A Christmas Visitor Read online

  He looked confused by her question. “I’m not sure.”

  Before Miranda could reply, Dixie suddenly pulled away and ran toward the door. She started barking just as Miranda heard a heavy knock.

  “I’ll stay here. You get the door,” Sophie said.

  Miranda headed for the foyer. It seemed too soon for the ambulance to have arrived.

  The orchard was several miles from the village and the EMS crew in Cape Light was all-volunteer, working out of the firehouse.

  She quickly opened the door. Officer Tucker Tulley from the town’s police force stood on the porch, his notepad in hand.

  “Hey, Miranda. I heard a call on the radio for an ambulance. You have a problem here?”

  “I found a man up on the hill behind the house. He seems to have struck his head. He was lying on the ground, out in the cold. I don’t know how long he was out there. He’s in the sitting room now.”

  Miranda led him through the house to the sitting room. Tucker nodded at Sophie briefly, but his attention was fixed on the stranger lying on the couch.

  Sophie looked up at Tucker. “He seems to drift in and out. We just tried to get him comfortable.”

  The man’s eyes opened. He stared up at Tucker wordlessly.

  “That’s a wicked-looking cut on your head, sir. Did you have a fall?”

  Miranda saw an anxious look shadow the man’s dark eyes. “I guess I must have…I can’t seem to remember how it happened.”

  “That’s all right. It’ll come back to you.” Tucker picked up his pad and wrote something down. “May I have your name, sir?”

  Tucker waited, his pen poised over his pad.

  The man didn’t answer. Finally, he let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember. It’s just…strange. I can’t seem to remember anything. My name. How I fell…how I got here.…”

  Tucker stepped forward and rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. “It’s all right. Just stay calm. You must have some ID on you, a license or something.”

  “Yes, I must.” The man started to sit up, and Tucker helped him. The man reached into the breast pocket of his muddy sports jacket, then checked both outside pockets, then finally, the pockets in his pants.

  “I don’t seem to have a wallet. There’s some change and a key…and a matchbook.”

  “Mind if I take a look?” Tucker reached out and took it from him. “Regatta Bar. Charles Hotel. That’s in Boston, near Harvard. Nice place,” he said to the stranger.

  “I wouldn’t know,” the man answered.

  Tucker made a note on his pad, then handed the matchbook back to the stranger.

  No identification? And he doesn’t remember his own name? Miranda couldn’t quite believe it. What did they do now? She looked at Tucker, who showed no reaction at all, something she suspected he had learned from years of police work.

  Tucker stuck the notebook in his back pocket. “Could be you left a car on the road somewhere. Might be some ID or belongings there.”

  The stranger nodded. “I hope that’s the case.”

  A knock sounded sharply on the front door. The ambulance. Finally.

  “I’ll go,” Miranda said.

  “I’ll come with you. I need to talk to the EMS crew.” Tucker followed her out of the room.

  When they were a good distance from the sitting room, Miranda turned to him. “Tucker, he has no ID. He can’t even remember his name. Will the hospital even treat him?”

  “He’ll be taken care of, don’t worry. I still think there must be a vehicle out there somewhere.” Tucker glanced at her. “Listen, I know you’re a decent, trusting person, ready to help anybody. And that goes double for your grandmother. But have a little caution. This guy may not be as harmless as he seems.”

  “He doesn’t even have a wallet. He was probably mugged or something.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he’s only acting as if he’s been mugged. Or as if he can’t remember. You don’t know anything about this man. You took a big chance taking him in, with just you and your grandmother alone out here.”

  “He was hurt,” Miranda said. “What else could we do? We couldn’t leave him outside to freeze to death.”

  Tucker touched her arm. “I would have done the same. But just remember, people aren’t always what they seem.”

  Miranda didn’t answer. She knew what Tucker said was true, but she didn’t believe the stranger was purposely hiding his identity. She had a feeling about him, and Miranda always trusted her feelings—sometimes more than she should.

