A Knights Bridge Christmas. Carla Neggers

for her. “I’m thankful for the years your grandpa and I had together,” she’d said. “We were truly blessed.”

      More stiff-upper-lip nonsense, maybe, Logan thought with a hiss of impatience. How was he supposed to know if she was leveling with him? What had she done when he’d returned to Boston after his grandfather’s funeral? Had she been at peace, filled with gratitude, on dark nights alone in this place?

      But “alone” was relative, wasn’t it? Knights Bridge, not just this house, was Daisy Farrell’s home.

      Or was that just a rationalization on his part?

      Maybe he was a heartless SOB.

      He smiled to himself, shaking off his melancholy. Time to get down to business. He texted Clare Morgan.

      9 a.m. start still all right with you?

      He tucked his phone into his jacket pocket and went out to the car for his boots. If he needed them, he wanted them warm. Shoving his feet into cold boots wasn’t on the top of his list of fun things to do.

      When he got back inside, Clare had responded. I’ll be there. Can I bring anything?

      He couldn’t think of what. Glue? Fresh greens? A nail gun? Tape? He had no idea what was involved in decorating a village house for the holidays. He settled on a vague response. We can decide what we need when you get here.

      Sounds good. See you then.

      He didn’t detect anything tentative in her response but wouldn’t be surprised if she regretted agreeing to help. He supposed he’d taken advantage of her newness in town. It was natural for her to want to make a good impression. Helping decorate beloved Daisy Farrell’s house would be a plus. But that hadn’t been his intent. Logan wasn’t quite sure how to describe his intent, but it probably had something to do with not wanting Clare to think he was a jerk who’d browbeaten a receptionist and forced his grandmother into assisted living.

      Then there was Clare Morgan herself. He doubted she’d expected to run into anyone under seventy, except for staff, when she’d carried her box of books into the assisted-living facility. How could he have not noticed the curve of her hip and her unmistakable annoyance when she’d overheard him?

      He noticed a library newsletter on a table by the fireplace. It included a note from the chairman of the board of trustees welcoming their new library director.

      Logan sat on the couch and read.

       Clare Morgan comes to Knights Bridge from the Boston Public Library, our nation’s oldest public library. It’s been her fondest dream to work in a small-town library, and with family roots in the lost towns of the Swift River Valley, she’s pleased to be in our small town. Please take the time to welcome her and her son, Owen, to Knights Bridge.

      “Well, well,” Logan said aloud.

      So, the fair-haired, book-toting small-town librarian knew something of the big city herself. He wondered how long it would take him to find out what had happened to her husband, then dismissed the thought. He could push people and rules to the limit when it suited him, but he wasn’t crossing that line. If Clare wanted him to know, she could tell him.

      Whatever her background, Logan figured he could do worse for decorating help. It could be Randy Frost showing up at nine o’clock tomorrow instead of pretty Clare Morgan.

      * * *

      Fruit, carrot sticks, cheese and a glass of wine sufficed for dinner. Soon after, Logan, bored, went upstairs to the back bedroom where he used to stay as a boy. It had been his father’s room and he doubted it had changed since then. It had two twin beds with a matching dresser and bookshelves. He found a biography of Abraham Lincoln and crawled under the covers in one of the beds. He’d made it up when he’d stayed over earlier in the week. Until then, he’d never slept in this house alone. He remembered his grandfather chasing a bat that had swooped down the attic stairs, but that had been in the summer. Logan wouldn’t have to deal with bats tonight.

      Nightmares, maybe.

      The pipes dinged and pinged with a rush of heat. Wind rattled the windows. A cat yowled in the backyard. Kids—teenagers, he thought—laughed and shouted at each other in the distance, presumably as the skating rink shut down for the night.

      As an emergency physician, Logan had developed the skill for falling asleep anytime, anywhere, but he knew he had his work cut out for him tonight.