, sitting up even straighter. In her big fluffy brown sweater and full skirts, she overwhelmed her chair, as large as life and twice as healthy, and grinning, Deanna rose to take the chair opposite.

“I’m so glad. But Mrs. S, what’s the matter?”

Mrs. Shevchenko resumed such a sad expression that Deanna got a bit a whiplash, her concern came roaring back.

“It is my son,” she said with a sigh. “I only wanted to make stew for him. See over there? I have made him his favorite.”

She pointed at several containers sitting on the counter, presumably her stew. There was probably less than a gallon there, but Deanna wouldn’t have thought it was all that much less.

“You make great stew,” said Deanna uncertainly.

“Yes, yes, but he is up on the mountain counting birds. He says he cannot come down. Every year I make him his favorite, but he will not come this year.”

She made the groaning sound again, so despondent that Deanna leaned over to give her a hug.

“Oh, Mrs. S, I’m sorry. He just refuses?”

“It’s not so very far,” Mrs. Shevchenko mournfully. “Just an hour from here. Maybe two. We were so happy to have him close this year, closer than usual, but still.”

Deanna had been working at Delmonico’s for almost three years. She was close with the owners, but she had never met their son.

“He does something with the park service, right?” she asked, stifling her surge of temper. She knew it was a bad idea to get involved in the affairs of the folks who signed her paycheck, but the Shevchenkos were good people. She didn’t like the thought of their son neglecting them for the holidays, especially when he was much closer than usual.

“Yes. Counting ducks, something like that. Oh, he’s good, though, you must understand,” Mrs. Shevchenko said, peering at her anxiously. “I do not know why he doesn’t come.”

“What did he say?”

Mrs. Shevchenko shrugged, climbing heavily to her feet. Standing up, she towered over Deanna. Her husband was even taller. Deanna thought absently that their son must be a giant.

“It is nothing for you to worry about,” Mrs. Shevchenko said bravely. “It will be fine. Someone else can eat this stew I made. Maybe you would like it. It has venison and sausage both, as well as onions and apples, honey for sweetness.”

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