by Toni Blake
Even if, in her heart, she no longer held out much hope for the hillside.
Because even if that bulldozer sat there unmoving until spring, even if she continued to keep the key to it on mere desperate principle, she no longer believed she could really save the trees. She’d keep trying as best she could—but reality had begun setting in. Developers didn’t stop their developments just because you asked them to. Even when they slept with you and honestly seemed to like you. Admitting that to herself made her chest tighten, her stomach knot. But she couldn’t see a way around it.
Drinking her tea curled up in the easy chair in the nook, she stroked Miss Kitty’s thick fur and thought through her day.
Maybe she’d call Allie Hobbs and ask if she’d open the Knitting Nook for a little while—despite the lack of regular business hours in the winter, Allie had given Lila her number and told her to call if she needed yarn or anything else.
Maybe she’d take a walk in the snow—maybe even on Gran’s old snowshoes. She’d never actually imagined wanting to do anything like that, but that recent urge to reconnect with Gran’s memory and the island still echoed through her.
Or maybe she’d call Whitney. Even though they’d had an awful falling-out over Simon. It still made her feel a little sick to remember. She’d trusted Whitney so much. They’d worked together at one of Chicago’s largest banks for seven years, and then two years ago, Whitney had gotten a job at the Alexis Foundation and soon after, on her recommendation, Lila had, too. Whitney’s betrayal had been one more thing to make running away seem like a viable solution.
Though the longer she was here, the more she realized that coming to Summer Island hadn’t solved anything. Other than giving Meg extra time away with Seth, that is. That part was good. The rest she wasn’t so sure about.
The last potential activity for the day involved the final skein of yarn she’d bought from the Knitting Nook but not yet used. A dark, warm, serious-looking maroon in a thick, soft alpaca blend. She had enough charcoal gray left over from the hat she’d made for her dad that she could probably get fancy and add a stripe on the crown.
Whereas loom knitting was usually the perfect distraction from all her woes, today the idea came with a problem. She found herself wanting to make this hat for the one person she knew who actually seemed to need a hat.
It also happened to be the same person who was tearing down her trees.
And the same person who she now knew Suzanne had romantic aspirations toward, making her feel, however unwittingly, like the “other woman.”
By all accounts, he was the last person she should make a hat for. After all, what kind of message did that send? Tear down my trees and I’ll make you a hat? By that logic, it was a pretty preposterous notion.
And yet he stayed in her thoughts. She wondered what the story was with his father. And his wife. Ex-wife. Or...maybe she’d died, like Suzanne’s husband? Ugh—that would be tragic. But regardless, she wanted the answers. She wanted to know who Beck Grainger really was beyond a callous destroyer of nature and a rather masterful lover.
That stayed on her mind, too. The sex. Images of it flashed in her head even now.
It was fortunate that last night after the tree-lighting, his little friend Cade had come bouncing up to grab onto his hand and announce, “You can walk home with us!”
Beck had flashed Lila a look somehow shy and decidedly sexy as hell at the same time as he answered, “I was just about to offer to walk Lila home, and her house is in a different direction.”
However, Lila was nothing if not quick on the draw when it came to avoidance techniques, so she had taken Cade’s arrival as a sign from the universe—and quickly said, “That’s okay—I can make it on my own. You should walk with Cade and his grandparents. Have a nice evening.” Partly she’d thought maybe it just made sense to accompany elderly people on a long walk through the snow. And partly she’d thought—my skin is vibrating with how much I want him right now, and if he walks me home, I’m probably going to invite him in, and make this whole situation even more complicated than I’ve already made it.
Sleeping with him once had felt like betraying Meg. Sleeping with him again would feel like betraying Suzanne. Even if none of this was Lila’s fault. The same way that what happened with Simon wasn’t her fault. But she’d been blamed for it anyway. By Whitney, and by Simon himself. She hadn’t done enough to protect herself from Simon Alexis—she had to do whatever she could to protect Meg, and the trees, and everyone and everything else that had anything at stake here.
