Christmas With Granny McPherson Read online

  Christmas with Granny McPherson

  Nellie K. Neves

  Christmas with Granny McPherson Copyright © 2019 by Nellie K. Neves. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by Nellie K. Neves

  Photo credit to: Benjamin Robyn Jesperson

  Found on Unsplash.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Nellie K. Neves

  Visit my website at www.nellieknevesauthor.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: November 2019

  ISBN-13 978-1-7013089-4-7

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  To my grandparents, Mary and Eugene. It isn’t Christmas without memories of the ranch. You made the holiday magical, you taught me the meaning of Christmas, and I miss you every day.

  He who gives money, gives much; he who gives times gives more, but he who gives of himself gives all.

  —Thomas S. monson

  Chapter 1

  Brooke

  At least no one was hurt.

  Except for maybe the turkey.

  Smoke billows from the cracks around the door like fog seeping over the valley. I’ve really done it this time. Shouts echo from behind the door. The flames weren’t that big, at least not yet, but that’s not to say that they won’t grow. I’ve dialed the emergency number in my phone, but I hope I don’t have to connect the call. I draw in a breath and trap it in my cheeks.

  Winnie captures my face in her hands, popping the air out of my cheeks like I’m a bubble flying through the air. If only I was a bubble, then I could escape this disaster I’ve created.

  “Don’t do that,” she says, “it makes you look like a chipmunk.”

  I deflate on impact, my cheeks and my spirit. “Why did I think this would be a good idea?”

  “It’s just Thanksgiving, Brooke. At least the smoke is mostly contained in the kitchen.”

  She thinks I’m talking about the turkey that started a minor grease fire in the oven. She thinks I’m talking about hosting Thanksgiving at the inn, when I have no business setting foot in the kitchen.

  But I’m talking about my life, or at least my life decisions as of late. I’m talking about the irrational part of me that thought I had a shot at doing what the rest of my family never could. If only they could see me now, but I’m alone.

  Grandpapa died first, heart attack, gone without warning. We figured Grandmamma would last years after him. She’d always been the eat-your-vegetables, say-your-prayers, kind of lady, but within a month she took a turn for a worse. Two days in the hospital and she was gone too. No warning. No reason. Anyone who knew her figured she missed him and decided to take an express elevator to heaven. But what no one expected, myself included, was to have the farmhouse left to me in the will. Like an idiot, I took it as a sign that I should fulfill their life’s ambition to run a bed and breakfast out of their old property.

  Winnie nudges me with her elbow. “If you think about it, it’s lucky Mr. Davenport was here.”

  “My guardian angel must be working overtime to make sure I had a firefighter staying at the inn over the holiday.”

  “Angel? As in singular? Brooke, I love you, but you know you’ve been assigned a whole legion, possibly a fleet.” Winnie tries to hold back her laughter, but cracks. “How do you manage these things?”

  I have no answer other than a sigh. The shouts from behind the door finally cease. The kitchen door swings open, smoke clouding the air. Mr. Davenport walks out, damp towel still over his face. Little Davenport, his eighteen-year-old son, whose name I constantly forget, follows.

  “Well, the fire is out.”

  “Mr. Davenport, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

  “Juices from the turkey dripped into the oven and ignited with the gas. You’d be surprised how common this is.” He rubs the towel over his face, removing soot with the swipes. “Granted if you’d left the oven closed, it wouldn’t have spread so fast.”

  “Obviously I’ll be refunding your family’s money.”

  He nods and gives a tight smile. “We’ll call it my bill. For now I think we’ll go find some dinner in town. Maybe that burger joint is still open.”

  I bite my lip to keep from crying. Seven seconds pass before I hear him exit the back door of the house. I catch Winnie’s look, and it nearly breaks me. If only this was the first incident, but it’s not. Time and time again, I’ve proved I’m not smart, talented, or creative enough to run an inn.

  “What am I doing, Winnie?”

  “You’re trying.” She pushes the swinging kitchen door open to see the full span of damage. Soot, foam and chaos cling to every surface. “It’ll get better.”

  “That’s the thing. It has to get better faster, or I’m going to lose everything.”

  “You’ll think of something. Or maybe I will. Don’t freak out. We’ll fix this.”

  Staring into the kitchen, I doubt it. With the holiday looming and bills coming due, I need a real Christmas miracle.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Evan

  I have to give the place credit, day after Thanksgiving, and all the lights over the bar are red and green. Way to get in the spirit of things.

  I swirl my drink, glancing down the bar top for any lonely women. I’m not one to collect numbers, but I’ve never been one to turn down good conversation with a beautiful woman either. I’m naturally reclusive, but I have a hard time being alone. It’s a rough balance to strike. At least these days it doesn’t take much effort on my part to get them to notice me. Women see the Porsche, and they’re basically begging for a minute of my time.