  She opened the front door and led the two EMTs to the sitting room. They asked the man a few questions, examined his head wound, then bundled him on a stretcher and began carrying him out of the house. It all happened so quickly, Miranda didn’t even have time to speak with him before the stretcher was whisked out of the room. He caught her eye for a moment, his dark gaze locking with her own. Then they carried him out of the house, and he was gone.

  She turned to Tucker. “Where are they taking him?”

  “Southport Hospital.”

  “Are you going, too?” she asked.

  Tucker shook his head. “No, they’ll take good care of him. I’m going to start looking for his car, try to figure out how he ended up here. I’ll call the hospital later to see how he made out.”

  “I’m going to follow. I want to make sure he gets good care.”

  Tucker seemed surprised. “I’m sure he’ll get the right medical attention, Miranda.”

  “I think she should go if she wants to,” Sophie said. She was folding the blankets the man had used. “Hospitals are complicated places these days, and that man has no one to look out for him.” She lifted her chin and faced Tucker. “I think I’ll go, too.”

  Tucker looked as if he were about to argue, then stopped himself. He put on his hat and closed his heavy jacket. “I’m not sure where that fellow came from. But he was darn lucky to be rescued by you two.”

  “Thanks for your help, Tucker.” Sophie opened the door for him. “We’ll let you know how it turns out.”

  “I’ll be waiting to hear from you. Good night, ladies.”

  “Good night, Tucker.” Sophie closed the door and turned to her granddaughter. “We ought to bring him some clean clothes. He can’t put on those wet, muddy things again.”

  “A heavy jacket, too. I think there’s one out in the mudroom that would fit.” Miranda headed for the mudroom as her grandmother headed upstairs.

  “I’ll get some pants and a shirt from the cedar closet,” Sophie called. “Your grandfather’s things will go swimming on that man, but that’s the best I can do.”

  Miranda’s grandfather Gus had died three years ago. Miranda knew her grandmother had held on to some of Gus’s clothes and other possessions, unable to give them all away to charity. It seemed a good thing now that she was so sentimental. At least your things are being put to good use, Granddad, Miranda told Gus silently.

  WHEN IT CAME TO SERVING HER FAMILY A NICE DINNER every night, Molly Willoughby Harding knew she had it easier than most working women. She could just bring something home from her gourmet food shop, Willoughby’s Fine Foods and Catering. On any given night, half the town seemed to be eating her cooking, so why shouldn’t her own family do the same?

  “Because the shop menu gets boring,” Lauren, her eighteen-year-old, explained when Molly made her usual call home at four to check on everyone. “We want pizza. No gourmet pizza, with artichokes or truffle oil or those gross anchovies. Just plain old pizza.”

  “Totally plain!” Jillian, the thirteen-year-old, chimed in.

  “Basic. Bare. Generic. No frills.” Lauren clarified the order with the sharp authority only a high school senior could possess.

  “Extra cheese?” Jillian added. Jill was a cheese fiend. It figured.

  “Okay, a basic, no-frills pizza. And a big salad,” Molly added, pushing the green food. “I’ll be home around six. Jillian, no IM-ing until you finish your homework.”

  “H
ow can I IM anybody? Lauren is totally hogging the good computer with her iPod!” Jillian complained.

  Lauren laughed at her. “Chill, Jill. Shouldn’t you be working on a report about Babylonia or something?”

  “Shouldn’t you be working on a college essay or something?” Molly cut in.

  She heard Jillian laugh. “Nice one, Mom.”

  “Jill, finish your homework. Lauren, give her a turn on the computer when she’s done.” Molly sighed. “Where’s Amanda?”

  “She’s upstairs, practicing for her voice lesson,” Jillian reported.

  “At least somebody is doing what they need to do without being reminded. Please empty the dishwasher before I get home and pick up your rooms.”

  After a few more instructions and heavy teenage sighs, Molly finally said good-bye.

