Saturday, December 13, 2008

Christmas with Holly by Dana Littlejohn

The next morning she woke to the smell of heaven teasing her senses. Smiling she sat up and took a deep breath.

“Mmm, pancakes and bacon,” she murmured sleepily.

Suddenly her smile disappeared. “Omigosh!” she whispered, urgently throwing the covers back. “Someone’s cooking pancakes and bacon. Someone is here!” She looked around her room and dashed over to the corner where the broom was behind the door. Quietly she unscrewed the broom part from the stick and tiptoed out toward the kitchen. She peeked around the doorway. A man stood at the stove loading a plate with food. Holly stepped closer and he turned hearing the squeak of the floor and ducked just as she swung her stick at his head.

“Whoa! Hey! Wait!” he yelled, ducking and running around the table.

“Who the hell are you? What the hell are you doing here?” Each question accompanied a swing of the stick.

He threw his hands up when he was far enough from her not to get hit. “Okay, will you just stop swinging long enough for me to explain?”

“You’ve got five minutes and do it with your hands on top of your head where I can see them.”

“Okay, that’s fine. I can do that. Can I sit down?”

She stayed in swinging position, gripping the stick as she pondered his request. “Yes, I guess that would be okay, but keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Okay, okay. Well, my name is Logan. I rented this cabin for a few days so I could draw and paint.”

“What? Renting the cabin? I don’t know anything about that.”

“I called Mr. Black when I saw your car outside this morning. He told me you who you were. I can only assume that the troopers turned you around because of the weather. I saw them out when I was coming in last night. I figured you might be hungry when you woke up so I was making enough food for the both of us.”

She relaxed out of her attack stance and looked pass him to the counter where all the food was.

“Can I put my hands down now? The bacon is burning.”

“Oh, umm, yes.” She lowered the broomstick. “You know I’m going to call my father to verify your story.”

He flipped the bacon over and nodded a reply.

She left the kitchen and grabbed her cell phone from her purse.

“Hi Dad.” Holly plopped onto the couch.

“Holly, how are you? I saw Vermont received more snow than they anticipated.”

“Yes, I guess so. Dad, who is this white boy in here?”

“He’s not a white boy, Holly.”

“Well, he looks white to me.”

He chuckled. “I think both your parents have to be white to be considered white, dear. I believe only one of Logan’s parents are white, the other is black.”

“Well, whatever. What’s he doing here? I woke up to breakfast cooking; it scared the crap out of me.”

“He rented the cabin for a few days. He cooked breakfast for you? That was very thoughtful of him.”

“Yeah, well, he almost got his head knocked off for being that thoughtful. Why didn’t you tell me he was going to be here?”

“You said you were leaving. Had you made it home you wouldn’t have run into him at all. I saw no reason to mention it to you.”

She sighed. “Yes, I guess you’re right. So, have you seen the news? When will they have the roads clear enough for me to leave?”

He chuckled. “Sweetheart, they anticipated four-to-five inches and you ended up with ten inches. I’m afraid you’re snowed in for Christmas, sweetheart.”

“What?” she shrieked.