A Family Christmas. Carrie Alexander

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СКАЧАТЬ been anticipating the day as a righteous reprisal ever since she’d moved home.

      For now, she did as her mother wanted, and Maxine refused to close the cottages. Business had slowed to a trickle even before Black Jack’s death; now it came one drop at a time. These days, even the type of rough-and-tumble sportsmen they catered to expected more comfort and conveniences than the spartan stone cottages offered. While Rose did what she could, little money had been put into upkeep over the years and the place had deteriorated into a shabbiness that was a painful contrast to the natural beauty of the peaceful river setting.

      Maxine’s Cottages consisted of a central home and office surrounded by eight one- and two-room cabins perched along the Blackbear River. Rose lived in the farthest cottage, all her worldly possessions contained in its one room, with space to spare.

      Before going home, she stopped at the main house to check on her mother. It was a duty she bore with equal parts of exasperation and sympathy. Maxine Robbin had led a hard life—married to a hell-raiser at sixteen, often in bad health, scraping by for a living, putting up with Black Jack’s temper. The only break she’d ever had was when an uncle had died and left her the cottages.

      The door was unlocked. Rose scraped her shoes on the rubber welcome mat before entering. The Robbins’ house was not much bigger than the rentals—two bedrooms, a kitchen and an L-shaped combination living/dining area, with the cubbyhole office at the front. Rose’s brothers had shared the second bedroom. She, the youngest and reportedly an unexpected mistake, had been given a daybed in a curtained-off corner of the living area. Small wonder that as a girl she’d spent all her daylight hours outdoors—and even the nighttime ones whenever she was able to sneak out.

      At the sound of the door, Maxine’s querulous voice rose from the back bedroom. “Is that you, Rose? I dropped my clicker and I can’t find it. I’ve been lying here in misery, with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling. Why you had to pile my bed with all these extra blankets and pillows is beyond me.”

      Because if I hadn’t you’d be calling me back to complain about the hard mattress or the cold draft. Rose stopped outside the bedroom door and took a deep breath, wishing for the patience needed to deal with her mother.

      Black Jack’s dominating personality had turned Maxine into a mealy-mouthed complainer. Her voice was like a mosquito—an annoying high-pitched whine that went on and on for so long a body began hoping for the sting that would end it. Remembering that Maxine had been swatted down more often than any person should have to be was how Rose made it through each long day.

      Rustling sounds came from the bedroom. The mattress creaked. “Ohhh. It hurts so much I can’t get out of bed. My arthritis is acting up.”

      “I’m here.” Rose slipped into the bedroom and began straightening the blankets and picking up pillows. She found the remote control in the folds of the comforter and set it on the bedside table. “How was your evening, Mom? Did Alice stop by?”

      “She brought a store-bought coffee cake that tasted like gravel. Came carrying tales, of course. You know Alice.” Maxine shrugged bony shoulders. She’d always been a petite woman, but illness and worry had shrunk her to a wizened, sallow shadow. At fifty-six, she was old before her time.

      She droned on about Alice’s gossip, finishing with, “As if I give two hoots what the ladies of the book club or the guests at Bay House have gotten up to.”

      Rose smiled to herself as she continued straightening the room. One of her mother’s remaining pleasures was a good gab with Alice Sjoholm, who was kind enough to look in on Maxine when Rose was at work. But it simply wasn’t in Maxine’s makeup to admit to any enjoyment.

      “At least Alice is someone to talk to,” Maxine said. “I get zilch outta you.”

      “I have nothing to talk about. You know that not much happens at the Buck Stop. It’s a drudge job.”

      Maxine snorted. “That scarred hermit Noah Saari was coming into the store and you never said a word until I heard from Alice that he was courting some fancy gal at Bay House.” Maxine tilted her head, eyes narrowing at Rose. “You always were a Miss Butter-Won’t-Melt-in-Her-Mouth. Such a sneaky child, running off into the woods and keeping secrets.”

      “I wonder why,” Rose muttered.

      “Eh? What’s that?”

      Rose sniffed the air. The ashtray on the bureau was wiped clean, but when she checked beneath the tissues in the wastebasket she found black residue and several stubbed-out cigarettes.

      “Mom.” Rose let out a big sigh. “You’ve been smoking again.”

      Maxine went into instant-whine mode. “I’m all alone. I get nervous at night.”

      “You know you can’t smoke with the oxygen tank in the room. You’ll blow yourself to smithereens!”

      “Then take it out of here.” Maxine gave the tank beside the bed a disdainful glance before she drooped into a familiar, imploring pose. “Don’t yell at me, Rose. Shouldn’t I be able to do what I please, now that your father is gone? Bless his soul.”

      Rose knew quite well that her mother was using emotional blackmail. Even so, she couldn’t seem to stop the rush of pity that often became capitulation.

      Maxine had an advanced stage of emphysema. She could still get around, though she often preferred not to, and her doctors had said that with vigilant care she might have years to live. A stronger person would have become determined to enjoy their remaining time, but Maxine was too cowed to fight. And she’d soon realized that the illness was a surefire way to keep hold of her only daughter and manipulate Rose to her bidding.

      Maxine’s wants were simple enough, if wearing, so Rose usually found herself complying. She believed that her mother deserved some happiness. Even if it was a twisted, bitter sort.

      “I’m not yelling, Mom. I’m worried.”

      Maxine smiled. “What goes around comes around.”

      Avoiding that, Rose found the pack of cigarettes hidden under her mother’s pillow and stuck them in her jacket pocket. “It’s the cigs or the oxygen,” she said, overriding Maxine’s complaints. She glanced around the room, which had changed little in twenty years. Same with the entire house. Black Jack’s boots were still parked under the bed and his fishing hat hung on the back door. She itched to get rid of them, but her mother refused that, too. Any sane person would have wanted to shed herself of reminders of a sorry life, but not Maxine.

      “Should I help you to the bathroom before I go?” Rose asked.

      “I suppose.”

      Rose gave Maxine her arm and escorted the woman to the adjoining bath. She was quite capable of getting there on her own, but Rose had learned it was easier to help out now than be called on in the middle of the night.

      After her mother was resettled in bed, Rose put a brisk tone in her voice. “All right, then. I’m leaving. Are you all set for the night?”

      Maxine fussed with the bedclothes. “Can’t think of anything I need. But I can always ring.”

      Rose stifled a groan. She had no telephone in her cottage, but there was an old farmhouse bell hanging at the front door, put there so arriving guests could ring for help when no one was in the office to check them in. Maxine seemed СКАЧАТЬ