  It figured that her stepdaughter Amanda would be out of the fray, occupied with some useful activity. Not that Amanda didn’t enjoy giggling and getting silly as much as Jill and Lauren. But she was the most responsible, a stabilizing force among the three.

  Ninety-five percent of the time, the three got along surprisingly well. But they were three girls in various stages of adolescence. Mood swings abounded and hormones were raging. Still, whenever her patience felt stretched to the limit, Molly tried to step back and take a deep breath. And just appreciate that she had them with her at all. It wouldn’t be too long before the nest was empty.

  The three years since she and Matt had gotten together had passed so quickly. Jillian was still her baby, but Lauren and Amanda had grown up in the blink of an eye. They would both be off to college next fall. Molly would miss them so much. The house would seem empty and quiet. She tried not to think about it and instead, looked for the number she needed to order the pizza.

  A few minutes after six, Molly pulled into the driveway and parked her white SUV behind her husband Matt’s black sedan. They had moved in about three months ago, but she still felt a thrill driving up to their new house. She still couldn’t quite believe she lived here.

  The custom-built pale brick colonial was set on two landscaped acres in a new development just outside the village. There were five bedrooms, four baths, a formal living room and a dining room, along with a stadium-sized kitchen and an adjacent family room. Beyond the glass sliders of the family room, a two-tiered deck and a kidney-shaped pool created a perfect setting for summer entertaining.

  Some might call her new house a mini-mansion. To Molly, it was the Taj Mahal, the kind of house she had believed forever beyond her reach. The kind she would gaze at longingly as she drove past, feeling like an interloper in the neighborhood. It used to be that Molly never even entered a house like this unless she was hired help, the cleaning lady, cook, or dog walker.

  Four years ago when Molly met Matt, she and the girls had been living in a small apartment above a store in town. She had been struggling to support them—with no help from her ex-husband—cleaning houses, driving a school bus, baking for restaurants, and doing any odd job she could find. She had struggled through the hard times, eventually following her bliss and talent as a cook. Soon after she met Matt, she established a wildly successful food store and catering business. She sometimes thought she might like to go back to school and get a real degree. But who had the time? She barely had time to sleep and shower between taking care of her family and keeping her business running smoothly.

  Lately, she had been feeling even more stressed. Maybe it was just a bad case of PMS, she told herself. Overall, life was more than good. Sometimes she woke up beside her husband and wanted to pinch herself, sure she must be lost in some wonderful dream. Molly didn’t want to think about what her life would be like if she had never met Matt. She couldn’t imagine her life without him.

  Now she walked up the long curving path to the front door, keys jangling in one hand, pizza box balanced on the other.

  Yes, you live here, Molly. This is really your house.

  You’re not just delivering the pizza.

  She dropped her purse and keys on the table by the staircase, then headed back to the kitchen. The table was set for dinner, and Matt was unloading the dishwasher, carefully placing clean glasses in the cupboard.

  “Hi, honey. One of the girls was supposed to do that.”

  “They claim to be engrossed with their homework. Such studious children,” he joked.

  “Especially when you ask them to do some housework.”

  She studied the controls on her new oven for a moment before putting the pizza in to warm. The oven was a high-tech, top-of-the-line model, sold mostly to restaurants. Molly still felt a bit guilty about her self-indulgence. But she was a professional now, so she could justify it. Besides, as Matt reminded her, they could afford the best and she deserved it. It hadn’t taken too much persuading for her to give in.

  The stadium-sized kitchen was her playground, with all the latest equipment, special pots, and gadgets she could ever need. “You could film a cooking show in here,” her friend Betty Bowman had teased her. “Including a large, live audience.”

  Ironically, since they moved in, Molly hadn’t had much time for home cooking. It was hard to believe she had all this state-of-the-art equipment at home and usually ended up reheating something from the shop.

  She was shutting the oven door when she felt Matt sneak up behind her. He put his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck. “Hmm. You smell good.”

  “It’s probably just the pizza.”

  “Perhaps…”

  She turned in his arms and gave him a kiss. “I missed you today.”

