Yuletide Hearts. Ruth Herne Logan

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       Returning that respect was imperative now.

       The men trooped in, their footsteps heavy on the back porch. Callie pulled out a loaf of fresh-baked Vienna bread crusted with sesame seeds, placed it on the table and settled a plate of soft butter next to the bread, her mama’s custom because cold butter seemed downright unfriendly.

       Right now a part of Callie felt unfriendly, but not to Dad and the guys. Or Jake, her beautiful son, her one gift from a sorry attempt at marriage to a fellow soldier.

       Hank dropped a hand to her shoulder. She looked up, sheepish, knowing he’d see through her thin attempt at normalcy. “It’s okay, Cal. He’s young. Looks competent. And he must have the numbers behind him because the bank signed off. Those homes need someone now, not next spring when things might look better for us.”

       He was right, she knew that; she’d been handling his books for three years, and truth be told she did as well with a nail gun as she had with an M-16 and a computer spreadsheet, but—

       “The important thing now is to save the houses. I’m hoping Matt Cavanaugh and his crew can do that.”

       She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

       Hank had personally planned that subdivision to honor her mother, the name reminiscent of her mother’s childhood home along the shores of Lake Ontario, the quaint family cobblestone a salute to artisans of old. Hank had been determined to carry that classic neighborhood warmth throughout Cobbled Creek, his plans lying open on a slant board he’d erected at the back of the family room. He didn’t glance their way now, and neither did she, the thoughts of all that time, effort and money gone in the blink of an eye, a slash of a pen.

       Hank lifted the stew pot onto the center of the table. Tom and Buck grabbed bowls, napkins and utensils, the old-timers a steady presence at the Marek homestead. Jake put The General on the back porch and shut the door. He ignored the dog’s imploring whine and triple tail thump, a sure sign The General would rather be curled up on the braid rug alongside the coming fire, but the smell of wet dog didn’t rank high on Callie’s list.

       An engine noise drew her attention to the north-facing kitchen window.

       Matt Cavanaugh’s black truck sat poised at the end of Cobbled Creek Lane. Sheeting rain obscured her vision, but something about the truck’s stance, strong yet careful, imposing yet restrained, reminded her of the man within, his shoulders-back, jaw-tight stance just rugged enough to say he got things done. His dark brown eyes beneath short, black hair hinted Asian or Latino, maybe both, his look a mix that defied the Celtic last name. She’d faced him almost eye-to-eye in three-inch heels which put him around five-eleven, not crazy tall, but with shoulders broad enough to handle whatever came his way.

       She refused to cry, despite the disappointment welling inside. Stoic to the end, she’d been practicing that routine for years now.

       Too long, actually, don’t you think?

       Callie pushed the internal caution aside. Survivors survived because they manned up, took the shot and stood their ground. Four years in the military taught her how to draw down the mask, put on the face, pretend disinterest as needed.

       “Great bread, honey. Thanks for picking it up.”

       Callie turned, flashed the men a smile, laid a gentle hand on Jake’s shoulder and nodded. “You know I’ll do anything to keep you boys happy. Any word on when this storm’s going to let up?”

       Jake took her lead, such a good boy, so much like his grandpa. “Supposed to be nice tomorrow, Mom.”

       “Perfect.” She smiled, ruffled his hair and sank into a seat alongside him. “We’ve got to finish the front of the house while we can, get it cleaned up so we can decorate for Christmas. We’ll save cleaning the gutters—”

       “Again?”

       Callie sent Jake a “get serious” look and nodded. “Yes, again, they’re filled with leaves and maple spinners. You know we can’t leave them like that for winter.”

       “We don’t want ice damming that porch roof again,” interjected Hank.

       Tom took up the thread, his face saying he’d play along, pretend everything was all right. “I remember Callie up on that roof last winter, luggin’ that smaller chain saw, cutting through the ice.”

       “Bad combination of events, all around,” agreed Buck. “To get that much snow, then warm up just enough to get a quarter inch of ice. Rough circumstances.”

       “But nothing we couldn’t handle,” Callie reminded them all. She’d used the short chain saw to hack through the pileup, pretending she didn’t recognize the risk of being on a roof bearing thousands of pounds of unwanted ice, chain saw in hand. The roof’s shallow slope helped steady her, but that flattened slope caused the initial problem, the lack of height allowing snow to gather and drift beneath the second-story windows.

       “Exactly why we used steeper roof pitches on the subdivision,” Hank reminded them. His expression said he was determined to face this new development like he handled life, head-on. “Quick water shed is crucial in a climate like ours.”

       “It is, Dad.”

       “Right, Grandpa.”

       Mouths full, Buck and Tom nodded agreement, pretending all was well, but Hank’s old buddies were no fools. Faced with the new realization that Hank’s dream was in someone else’s hands just beyond the big front window, Callie was pretty sure that nothing would ever be all right again.

      Chapter Two

      “What do you mean you’ve got no crew?” Matt asked his roofing subcontractor the next morning. “I can’t do a thing until we get these places under cover with good roofs. We’ve got water-damaged plywood to replace, it’s November and I need the crew you promised today. Not next April.”

       Jim Slaughter, the owner/manager of Slaughter Roofing and Siding sighed. “I’m tapped out, Matt. Fewer housing starts and reroofs. I’m filing for bankruptcy restructuring and hoping I can keep my house so we’re not tossed out on the street. I had to let the guys go.”

       Matt’s marine training didn’t allow temper tantrums or bad vibes, even though he was tempted. “Who else might be available?”

       Jim went silent, then offered, “You’ve got the Marek family right there, and Hank is friends with Buck Peters. They’ve all done roofing.”

       Ask the guy whose dream got yanked out from under him to finish that dream for someone else? Matt didn’t have the callousness to do that.

       Did he?

       Matt eyed the farmhouse across the way. A ladder leaned up against the front. While he watched, the woman came out of the house with a bucket. She climbed the ladder, the unwieldy bucket listing her to the right until she settled it on the ladder hook. She pulled out a large green scrubbie and began washing the faded paint systematically, until she’d extended as far as she could, then she climbed down, shifted the bucket and the ladder and repeated the process despite the cold day.

       A scaffolding would be so much easier. A power washer? Better yet.

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