I came here to keep a low profile, get away from the drama.
All things considered, that wasn’t going well.
So coming home alone last night seemed like the most practical, successful move she’d made in a while.
She’d gone to the tree-lighting ceremony expecting—hoping—to run into Suzanne and Dahlia. They’d invited her, after all. But she never saw them. She only saw Beck.
Thinking back through her options for the day, she glanced down at the cat and voiced her thoughts, maybe just to fill the silence. “It’s really too cold to go out if I don’t have to—if I want to try snowshoeing, I can wait for a warmer day. And I’m not completely out of yarn. And Whitney’s the one who got mad at me, so why would I call her, even if I miss her? If she wants to make up, she can do the calling.”
She took a sip of tea. That left one option. Make a hat for Beck. Her nemesis. Who she should stay away from. Her lover. Who she wanted again—badly.
She took a deep breath, blew it out with a whoosh. “Okay, here’s what I’ll do,” she said to Miss Kitty. “I’ll make him a hat. Because I like making hats. And I like giving hats. And God knows the man needs a hat.
“But it’s not an invitation-to-have-sex hat. It’s just a hat. A nice, friendly hat. And maybe...maybe...okay this is a stretch, but...maybe the simple act of giving him a hat will...somehow change his mind about the trees.
“I know that makes no sense. I know it’s not going to happen.” The cat looked up at her. Probably thinking Who the hell are you talking to? I’m a cat. “But for some ridiculous reason, I just really want to make him a hat. Even though he’s still the enemy. And this is the only way I can justify it. So I guess I’m going to make the tree-slayer a hat.”
* * *
TWO DAYS AFTER the tree-lighting, Dahlia called and talked Suzanne into a “brisk winter morning’s walk up to the Christmas tree” before she opened Petal Pushers, hoping to move a little more decorative greenery before the holiday selling season officially ended with the Harbor Street Christmas Walk this weekend. The event provided a last opportunity for shops and restaurants to do a little business before winter closed the island down almost completely until spring.
“We’re the only people out here,” she pointed out to her older friend as they trudged up the silent and rather frigid snow-covered street.
“Wimps. All of them,” Dahlia said. “But I’m glad. I’ve always enjoyed quiet winter walks. And we’ll get to have the Christmas tree to ourselves. I thought maybe I’d snap a picture or two and text them to Meg.”
“That’s a good idea,” Suzanne agreed. Even if she suddenly felt more distant from Meg than she wanted to. Meg was off having a wonderful life—as she deserved—with her sexy new beau. And Meg’s sister was here having a life, with—possibly—her handsome new beau. And the awkwardness she suddenly felt toward Lila now almost extended to Meg, as well.
But the notion of new beaus made her say to Dahlia, “Mr. Desjardins is a keeper.” The silver-haired man had continued to charm Suzanne through their Pink Pelican dinner, largely by how smitten he seemed with Dahlia.
“He’s sweet, I grant you,” Dahlia replied with the same easy shrug from the last time they’d discussed him. “And a skilled lover, I confess. But he’s a fling.”
“I think you’re being hasty not to value his affection m
ore.”
As they approached the large tree, still lovely even with its lights barely visible in the sunshine, Dahlia cast Suzanne a pointed look. “When it comes to men, you’re either all in or all out, aren’t you?”
She’d never realized that, but she supposed it was an astute and accurate observation. “I guess I’ve never known how to be any other way. Either I’m into someone—or I’m completely disinterested.”
“Well, frankly,” Dahlia said, “I’m grateful I don’t feel that way. That sort of absoluteness sounds...as if it would be almost painful. Is it?” She glanced over again, appearing truly curious.
Suzanne blew out a sigh, thinking through it. “Sometimes. I mean, if the guy doesn’t feel the same way, it’s...devastating. But when he does? Pure elation.”
Rather than reply to that, Dahlia posited, “It also sounds...full of risk.”
