A Knights Bridge Christmas. Carla Neggers

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      Knights Bridge’s only assisted-living facility was located in a beautiful spot with views of snow-covered meadows that gave way to woods. In the distance, Clare could see a sliver of water, not yet frozen over, that she knew to be part of Quabbin, a vast reservoir built in the 1930s by the damming of the Swift River. Many of the elderly residents of Rivendell knew people who’d lived in the valley, or had lived there themselves, before its four small towns had been taken over by the state and disincorporated, their entire populations forced to relocate.

      The “accidental wilderness,” Quabbin was called now, with its protected waters and watershed. On a previous visit to Rivendell, Grace Webster, a retired teacher and avid bird-watcher, had told Clare about the return of bald eagles to the valley.

      She grabbed the box of books and headed inside, setting the box on a chest-high wall unit in the corridor. She waved to the receptionist, who was expecting the delivery, but the young woman was dealing with a man in expensive-looking dark brown cords and a canvas shirt, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, as he visibly tried to control his impatience. “Her name is Daisy Farrell,” he said. “She’s your newest resident. She’s in good health for a woman in her eighties, but I want to review her care with your medical staff.”

      “Of course,” the flustered receptionist said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize today’s moving day for Mrs. Farrell. I only just got in.”

      He calmed down. “Thank you.”

      One of those imperious, successful men who likes to get his way, Clare thought as she worked a sore muscle in her arm from carrying the heavy box. She would bet the man wasn’t from Knights Bridge. Why was he interested in Daisy Farrell? Clare pushed her questions aside. It didn’t matter. Whatever his reasons for being here, she doubted he’d ever show up again.

      The man left the receptionist to fulfill his request and seemed to notice Clare for the first time. He glanced at the books in the box. “That’s quite a range of titles.”

      “It’s quite a range of people who live here.” She didn’t manage to keep the starch out of her voice.

      If he noticed, he didn’t pay any attention. “No doubt. Are you from the library?”

      “Clare Morgan. I’m the new library director.”

      “Nice to meet you, Clare. I’m Logan Farrell. Daisy Farrell—the woman I was biting off the poor receptionist’s head over—is my grandmother.” He breathed deeply. “It’s harder than I thought to move her in here.”

      Clare noticed a nick on his hand and bits of cardboard on his shirt. She also noticed the muscles in his forearms. He had short-cropped dark hair, hazel eyes and a strong jaw—strong features in general, perhaps part of the reason she’d misread him. She knew better than to judge people, given her work and her natural disposition. Logan Farrell might be impatient and even arrogant, but he was here with his aging grandmother.

      “She could use a cheerful book to read,” he added.

      Clare smiled. “I’m sure that can be arranged. She requested A Christmas Carol.”

      “I don’t know how cheerful the ghost of Jacob Marley is. Scared the hell out of me as a kid. Have you met my grandmother?”

      “Not yet.”

      “She has a house on Knights Bridge common and used to walk to the library, but she hasn’t been out much since she took a fall in November.” Logan glanced at the nick on his hand, as if noticing it for the first time. “I can introduce you if you’d like.”

      Even if the offer was to assuage his guilt at getting caught being impatient with the receptionist, Clare accepted. “I’d love to meet Mrs. Farrell,” she said.

      Daisy Farrell’s grandson was clearly out of his element in a small-town assisted-living facility, talking to the local librarian. As Clare followed him down the hall, she wondered what kind of work he did and where he lived. Boston? Hartford? Somewhere farther afield—had he flown in to visit his widowed grandmother?

      The door was open to a small apartment, where an elderly white-haired woman was standing on a chair, hammer in hand. She had on baggy yoga pants, a pink hoodie and silver sneakers.

      Logan sucked in an audible breath. “Gran,” he said. “What are you doing?”

      “Hanging my sampler.”

      Clare noticed a cross-stitched sampler on a chest of drawers. Neatly stitched flowers and farm animals created a frame for the simple inscription:

      The only way to have a friend is to be one.

      Daisy Farrell in a nutshell, Clare suspected.

      “I can hang the sampler for you, Gran.” Logan put a hand out. “Come on.”

      She grinned at him. “Getting up here was easy. I figured I’d need help getting down.”

      “Had a plan, did you?”

      “Enough of one. Let me finish and—”

      “We have company,” he said. “We can finish in a few minutes.”

      She sighed. “All right, all right.”

      He took her hammer and helped her down from the chair. “Gran, this is Clare Morgan, the new librarian in town. Clare, my grandmother, Daisy Farrell.”

      “A pleasure, Mrs. Farrell,” Clare said.

      “Same here,” the older woman said politely. “You’re not from town, are you?”

      Clare shook her head. “My parents moved to Amherst after my sister and I went to college, but we grew up outside Boston. I lived in Boston until I relocated to Knights Bridge in November. My son’s in first grade.” She smiled. “We’re both adjusting.”

      “Then you’re married?” Daisy Farrell asked. “What’s your husband do?”

      “I’m widowed, Mrs. Farrell.”

      Clare noticed Logan’s sharp look, as if he hadn’t considered such a thing.

      “Oh, dear,” Daisy said, shaking her head. “You’re so young. A fresh start here will be good for you. Knights Bridge is a wonderful town—not that I’ve known any other. Well, until now. I lived in the same house all my life. I was born in an upstairs bedroom.”

      Logan touched her elbow. “Here, have a seat, Gran. We’ll get your sampler hung. It’ll help this place feel more like home.”

      “It will, but I’m not feeling sorry for myself. You and your father didn’t drag me kicking and spitting into seeing I had to move. I knew it had to be done.” She sank into a chair upholstered in a cheerful fabric. “Grace Webster says she’ll let me borrow her binoculars until I get a pair, so I can watch the birds, and Audrey Frost wants to sign me up for yoga. What do you think of that, Logan? Audrey’s younger than I am. Can I handle yoga?”

      “I’ll check with your internist, but I don’t see why not, if it’s designed for seniors.”

      “Well, СКАЧАТЬ