  A blonde at the end of the bar winks. Doesn’t matter that she’s with someone else. I don’t smile, that would give too much away. With expert timing, I flinch my left eyebrow to let her know I’ve noticed. Her bright red lip catches between her teeth. The guy with her doesn’t stand a chance. Women are born with internal sensors. They can sniff out money. I’m sure I’ve set hers off, alarms chiming, lights flashing, the whole ten yards. I adjust my cuffs, knowing the inlaid rubies will catch the light. She draws in a breath like I’ve stolen it. Her date’s face is buried in her neck, but her eyes are on me. I shouldn’t be like this, always trying to have what isn’t mine, but when it comes so easily, doesn’t it already belong to me?

  I’m supposed to be meeting someone for dinner, but the bar was enough to distract me. Andrew isn’t nearly as entertaining as the blonde at the end of the counter. I shoot the rest of my drink, determined to end this flirtation and get down to business at hand. Anticipation lights up her
cheeks when I stand. She wants me to steal her. It’s all a game for her, and I’m happy to play along for the time being.

  My phone vibrates in my coat pocket. I groan when I see his name across the screen. Growling under my breath, I click the call through.

  “I’ll be there shortly. Aren’t you supposed to be with your family? Isn’t a holiday or something?”

  Andrew, my agent, laughs. “Holiday was yesterday. Today it’s back to the grindstone, not that I have to tell you that. Where are you? I’ve been sitting at a table for an hour.”

  I keep my eyes locked on the blonde. “I’m out with someone.”

  “I doubt that. Stop flirting and meet me outside. I have the contract.”

  The line goes dead. I mouth the word “sorry” to my eye candy and shake my head.

  It takes longer than I want to fight the crowd getting out. The restaurant is primed for adventure, and the last thing on my mind is leaving. Three other women pass me, clearly interested. I curse Andrew again. Not like he cares. His only concern is making sure my book is out on time.

  “Took you long enough.”

  Andrew’s voice jars me. I find him leaning against the brick building, twirling my car keys in his hand.

  “You LoJack me or something? How’d you get these anyway?” I snatch the keys. “You should have come inside. I would have found someone for you too.”

  “Thanks, I’ve got someone.” He nods to my Porsche on the curb. “I had it brought around for you, Mr. Skruggs. Shall I get the door?”

  “Would you stop that? You know I hate it when you act like this.”

  He opens the passenger’s side without my permission. I take a second to find the valet. Andrew’s a bad tipper. I slip into the driver’s side and wait for the lecture. Andrew stares at me with elevated eyebrows, as if I should be able to read his mind.

  “What? What have I done now?”

  “You bring it on yourself, Evan. You drive this thing. You hire out all the work around your place. You act like Mr. Skruggs, not Evan Skruggs.”

  “You’re saying I’m spoiled?”

  “Rotten.” He laughs so I won’t take it personally. “But that’s beyond the point. You don’t seem to know what you want, do you? You want me to treat you like the guy I took a chance on ten years ago, but you want the rest of the world to act like they’re lucky to breathe your air.”

  I twist the key and feel the hum through my body from the purring engine. “What can I say? I’m an enigma.”

  I slam my foot against the gas and let the tires burn before we race into the night.

  “Did you at least bring the contract like you said you did?”

  He pats the briefcase I didn’t notice. “All inside. She’s driving a hard bargain this time.”

  I groan. “I thought old ladies were supposed to be sweet. When we started all this, didn’t you tell me we’d have to be careful not to take advantage of her?”

  “My how the tables have turned.” Andrew snaps his seatbelt in place and motions for me to do the same. He’s maybe six years older than me, but acts like my dad. Or what I assume a dad would act like. I have no experience in the nuclear family scheme.

  Instead, I take a hard right, gun the gas again, and slide in along the curb in front of my building. “See? Safe and sound.”

  Anthony is waiting at the curb, ready to take my keys.

  “Short night, Mr. Skruggs? I swear you just left.”

  I slip him a twenty with my keys. “Yeah, picked up an unwanted passenger along the way.”

  Anthony eyes Andrew climbing out of the Porsche. “He’s not your type. Not even blonde. Should I call security?”

  “Not tonight.” I appreciate his willingness to play my game. Anthony has a way of brightening my darkest days, if only for the few minutes we spend together. “Apparently, I have some business before I get back to pleasure.”

  “Shall I have it parked for you then, or keep it handy?”

  I stew over the thought, but by now that hot blonde from the bar is gone. “Park it. Maybe tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll send up some food, sir. How about that?”

  I nod. “From DiMaggio’s? The usual.”

  “Very good.” And with that, he’s gone to execute my orders. I push forward, allow Paulie, the doorman, to get the door and wait for Andrew to fall in step beside me.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” he says. “You act like you’re friends with him, but then you tell him to fetch you things. You can’t be a downhome boy and a multi-millionaire, Evan, you just can’t.”

  I can be whoever I want. I don’t have time for his psychobabble. “Hand me the contract. I’ll read it on the way up.”