To that, Suzanne raised her eyebrows beneath the hood of her parka. “Isn’t that what love is, in a way? Risk? How do you love—really love—without risking? After all, I thought you weren’t afraid of taking chances.”
They stopped in front of the tree, and Dahlia pulled out her phone, drew off the end of a flip-top psychedelic mitten, and began snapping pictures as she said, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am missing something by not feeling romance as passionately as you do. But I guess I just choose to feel other things passionately. I love my nephew passionately. I love you and Meg rather passionately. I love my business. I love this island. I love the life I’ve led—both before and after coming here.” Done with the pictures, she repocketed her phone and met Suzanne’s gaze. “But I’m not sure I’ve ever given myself completely over to loving a man.”
Though spoken casually, it struck Suzanne as a huge confession. She’d always seen Dahlia as so witty and wise—the woman she wanted to be when she reached that age. And yet, had she found the one thing about Dahlia that didn’t feel wise to her? Or...was she wrong? Was Dahlia’s way the wise one?
But no—no, she didn’t believe that. She couldn’t. How did you ever really live—fully—if you kept your heart guarded, if you never knew real love in all its magical, alluring, excruciating, agonizing, inspiring, uplifting, joyful, gut-wrenching, heart-pounding, heartbreaking glory?
And if Dahlia had never truly loved a man—if she’d never truly surrendered her heart and been in it all the way—well, no wonder her marriages had all ended in divorce. Suzanne sometimes feared she didn’t know much about how to approach life, but she did know what it was to love.
“Maybe,” she suggested softly, “you should give yourself over to loving Mr. Desjardins.”
“Unlikely,” Dahlia said—so very simply, as if Suzanne had recommended she try a new recipe or get a new haircut. “Like Lila, he’ll be leaving.”
Oh. So maybe that was the issue. Or just an excuse. “But what if he wasn’t? What if he wanted to stay?”
Swiping a mittened hand down through the air, Dahlia blew off the notion. “I’m sure he doesn’t. He has a life in France.”
“But a daughter here—right?”
“In Toronto,” Dahlia corrected her, her tone suggesting it might as well be the moon.
“Toronto’s not all that far,” Suzanne pointed out.
Dahlia answered simply by making a pffft sort of noise that effectively closed the topic. But at the same time, Suzanne sensed that she’d at least planted a seed, and she hoped maybe Dahlia would begin thinking about the situation in a new way. She suspected her friend had led a grand, adventurous life in many aspects, but to Suzanne, if she’d never truly loved a man, then it left her life incomplete. And if she let herself now, it would be a fine experience to add to the rest in her collection.
“I haven’t kept in touch with Lila, texted her or anything,” Suzanne said then as they started walking back toward their respective businesses. “I feel bad. Because it’s not her fault if Beck is interested in her. In fact, it’s probably my own, for beating around the bush so long.” Sadness, and a little embarrassment, weighed on her—since, after all, she’d announced her intentions toward Beck in Lila’s presence, never dreaming Lila would feel anything but contempt for him.
And maybe she didn’t. Who knew. As Dahlia had pointed out, Beck and Lila had spent an hour in each other’s presence the other night—so what? He’d been trying to make peace. Still, she wondered if it had worked—and if so, exactly how well.
“Don’t feel bad,” Dahlia said. “You have your reasons. Tell you what—I’ll text her right now.”
She pulled out her phone and again, flipped off the end of one mitten—and Suzanne leaned over to watch as she typed.
Suzanne and I are both sorry to have missed you at the tree-lighting. Wanted to check in and say hi. She hit Send.
A reply came quickly. Thanks for the hello—needless to say, it’s pretty quiet here. I went, but sorry I didn’t see you guys, either. Dahlia typed some more. We’ll have to get together again before you leave. Meanwhile, come to the Christmas Walk on the 15th. Suz and I will both be working, but perhaps we can socialize a bit at the same time.
That sounds nice! I will!
