The First Love Cookie Club (4 page)

When Crystal had discovered she was pregnant, she’d wanted to have an abortion. He’d told her absolutely not, that they were getting married and having that baby. Crystal had dreamed of becoming a country-and-western singer and making it big in Nashville. She’d blamed first Travis and later Jazzy for ruining her dreams. He’d heard through the grapevine she’d made it to Nashville, but she was waiting tables, not cutting records.

Maybe he’d been wrong to insist on marriage, but he hadn’t been wrong about keeping Jazzy. She was the very best thing that had ever happened to him. Without her, he’d be far less of a man.

An image popped into his head. His wedding day. He remembered the terrified look in Crystal’s eyes as she stood there and then the surprising turn of events when young Sarah Collier had come bursting through the door of the church yelling at the congregation that Travis couldn’t marry Crystal because he was
her
soul mate.

The memory put a momentary smile on his face.

Dr. Adams came bustling through the door, his white coattails flying out behind him. He took one look at Jazzy and the frown riding his face deepened. He tugged a stethoscope from his pocket, spoke gently to Jazzy, and then pressed the bell of the stethoscope to her chest.

Travis stepped closer, fisted his hands, watching and waiting as the physician examined his daughter. After several minutes, Dr. Adams raised his head, rattled off a list of medical jargon to the nurses, wrapped the stethoscope around itself, and tucked it back into his pocket. “Could we speak outside, Mr. Walker.”

Mutely, Travis nodded to the doctor, and then said to Jazzy, “Daddy’s going to be right out here in the hallway.”

“Daddy,” she wheezed.

He took her hand, squeezed it. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“Will … you …” She paused, chuffed in a mouthful of the nebulizer mist from the green plastic mask the respiratory therapist had slipped over her face.

“Don’t talk.”

“Isabella,” she whispered. “Book.”

“You want me to bring you Isabella and
The Magic Christmas Cookie?”

She nodded again, asking for the two possessions that comforted her most.

“I’m on it,” he said. His gut wrenched and it was all he could do to make himself leave her, even for a fraction of a second.

“What’s going on here, Doc?” he asked once the door had closed behind them. “You said that last drug we put her on should do the trick. She’s taking four different kinds of medication a day and showing no signs of improvement.”

Dr. Adams pulled a palm down his face. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

Uh-oh, this didn’t sound good.
Travis struggled to quell the fear growing inside him as Dr. Adams led him into the empty physicians’ lounge and plunked down at the head of a small conference table. “Have a seat.”

He didn’t want to, but he sat.

Dr. Adams took a deep breath. “I don’t know what to say, Travis. Jazzy is on the maximum doseof every effective medication we have in our arsenal.”

Travis felt a chill straight to his soul. “What are you telling me?”

The physician shook his head, spread his hands. “I’m all out of tricks.”

“Does this mean we have to go through another round of specialists?” he asked. He was willing to do whatever it took to make his daughter well, but he hated the thought of putting her through more tests, more hospitals, more needle pokes. Jazzy was a trouper, but the poor kid had been through so much. Where did it end?

Dr. Adams shook his head. “We could try, but I have no reason to believe the outcome would be any different than in the past.”

Fear clawed at his throat. “So what are you saying? That there’s no hope?”

“There’s always hope. You have to believe that, Travis.”

“What can you offer us?”

Dr. Adams shifted his way. “There’s a new drug on the market, but—“

“Why didn’t you say so before?” Travis interrupted, feeling a surge of hope.

“It’s very expensive and your insurance doesn’t cover it.”

“I don’t care. Whatever it costs, I’ll get the money.”

“It’s twenty-five hundred dollars for one injection and she’ll need a shot every three weeks.”

One shot equaled his monthly take-home salary. Travis swallowed. “I’ll sell my house if I have to.”

“It’s not just the cost.” Dr. Adams pressed his

lips together. “The reason insurance won’t cover the drug is because while it’s been approved for treatment of another lung disorder, it’s not approved for severe bronchial asthma. If a drug is used off-label, it’s considered experimental. Although it has been approved in Canada for use in severe asthma.”

