Free Coming Home for Christmas by Fern Michaels

to check e-mails. Mason was right, he needed to get to the market and gas up the SUV. “Do you know how to bake a pie, Mason?”
    â€œOf course. Doesn’t everyone? What kind would you like?”
    â€œBerry. Anything berry. I don’t know how to bake a pie. I don’t know how to cook. Period.”
    â€œLet me check the larder to see if the lady of the house has all the ingredients. I’ll make a list for you, Mr. Anders.”
    Antsy with his inactivity, Hank walked into the living room so he could look out the window. He gasped when he saw Mandy and the dogs on Albert Carpenter’s front porch. Mandy was stringing wire on the back of the giant wreath she’d purchased at the florist shop. Even from here he could see how huge the big red bow was. He’d wanted to hang the wreath with her. Was she making a statement of some kind?
    Hank felt guilty and knew it showed on his face when Mason came up behind him with his list. He held out Hank’s wallet. “I’m thinking you might need this.”
    â€œThanks. I wasn’t spying, Mason.”
    â€œIf you say so, Mr. Anders.”
    â€œAll right, I’m spying.”
    Mason cleared his throat. “Have you given any thought to speaking with the young lady and telling her whatever it is that’s bothering you? It’s entirely possible that she’s reacting to something you did or said. For every action there is a reaction, Mr. Anders.”
    Hank snorted. “Try this on for size, Mason. Why would the lady in question be using a credit card, a platinum one no less, with someone else’s name on it?”
    â€œI’m sure there are many reasons why and how that could happen, Mr. Anders.”
    â€œOh, yeah, name me one,” Hank said belligerently.
    Mason squared his shoulders. “Very well. Perhaps the card is in her maiden name. Perhaps it’s a corporate card. Perhaps the young lady uses a pseudonym. And, Mr. Anders, is it any of your business to begin with?”
    â€œI’m outta here,” Hank barked as he opened the door. Slipping and sliding, he made his way to the SUV and turned on the engine and the heater while he cleaned the snow off the truck. He kept looking over at the Carpenter house, hoping Mandy would acknowledge him. She didn’t. The dogs were so intent on romping in the snow, they weren’t even aware of him.
    â€œScrew it,” Hank muttered as he backed out of the driveway. His first stop was the Masterson house on Cypress Street.
    Ten minutes later he was ringing the doorbell. A pleasant woman opened the door and smiled at him. He reached for his wallet and explained that he was there to give a donation for Albert Carpenter’s funeral.
    â€œThat’s very nice of you but some very kind, generous person is paying for the funeral. Mr. Dial just called a little while ago. This same person, who I’m told wishes to remain anonymous, also paid for the church ladies to prepare a dinner after . . . after the burial. Everything has been taken care of, but thank you for stopping by.”
    Hank nodded and shrugged as he jammed his wallet back in his pocket.
    Two hours later, Hank was back at the house, with the SUV gassed up and enough groceries to feed an army for a month.
    He looked across the yard and saw that the colored Christmas lights had been turned on. Wise move. This way Mandy wouldn’t have to get dressed and slog through the snow when it got dark out. The huge evergreen wreath on the door looked festive. He craned his neck trying to see into the cargo hold of the Range Rover to see if the contents had been removed. He couldn’t see a thing with the falling snow and the tinted windows.
    Disgusted with himself and his circumstances, Hank carried in the groceries. He smiled at the childish laughter coming from the family room.
    While Mason unpacked the groceries, Hank made a fire, then settled himself on the floor, not close to the twins but