That Holiday Feeling (Virgin River #8)(41)

“I have enough,” she said tightly.

“What about a loan? I could—”

“Absolutely not. I won’t take money from you.”

“Then let me talk to the bank.”

“No, I am not going to start off my new life with a pile of debts. Things will get done when I can afford to do them.”

Trace admired her pride and her independent streak, but as a practical matter he knew it was better for a business to present its best face from the outset so that word of mouth would spread. She might not take money from him, but she wasn’t in a position to turn down a little practical assistance in the form of labor. She could hardly tell him not to pick up his own supplies. He’d just have to be a little sneaky about it. That meant getting in and out of the hardware store without her catching sight of his purchases.

“Fine,” he said. “Holiday Retreat is yours.”

There was one more thing he could do, too. It would require a few phone calls, routing his attorney away from his new girlfriend for a couple of hours, but he could pull it off by Christmas.

“Is Hannah coming into town with us?” he asked as he ate the scrambled eggs Savannah put in front of him.

“Of course. She’s dying to take a look around. We stopped at the grocery store on our way up here, but that’s all she’s seen. I’ll go get her. We can be ready to leave whenever you’re finished with breakfast.”

“Did you eat?”

“I had a piece of toast,” she said.

Trace frowned at her. “I have enough eggs here for three people.” He stood up, grabbed a plate from the cupboard, then divided up his eggs, added two slices of bacon and set it on the table. “Sit. You need the protein.”

Savannah opened her mouth to protest, but his scowl achieved what his directive had not. She sat down and picked up her fork.

“You know, I have to get used to serving the guests around here without sitting down to eat with each and every one of them,” she told him.

“I’m not a guest.”

She nibbled thoughtfully on a piece of bacon. “Which means I probably shouldn’t have cooked this for you,” she said.

“Right. I told you I’d look out for myself.”

“I’ll remember that tomorrow morning.”

He regarded her slyly. “Of course, it wouldn’t hurt to get in a little practice in the kitchen. You wouldn’t want the first real guests to starve, would you?”

She laughed. “I don’t think there’s any chance of that. I may not have had a lot of practice at cooking for a crowd, but Aunt Mae has a whole box filled with recipes she perfected over the years. I can read directions with the best of them.”

“I seem to recall some sort of baked French toast Mae used to make,” Trace said, his gaze on Savannah. “I don’t suppose…”

To his surprise, Savannah’s eyes lit up. “I remember that. She always made it Christmas morning.”

“Then it’s a tradition?” Trace asked hopefully.

“Yes, it’s a tradition. And yes, I’ll make it. And yes, you can have breakfast with Hannah and me on Christmas morning.”

“Before or after we open presents?” Trace asked, only to see her shoulders stiffen slightly.

Hannah arrived in the kitchen just in time to hear the question. “We’re not having presents this year, ’cause we’re poor,” she said with absolutely no hint of self-pity.

“We are not poor,” Savannah said, obviously embarrassed by her daughter’s comment. “It’s just that the divorce and the renovations needed on this place have left us temporarily strapped for cash, so we’re keeping Christmas simple.”

“I see,” Trace said slowly.

Simple might be good enough for Savannah, maybe even for Hannah, who seemed resigned to it, but not for him. For the first time in years, he had the desire to splurge on the holidays.

Oh, he always sent truckloads of toys to various homeless shelters in the city, but his personal gift list was small and mostly confined to business associates. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had anyone in his life to whom he’d wanted to offer even a small token of affection.

He made a mental note to make a few more calls the second he had some privacy.

“Why don’t you guys grab your coats while I clean up in here?” he suggested. “I’ll meet you at the car in a few minutes.”

Savannah regarded him curiously, almost as if she suspected something was up because he’d let her description of their financial plight pass without comment.

“Go on. Warm up the car,” he encouraged, tossing her the keys. “You cooked. I’ll clean up. That’s my tradition.”

“I thought you didn’t have any traditions,” she replied.

“I’m starting a new one.”

To his relief, she seemed to accept that.

“We’ll be outside,” she said. “Try not to break any dishes.”

“Hey,” he protested, “I know what I’m doing.”

He loaded the dishwasher, turned it on, then grabbed his cell phone. It took less than ten minutes to set things in motion. That was one of the benefits of being rich. Trace rarely threw his weight or his money around. When he did, people were eager enough to do as he asked. He’d always been satisfied in a distant sort of way when he thought of the delight his toys would bring to kids on Christmas morning, but he’d never actually experienced that sense of awe and wonder that was pictured in his commercials. Maybe this year things would be different.