“Fine, we’ll move to Canada,” Travis said, and meant it, even though he’d lived his entire life in Twilight. Hell, his father and his father’s father and his father’s father’s father had all been born and raised in the town, and he loved the place with all his heart and soul, but he loved his daughter more. He’d leave it in a nanosecond if doing so could heal Jazzy.

“It’s not that simple.”

Nothing ever was. “You dangle this hope in front of me and then you snatch it away, Doc. What the hell is that all about?”

Dr. Adams met his stare. “I’m willing to go out on a limb and prescribe this drug to Jazzy for her asthma.”

A tidal wave of hope hit him this time. “Thank you,” he said, “thank you.”

Dr. Adams held up his palm. “Before we jump into this there is a lot to consider. This medication might not even work.”

“It’s worth a shot.”

“There are side effects.”

“There’s side effects with the medication she’s already on.”

“Yes, but this drug is still new and it has been approved for a different condition. I did some research, called some experts, and I have a tentativeprotocol for using the medication off-label, but essentially, we’d be flying blind. We could be playing Russian roulette with Jazzy’s life.”

Silence fell between them.

The reality of what the doctor was saying slowly sank in. “But this could also be the drug that controls everything, right?”

“It could. The preliminary findings are very hopeful. You need to think about this long and hard, Travis.”

“I just want her well.”

“I know,” Dr. Adams said, “but do the risks outweigh the possible benefits?”

Travis let out a long breath and it was only then that he realized he’d been holding it down deep in his lungs. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks for giving it to me straight.”

“You’re welcome.”

Dr. Adams went back into the exam room with Jazzy, while Travis went out to his pickup truck. He drove the three miles to their cottage by the lake, found Isabella and
The Magic Christmas Cookie
book, and hurried back to the hospital.

When he went back into the exam room, Jazzy’s eyes were closed and her breathing was easier. Travis took Isabella and tucked her gently in the crook of Jazzy’s arm and then he sat in the flimsy blue plastic chair beside the gurney and opened the well-worn cover of
The Magic Christmas Cookie
and began to read, the ritual now so ingrained, he didn’t have to think.

“Butterfly Books,” he read, “a division of Jackdaw Publishing. First edition. All rights reserved.” He always read the information on the copyrightpage to tease her, just as his mother used to do with him.

Usually, she would say, “Dad
-dy,”
in a tone of exasperation, but this time, she said nothing.

Travis recited the story he knew by heart, sitting there, watching his little girl sleep. The mask was still on her face; little puffs of mist escaped from the vent slits on the side and disappeared into the air. He watched his daughter and read of magic cookies and Santa Claus and Christmas miracles a week before Halloween.

This was a scary place, where they were right now. Hung on the precipice of promise and disaster. New drug. New hope. How many times had he gotten his hopes up? How many times had they been dashed?

Jazzy turned on the gurney, opened her eyes, tugged the mask from her face. “Daddy?”

“What is it, sweet pea?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried to run on the playground. I knew better.”

“It’s okay, it’s all right. Don’t worry. You didn’t do anything wrong. You just wanted to have fun.”

“Daddy?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Am I gonna die like your mommy did?”

Travis bit down on the inside of his cheek. He’d never wanted to tell Jazzy about how her grandmother had died, but Crystal had told her when she’d asked. Travis still held that against her. “No,” he said, “absolutely not. I’m your daddy and I won’t let anything happen to you, no matter what. Got it?”

“Will I ever be normal?” she asked.

“You’re already normal,” he said.

“You know what I mean. Will I ever be able to run and play like other kids?”

It was a promise he had no way to guarantee, but he made it anyway. “Yes,” he declared. “One day you’ll be able to run and play like other kids.”

She smiled faintly, closed her eyes. “So where’s Isabella now? Is she at the North Pole yet?”

“Not yet.” He reached across the bed, squeezed her hand, and went back to reading about Isabella, his mind made up. They were going to try that new drug because Jazzy deserved a fighting chance at a real life.

