Free Twelve Days of Christmas by Debbie Macomber Page B

home.
    She paid for the soup, and her steps were filled with purpose as she headed back home. Getting the soup to Cain while it was still hot was a priority. Once inside the building, she dropped off her coat and purse at her apartment and went directly across the hall to Cain’s. Schroeder probably needed to be walked, too. She’d volunteer to do that as well.
    She knocked on his front door.
    No response.
    “Cain, it’s me,” she called, pressing her ear to the door. Sure enough, she heard him moving on the other side.
    “That’s supposed to entice me to open my door?” he grumbled.
    She couldn’t let him know she knew he was sick. “Come on, open up,” she said when he ignored her summons.
    “Go away,” he told her.
    “Not going to happen. I want to know why you didn’t meet me at the elevator this morning.”
    “Why do you care? I’m avoiding you.”
    “No, you’re not. If you remember, we specifically talked about it. I want to know what’s up.”
    The lock turned and he cracked open the door. “I’m sick.”
    She exhaled a deep sigh as if this was news to her. “I thought that must be the case.”
    “Why’d you think that?” The door remained only slightly ajar, just enough for him to talk to her without shouting.
    “Like I said, I just figured something had to be wrong when you weren’t at the elevator this morning. Now, are we going to talk through a crack in the door or are you going to let me in?”
    “No. Go away.”
    “What about Schroeder? Does he need to go out?”
    “The building manager took him out.”
    “Come on, Cain, I thought we were past this. Let me in.”
    He grumbled something under his breath that she didn’t quite hear. From what she could make out, it was a good thing she didn’t pick up on all of it.
    Reluctantly, Cain opened the door all the way and she entered his apartment.
    When she did, she stopped short. “Whoa, you look horrible.” And he did. He was deathly pale and his eyes were rheumy. If that wasn’t enough, his hair was a mess; he wore sweats as if he was fighting a chill. His feet were covered in white sports socks.
    “Okay, you’ve verified—I’m sick. Now leave.”
    She held up the container of soup. “I brought you dinner.”
    “Don’t want it. Now go.”
    Julia set her hand on her hip. “Why are you so anxious to be rid of me? Well, other than you’ve never been all that happy to see me.”
    He frowned as if to say that wasn’t entirely true. Not any longer. She doubted he’d ever admit it, but the look on his face said it for him.
    “In case you haven’t figured it out, I have the flu. Do you want it, too?”
    “No worries. I had my flu shot.” Not wanting to argue with him, she wove her way around him and stepped into the kitchen, which was in bad shape. Dishes filled the sink and food items were spread across the counter, including used tea bags and a multitude of cups. Ignoring the mess, Julia brought down a bowl.
    “Julia, I’m serious.”
    “So am I,” she said over her shoulder. She set the bowl and the container of soup on the counter and pried off the lid. Right away the room was filled with the aroma of chicken and noodles. “Have you had anything to eat today?” she asked as she filled the bowl with the hot soup.
    “No.”
    “That’s what I thought. Sit.” She motioned toward the counter, where he appeared to take all his meals.
    Again he grumbled, but he did as she asked. She stood on the other side of the counter and opened and closed the drawers until she found the silverware and then handed him a spoon.
    Glaring at her, Cain took a tentative sip of the soup while Julia watched him. His look suggested that the faster he ate, the faster he could be rid of her.
    “So?” she asked, with her hands braced against the edge of the counter.
    “So what?”
    “Hits the spot, right?”
    He nodded. Guess that was a victory, although a small one.
    “I need to lie down.”
    “You should.” His sofa was a mess.