Suzanne made no comment about everything that was going unsaid. Lila was right up the street at the Summerbrook Inn. They could easily connect with her for lunch, or dinner, or a morning walk like this one. They could connect with her right this minute, for that matter, hearing how much she seemed to welcome the communication. But the whole Beck question had erected an invisible wall between them.
“I’m letting the potential interest in her by a man I’ve never even gone out on a date with stand in the way of being her friend. That’s awful,” Suzanne said. “Maybe I should go down there right this instant, knock on the door, and invite her to lunch.”
“It’s a nice idea,” Dahlia said, “but I think if you saw her right now, you’d behave oddly. For an otherwise smart, confident woman, you tend to behave oddly around anyone you don’t feel comfortable with.”
“My Achilles heel,” Suzanne agreed. “But this isn’t Lila’s fault. And I promised Meg to be friendly to her. I’m a terrible person.”
“You’re a normal person,” Dahlia said. “With terrible timing.”
A few minutes later, Dahlia announced that she was going to open the café—again without staff—in case anyone stopped by for lunch. “Though I almost wouldn’t mind if no one does. I suppose Pierre is wearing me out—I could use a quiet day to myself just relaxing.”
“Maybe it’s winter,” Suzanne pondered aloud. “The snow, the cold. It can wear on you.”
“Maybe. Or perhaps I’m just getting older,” Dahlia said. “I live my life mostly ignoring that—but I suppose it does eventually sneak in and change things.”
Suzanne didn’t like thinking about that—about Dahlia getting old or being any less vibrant than she was now. She didn’t like thinking about the passage of time, how swiftly life could go by. It suddenly felt swift. She suddenly felt her own thirty-eight years, and how it seemed like just yesterday that she’d been twenty-eight, and how she’d look back in ten more, from forty-eight, feeling as if they’d passed in only a day, as well.
Manning the counter at Petal Pushers, she’d soon sold another tree and two wreaths. Anything left by the Christmas Walk would be discounted in hopes of luring a last minute buy from someone who hadn’t planned to decorate. And anything that didn’t sell she would place in stands on Harbor Street and toss some lights on herself just so they wouldn’t go completely to waste.
The solitude after the day’s few customers had come and gone allowed her to keep thinking about Beck. And mistakes. And her heart. And time. And whether it was silly to suddenly feel so much for a man she didn’t know well and had spent the last six months pushing away.
Maybe if you got to know him, you wouldn’t even like him. Though the truth was—the problem was—the more she got to know him, th
e more she did like him. And the more she was drawn to him. And the more it hurt to think he no longer cared.
Late that afternoon, she remembered some remaining fir trees still stood behind the shop, near the greenhouses, and decided to drag them out front where they’d have a better chance of catching someone’s eye now that her stock had dwindled. It would be her last act of the workday before closing up and heading back to the quiet warmth of her cottage.
Though lugging them around the building was hard, slow work, making her wish she’d gotten this idea a little earlier as dusk started to steal the daylight. And she was busy dragging the fifth of seven trees around the building when a deep voice said, “Need help?”
She looked up see the warm brown eyes of Beck Grainger.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“UM—YEAH, THAT would be nice.” Don’t think too hard. Don’t worry that you probably look like a wreck, sweaty from hard work even though it’s cold out. Don’t act weird. But her skin fairly buzzed in his presence.
“Here, let me,” he said, reaching to take the tree’s trunk from her. Their hands touched, and even through gloves, she felt it. The little electrical connection. The nearness of everything about him that was rugged and masculine and warm.
“Thanks,” she whispered. It’s okay that it came out whispery. You’re winded from dragging trees. He won’t realize he leaves you breathless now. She tried to find her more normal voice as she motioned toward the tree rack up against the building. “Right there.”
He handled the tree like it was a feather, leaning it into the rack and asking, “Are there more?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Follow me.”
Then tried not to slip on the packed snow as she walked, feeling floaty and happy with renewed hope.