By the time December rolled around, Sarah was no further along on her book than she’d been in October. Oh, she’d written plenty, but none of it had gelled. Nothing was right. She’d written, edited, discarded. She had no feelings for the work other than disgust. And disgust was not a passion on which to build a successful story.

Going back to Twilight was beginning to look damn good in comparison. That spoke to how desperate she felt, considering that she’d rather vacation in Baghdad than return to her grandmother’s birthplace.

But on the first Thursday in December, as a driver guided the Town Car that had been waiting for her at DFW airport, past the “Welcome to Twilight, Friendliest Hometown in Texas” sign, and she saw Lake Twilight glimmering blue in the distance, deep nostalgia swept through her. How she missed her Gramma Mia! Even now, she could smell her grandmother’s kitchen rife with the scent of fresh-baked yeast bread and the sweet taste of her homemade peach jam.

She hadn’t expected the hit of sadness that fisted tight against her rib cage as the driver turned down Ruby Street with the tall, sheltering elms lining both sides of the road. The town was just as she’d remembered. Nothing had changed. Christmas decorations adorned almost every yard they passed. People smiled and nodded and waved at the car as it passed, as if they were welcoming friends.

Twilight was one of those super-adorable tourist towns frequently found parked beside rivers and seashores and at the foot of majestic mountains. Verdant green lawns lush with St. Augustine grass and white, knee-high picket fences graced most of the Victorian, Cape Cod, and Craftsman-style homes that dominated the neighborhood near the square and around the lake. Flags fluttered from rooftops, a testament to patriotism. Wind chimes whispered in willow trees. Kitschy pink flamingos and wooden cutouts of ladies bending over showing their bloomers dotted the landscape.

In the spring and summer, the flower beds were an arborist’s wet dream. Planter boxes and hanging baskets hosted a range of petunias and periwinkle and pansies. Sidewalk gardens boasted daffodils and amaryllis and hyacinth in late February and early March, later to be replaced by irises and gladiolas and day lilies. Elephant ears were a favorite in the rugged Texas soil, along with hearty salvia and geraniums and begonias. This time of year it was mostly Christmas cactuses and rust-colored chrysanthemums offering a splash of color.

The sweet familiarity tasted like tears against her tongue. She clenched her purse with both hands, curling her fingers into fists around the Italian leather strap. It was all she could do not to beg the driver to spin the car around and zoom back to the airport.

The Lincoln cornered the town square with its gorgeous old courthouse erected in the 1870s when the town was in its infancy. All the buildings lining the four quadrants of the courthouse had been constructed in the same era. When she’d walked the streets of Twilight as a girl, Sarah had often half expected to see Jesse James tying his horse to one of the wooden hitching posts that still sat outside the Funny Farm restaurant. Rumors swirled that the infamous outlaw had once used the caves around the Brazos River as a hideout.

For the moment, however, Charles Dickens was being layered atop the usual Old West architecture. The first weekend in December the Twilight Chamber of Commerce threw a Dickens on the Square tourism event. At ten in the morning, workmen were busy setting up various stages around the courthouse lawn. Strolling carolers warbled in group song, practicing their vocal range. Vendors erected street stalls for displaying their wares— Victorian-inspired crafts, clothing, jewelry, and holiday decorations.

The lantern parade on Friday evening officially kicked off the event, featuring “Queen Victoria” in the lead, followed by floats filled with various characters from the novels of Charles Dickens. The last float traditionally carried Father Christmas. Out of all the festivals this festival-loving town threw, Dickens on the Square had been Sarah’s favorite. Something about the pageantry of nineteenth-century England appealed to her romantic nature.

Yeah, back when you were fifteen and stupid.

She shook her head, stared out the window, and found her gaze drawn to the men in the crowd. It was only after her heart gave a strange little stutter at the sight of a tall, dark-haired man that Sarah realized she was subconsciously searching for Travis. The man turned around, and when she saw it wasn’t he, the pent-up breath she hadn’t even known she’d been holding slipped from her lungs in one long sigh.

The driver pulled the car to a stop outside a restored Victorian house painted a soft rosy pink. Scattered all throughout the yard were angel lawn ornaments. The sign out front read: “The Merry Cherub Bed-and-Breakfast.”