  The elevator dings. The door slides shut. I press my code because Gary, the elevator guy, isn’t around for some reason. Andrew hands me the contract, and I start reading.

  Years ago, I took a chance and submitted a manuscript for a recipe book of comfort foods. I’d been cooking for a while, not professionally, too poor, but I spent my share of time in a kitchen. I knew my food was good. I knew I had a shot, I just needed someone else to see it too. After more rejections than I want to admit, I lucked into Andrew. It wasn’t a yes, but let’s do lunch is more than a step up from no.

  He’d tried a few of the recipes by the time we met. He was not only impressed, he was floored. Ten seconds into lunch, he wasn’t so sure. The recipes didn’t match the chef. After accusing me of plagiarizing the whole thing, he dragged me into the back of the restaurant and demanded I make him something. More than happy to cook for him, I pumped out a tomato soup with a secret ingredient, some sweet potato rolls, and a quick chocolate tart I made on the fly. I’ll never forget his face tasting everything first hand. Even more memorable, were the words that came next.

  “Food this good needs a face, but I can tell you right now, it can’t be your face.”

  “Are you calling me ugly?” I blurted out.

  “Not at all, but your personality, the way you carry yourself, everything, it won’t sell this book.” He pushed his bowl aside, but not before scraping the last of the soup from the rim with his spoon. “This food is wholesome. It’s loving. It’s the kind of food you eat when nothing else will pick you up. This food comes from the heart.” He sucked the last of the soup from the spoon before he pointed it at me. “You look like you’ve come from a street fight.”

  I remember feeling lost, like my future was waiting on the light across the street, but I had rush hour traffic bearing down on me.

  “What can I do?” I asked.

  Andrew shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve heard of a pen name. We need to get you a pen face.”

  In the beginning, it was a stock photo. The company didn’t want to spend extra on a recipe book they weren’t sure would sell. But in the end, Granny McPherson was born.

  The elevator slows to a stop, the doors open, and I step off into my penthouse, Andrew on my heels. “She wants me to double her salary? She already makes one hundred and fifty k. She’s gotta be out of her mind. All she does is smile for the cover.” I throw the contract at the granite countertop and pull a jug of milk from the fridge.

  “You’ll see on page five that she lists her new duties. She had the interview on that nationally syndicated morning show, and then that book signing last month in New York.”

  “I paid for her to fly there first class. I put her up in that luxury suite. I flew her to her granddaughter’s wedding right after. All she had to do was smile at a few people and sign books.”

  Flour dusts escapes the bowl. I toss in some sugar, a little baking powder and a dash of salt.

  “She’s trying to point out that since your last negotiation, she’s taken on more responsibilities.”

  I crack an egg, but my grip crushes the entire shell. I toss it in the trash and start again. Brown sugar, I’ll need some of that. The jar of peaches pops open first.

  “And you’re sure I can’t hire someone else? Don’t grandmas all look a
like?”

  “Her face is too recognizable, Evan. You run the risk of people finding out the truth.”

  I sigh before I dump the milk into the bowl and whisk with mad fury.

  The truth. Ten years in, it’s too late for the truth.

  “That Granny McPherson is actually Evan Skruggs, ill-tempered millionaire grouch.”

  “If you’re willing to take the risk,” Andrew peeks over the rim of the bowl, but I pull it away, “we could try, but I know how you feel about people looking into your past. I still have my doubts as to whether they’ll like you once they meet you. The second this story breaks they’re all going to—”

  I stop whisking long enough to put my hand up and stop him. “I get it. Open book. Secrets are out in the open. Everyone will know everything.” I pull a pan from the cabinet, spray it with non-stick, dust it with flour and dump everything inside. “You’re saying I have to do this then?”

  “I’m saying maybe it’s worth the risk. Three hundred thousand a year to keep doing what you love in the way you love doing it, but you need to decide if it’s worth it.”

  “Preheat the oven for me, would you?” I jerk open a drawer and retrieve a spoon. Diving deep into the batter, I jam a spoonful into my mouth and exhale. I have a strange relationship with food. I know it. It’s worse than my relationships with women. Or other humans in general. But I have my reasons.

  “What’d you make anyway?” Andrew peers over my shoulder, but I hand him the bowl because I believe in licking the bowl and just about everything else I use to bake.

  “Variation on pineapple upside-down cake. It’s peach and raspberry.”

  “When did you put in the peaches?”

  I shrug and snag another spoonful. “I’m fast. Like Merlin in the kitchen.”

  Andrew flips through the contract, leaving me to my thoughts. We hired Hattie Hewbacker to be the face of Granny McPherson after the second recipe book hit bestseller in two days. People wanted interviews, and a street urchin like me wasn’t ready to face the press. She seemed like a great fit. Back in the day, she’d wanted to be an actress and took small roles in huge movies. Playing Granny McPherson was her big break, and she played the part like a pro.