  “I missed you, too. I thought you were going to stop by for lunch.”

  “Oh, right. I’m sorry, I totally forgot. Why didn’t you call?”

  “I figured you were busy. It’s okay. I was busy, too.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  Although Matt had taken over Dr. Elliot’s practice four years ago, folks in town still called him the “new” doctor. New or old, he was the only doctor within twelve miles, and his waiting room was always packed.

  “How about tomorrow?” she said.

  “Let’s see. I think I can fit you in. I’ll have to check.” He sounded very serious, but his dark eyes sparkled.

  Molly held him closer. “You think? Thanks a bunch.”

  Matt laughed and kissed her. Molly closed her eyes and melted in his arms. She loved him so much. Sometimes it hurt just thinking about it.

  “Ugh…gross.”

  Molly looked down to find Jillian standing nearby, rolling her eyes with disgust.

  It was a big house. But sometimes, not quite big enough.

  She drew apart from Matt and straightened out her sweater. “Everything’s ready for dinner. Why don’t you call your sisters?”

  “No problem.” Jillian turned on her heel and headed back toward the stairs. “But try to behave while I’m gone, okay? You guys…geez.”

  Matt started laughing and Molly shot him a mock glare. “Stop laughing. You’re encouraging her.”

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.” He tried to stop, but when he caught her eye, she started laughing, too.

  Dinner flew by in a flurry of talk and laughter. The girls devoured the pizza in about five minutes flat, notably faster than they ate her gourmet food. It didn’t matter, Molly decided, as long as they were together. She had never been big on saying grace at the dinner table, but tonight she sent up a silent prayer of thanks for her wonderful family and all the blessings in her life.

  “So, Mom,” Lauren said, “have you and Aunt Jessica decided who’s having the big Christmas Eve party this year?”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Molly said, wondering how she could have let this major detail slip. For the last three years her brother Sam and his wife, Jessica, had held the annual family Christmas party at their house. “This year,” Molly said happily, “the party is coming to our house!”

  “What about your mother?” Matt asked. “Wasn’t she
saying that she wanted to have the Christmas Eve party at her house this year?”

  “She’s claimed Christmas Day,” Molly explained. “I think my folks are still cleaning up from Thanksgiving. They’re fine with coming here for Christmas Eve.”

  Molly had grown up in a big family, six children in all. Most of the Morgan clan still lived in New England, though Molly was closest to her brother Sam. Holidays had always been important in their house. Their parents seemed to love any excuse for a family party. Her mother, Marie, was a fabulous cook, and her father, Joe, had been a professional chef, working on cruise ships and in hotels. Molly sometimes felt intimidated cooking for them, but they always applauded her efforts and never seemed to criticize or offer unwanted advice. Well, practically never.

  “Won’t that be difficult for you?” Matt asked. “I thought you said you were totally overbooked with all the seasonal parties and had to hire more help.”

  “Honey, parties are my business. I can certainly do one for our own family. Besides, it’s our first Christmas in the new house. Don’t you want to entertain?”

  He didn’t look totally convinced. “Of course I do. I just don’t want you to get exhausted. I know how you go crazy if we’re having company, especially if it’s your family.”

  “I won’t go crazy. I promise. Besides, the girls will help me. Right, girls?” Molly looked at her three daughters. They exchanged wary looks.

  “You do get sort of intense, Mom,” Jillian said. “I mean, remember last year when you made, like, a hundred of those little liver cakes with the little flowers on top for Aunt Jessica’s?”

  “That was pâté, Jill. With edible nasturtiums. Everybody loved it.”

  Matt made a face, as if he agreed with Jill. “Look, Molly,” he said diplomatically, “we just want you to have fun on the holidays, too, and not be stuck in the kitchen all night. It’s not a black-tie charity ball at the historical society. It’s just…family.”

  “But we have a big family. Can I help that? I can’t just send out for buckets of chicken.”

  Matt laughed. “As if a bucket of chicken would ever cross the threshold in this house.”