She walked up the steps, but before she could ring the bell, the door was flung open to reveal a beaming middle-aged man with a graying goatee dressed in the fashion of Charles Dickens—top hat, frock coat, walking cane. He looked at once charmingly quaint and absolutely ridiculous.

“Hello, Miss Cool,” he boomed, and thrust out his hand. “Mayor Moe Schebly. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Sarah gave him her hand and he pumped like he was trying to get her to gush water. “Thank you for inviting me, Mayor.”

“We’re delighted you could make time in your busy schedule for us.”

“My pleasure.”

“If it’s not too much of an imposition, I’d like to quickly go over the details of this evening’s festivities with you and your role in them before you get settled into your room.” He tapped the face ofhis watch. “Charles Dickens has a tight schedule to keep.”

“I understand.”

The mayor pulled a brochure and a piece of folded paper from his dark gray waistcoat and passed it to her. “You’re in the parade, of course, and you’ll be riding in the final float with Father Christmas and little Jazzy. Don’t feel you have to wear a costume. Although I have taken the liberty of arranging to have several gowns placed in your room should you decide to do so.”

“Um … okay.”

“If you have any questions, my cell phone number is printed on your schedule.”

“Thank you.”

“See you at the high school football field at five o’clock. That’s where we load up the floats. I’ve included a map of the town for your convenience,” Mayor Moe turned Charles Dickens said. “And now I must run. See you at five.”

And then he was gone.

A woman who was about a decade older than Sarah had been standing behind the mayor during his rushed instructions. She too was adorned in Victorian-era clothing. The old Sarah would have sighed at the romance of it all, but Sadie Cool wondered just exactly how uncomfortable that corset really was.

“Hello.” She smiled warmly. “I’m Jenny Cantrell; my husband, Dean, and I own the Merry Cherub. It’s wonderful to meet you, Miss Cool. Please follow me and I’ll show you to your room.”

For the first time, Sarah got a good look at the interior, and all she could do was stare in stunnedsilence. The place was awash in angels. Angel wallpaper, thick and velvety-looking. Angel mobiles dangled from the ceiling, flying gently from the air movement of the heating vent. Angels were carved into the staircase and the impressive crown molding. Ceramic and porcelain angels sat on display inside a mahogany curio cabinet beside the front door. There was an angel umbrella stand and an angel coatrack and even an angel rocking chair. The angels came in every conceivable style and color—round, cherubic angels that looked like babies. Fun, playful cartoon angels. Tall, thin angels with windblown hair, halos, and benevolent expressions.

Rattled, Sarah edged after Jenny, who’d already started up the staircase.

Jenny stopped on the landing at the top of the stairs and took a key from her pocket. “I’m putting you in the VIP room.”

The entire room—still decidedly angelic in theme—was done in various shades of pink. Egads. It looked like heaven had vomited Pepto-Bismol after eating cotton candy. She had to admit the decor took some getting used to. But there was a nice spa tub in the room and the bed looked plush and comfortable.

Jenny handed Sarah the room key. “If you need anything at all just call the front desk.”

Sarah walked across the room and sank down on the mauve love seat positioned beside the window. She peeped through the lace curtain to the street below. Her grandmother’s house was a few blocks over, down by the water on Lakeshore Drive. She had an urge to go see it. Her parents hadsold the place after her grandmother died without even asking her opinion. Another reason there was a rift between her and her folks. But, Sarah supposed, after her big humiliation in Twilight, they’d figured she never wanted to come back here and they certainly hadn’t wanted the place.

Memories tumbled in on her. Flashes of how she used to be. Shy, overweight, her nose stuck in a book so she could hide away from things that bothered her. Once upon a time, Twilight had been part of her magical escape from boarding school and her parents’ impossibly high expectations of her. She’d counted the days until summer vacation, until the Christmas holiday.

And then she’d gone and ruined even that refuge.

Twilightites loved their celebrations. They never passed up an excuse for a festival or carnival or party. Part of it was due to the nature of the town’s commerce, which was, first and foremost, tourism. But an element that couldn’t be ignored was the community’s genetic propensity for romance.

