A Knights Bridge Christmas. Carla Neggers

“But it came time to leave and make a fresh start.”

      “Yes.”

      “Not just for Owen’s sake—for your own, too?”

      It didn’t sound like a question. It sounded as if he already knew the answer. Clare nodded. “Owen didn’t need a fresh start. He was happy in Boston, but I thought the move would be good for both of us.” She grabbed a pair of heavy-duty scissors out of a pottery container on the counter. “Why don’t I trim some of the dead stuff off the evergreens while you check the front porch for a good spot for them?”

      “Sounds like a plan.”

      His gaze lingered on her for a few more seconds. It was obvious he knew she’d deliberately changed the subject. She couldn’t tell if he also knew he’d gone too far in asking about her reason for leaving Boston.

      Did Logan Farrell ever worry about going too far with anything?

      He headed down the hall without another word. Decorating his grandmother’s house for Christmas couldn’t be his idea of an exciting Saturday. He could have hired out the job, Clare thought, but he was here, doing it—if with her help.

      She heard a screech and jumped, immediately thinking of Owen, but then realized it was a car hitting its brakes. But before she could relax she thought, why? Why was a car hitting its brakes hard on South Main? Had Owen slipped away from his friends to come find her?

      She shook her head. “Stop. Just stop.”

      She realized Logan had come back down the hall and was standing in the doorway. “You all right?”

      She smiled. “Just crazy.”

      “Ah. Crazy I can understand.”

      “I’ve been...” She snipped a browned twig off a bough. “I’ve been a little hyped up since we moved. Life’s different here. We don’t know a lot of people. Owen’s making friends but I worry. A mother’s prerogative, right?”

      “Within reason,” Logan said.

      “A straight answer. I try not to let worrying get out of hand. I don’t want Owen to be fearful because of me, or to decide not to do things because he doesn’t want to upset me. It’s a balancing act.”

      “He’s moving from being a toddler under constant supervision to branching out a bit more.”

      “Owen’s still under supervision.”

      “But he’s six, not two.”

      “Or sixteen,” Clare added with a smile. “I know what you’re getting at. I had a dozen different scenarios flash before me as Owen went off with the Sloan boys.”

      “Did any of them end with happy, flushed faces and hot chocolate?”

      She laughed, snipping another dead twig. “That’s a perfect image.”

      “Gran’s probably got cocoa in a cupboard.”

      “A plan for the day is developing.”

      “And,” he said, entering the kitchen, “I found a good spot for your evergreens.”

      He grabbed a knife and helped Clare trim the boughs. Once finished, they took them out to the porch and arranged them on the rail, tacking them down with string he’d found in a kitchen drawer.

      “Not bad,” Logan said, appraising their initial handiwork. “It’s a start.”

      “We can do more once we find out what all is available to us.”

      “Gran says she stores Christmas decorations in the attic. Are you game?”

      Clare nodded. “Sure.”

      “You’re not thinking about what could go wrong in the attic of an old house, are you?”

      “Are you suggesting I catastrophize, Dr. Farrell?”

      “Sorry. I was out of line.”

      “I guess you couldn’t be an ER doctor if you worried too much about other people’s feelings. You have to stay focused on what you’re doing.”

      “It helps, but there’s no excuse for being an inconsiderate idiot.”

      “Maybe, but I’d rather have a doctor with no bedside manner who’s good at medicine than a doctor with great bedside manner who’s not as good at medicine.”

      “You can have both in the same person.”

      “That’s the best-case scenario, of course.” Clare stopped herself before her mind could drift into the past. A Boston emergency department, rushing doctors and nurses and the worst news she could imagine. Aware of Logan’s scrutiny, she pulled open the front door. “I love old attics. Shall we?”

      “After you.”

      * * *

      Logan led the way up to the second floor and then up steep, narrow stairs to a full attic under insulated eaves and heavy beams. Clare had expected an overstuffed jumble of dusty furniture and old trunks, but the attic, although jam-packed, was tidy, with cardboard and plastic boxes neatly stacked and labeled, two large trunks, four ladder-back chairs, a mahogany desk and several old bed frames.