The town itself was reportedly founded on a legend about two lovers separated during the Civil War, who fifteen years later were reunited on the banks of the Brazos River where Twilight now stood. But none of that malarkey was written in the history books. According to the official version, Twilight was started as a military fort to combat violent Kiowa and Comanche uprisings that were prevalent at the time.

But reality didn’t bring in the tourists.

Instead, the story of Colonel Jon Grant, sent to oversee the fort, and the woman who later becamehis bride, Rebekka Nash, became the preferred legend.

Not that Travis allowed himself to believe in any of that fated, destiny, happily-ever-after crap. He knew better. He believed in one thing and one thing only—his daughter, Jasmine.

Looking at her now, so robust and excited, sent his spirits soaring. She’d been on the new medication for six weeks and she’d just received her third dose. So what if the seventy-five hundred dollars had drawn his savings account dangerously near zero. He would gladly surrender every last cent he owned for her. Of course, he was already worried how he was going to afford the next round, which was due just before Christmas, while at the same time giving Jazzy the Christmas she deserved. He had a few things he could sell—an antique shotgun his granddaddy had left him, his fishing boat, a secondhand Kawasaki motorcycle that had sat in the garage since Jazzy had come into his life and changed his wild-boy ways. And there was her college fund. He didn’t want to dip into it, but it was there if needed.

But what about the injection after that and the one after that?

Travis shoved the worry aside. He’d cross those bridges when he came to them. For now, he was enjoying the fact that his daughter was well enough to ride in the open-air float on a cool day without a hint of breathing trouble.

Jazzy’s blue eyes were unusually bright. She was dressed like Isabella from
The Magic Christmas Cookie
—pigtails, pink pinafore, blue gingham apron. His Aunt Raylene had made the outfit after

Jazzy fell in love with the book. Over the top of her costume, she wore a pink and blue car coat with a puffy hood. In her hands, she clutched her well-worn Isabella doll, and her cheeks were flushed bright pink.

Excitement? That was okay, but what if she had a fever? He reached over to splay his palm over her forehead.

Jazzy drew back and looked irritated. “I’m okay, Daddy.”

“Just checking.” He smiled.

“Father Christmas.” Belinda Murphey was in charge of getting everyone onto the floats in time for the parade. She had a clipboard in her hands, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, and a whistle around her neck. “You and Jazzy can go right on up.”

Travis bent down to pick up Jazzy, but she tossed her head. “I can walk. I’m too big for you to carry around.”

Not really, but okay, maybe he was being overly protective. It was difficult finding a balance between being watchful and letting her do as much as she could by herself, giving her the room to be like other kids. “Sure you can, honey.”

She started up the steps and he put a hand to her back. “Daddy …” she warned.

“Sorry, sorry.” He forced himself to put his arm down.

Jazzy made her way to the sleigh centered in the middle of the float and climbed aboard with mincing, ladylike steps. Every time he looked at her his heart ached a little. He loved her so damn much, the intensity of it cut sharp as a knife. Before he’dhad a kid, he hadn’t known this kind of love existed. He still couldn’t understand how Crystal could walk out on her.

His daughter settled into the seat, spread out her skirt all around her, and then beamed over at him. “You can come up now, Daddy.”

He climbed the steps in his Father Christmas costume. In spite of the itchy beard, he loved this, being here with his daughter, playing Santa Claus. It made him feel lighthearted again. Something he hadn’t felt since Jazzy had gotten sick.

Once upon a time, he’d been the original good-time Charlie. Living only for himself, seeking adventure in all the wrong places, burying his sorrow over his mother’s death the only way he knew how—by partying hard.

But one tiny little girl had changed all that.

It was a miracle really, the new medication Dr. Adams had given Jazzy off-label. How the hell had he gotten so lucky to have such a wonderful daughter, a loving community, and an open-minded doctor? He swallowed past the lump in his throat.

Dammit, Walker, don’t go getting all sentimental.

He sat beside Jazzy. “Can I put you on my lap or are you too big for that too?”