by Toni Blake
Small talk ensued as he started to help with the last trees. About hoping they sold and it getting late in the season. About how cold it had gotten so early, and how much it had already snowed.
She tried to help by picking up the lighter end but he insisted on taking it alone. “No—I got it,” he assured her. Then, “I can’t believe you already hauled so many around by yourself. These things aren’t light.”
She shrugged. “It’s part of the job. Just a part that makes me wish I had bigger muscles,” she added on a laugh, following him around the building. Should she follow even though she was doing nothing to help? Was that weird? No, it’s a chance to talk more.
“Seems like you need someone to do your heavy lifting,” he tossed over his shoulder with a smile. Was that flirting? Or just a practical comment? She wasn’t sure.
“It’s not really a big enough operation to warrant hiring help. Though having some muscle power to call on would be nice.”
“Well,” he told her, leaning the tree against the rack, “if you ever need help, you can ask me. I’m happy to lend a hand.”
Her heart warmed. Along with a few other sensitive parts of her body. It suddenly didn’t feel so cold out here, after all. “That’s...really nice of you, Beck. I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Especially this time of year,” he went on as they returned to the back for the final tree. “My work’s pretty much stalled until most of the snow melts, so I have plenty of time to kill.” He started dragging the remaining tree, and she wondered what to say. About his work.
“I guess nothing has changed then? In terms of the trees behind the inn?”
He gave a short shake of his head as he walked, evergreen in tow. “Nope—with sincere apologies to Meg, they’re gonna have to come down.”
Even though any other answer would have surprised her, hearing it hurt her heart for Meg all over again. Which made her take another stab at changing it anyway. “And I guess there’s nothing anyone could say—about nature, or neighbors, or anything else—that would make you reconsider?”
He glanced over his shoulder as they rounded the corner of the building onto Harbor Street, his expression still pleasant. “I understand and respect why you’re asking. But it’s beyond changing at this point.”
Watching as he set the tree upright, she pressed onward, albeit in a slightly new direction. “I’m sure Lila’s still not happy about that.”
“Nope, definitely not.”
“Did you, um, make peace with her the other night like you hoped? Or...not?”
“On that part I think I’m actually making some headway,” he said—which she found difficult to interpret under the circumstances.
“Well...” She glanced toward the newly relocated trees. “Thank you for the help. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem,” he told her. And that was when she realized that somewhere between the time she’d started dragging trees and now, a glorious winter sunset had blazed into being, visible above the west end of Harbor Street.
“Look,” she said, pointing. Large, dramatic swaths of purple and orange swept across the sky, the colors reflecting in the icy waters below, as well.
“Wow. Beautiful,” he replied.
She forgot to feel the cold altogether now, even as darkness fell and turned the already-quiet street a little more intimate. “Um, would you want...” she began, motioning vaguely around them on the street “...to get dinner together somewhere? Or a drink? We could try the Pelican, but if they’re closed, the Skipper’s Wheel opens at mealtimes most all winter.”
The handsome man next to her smiled. “Thanks, Suzanne—and normally I would, but I’m actually on my way to the inn. Lila kind of...summoned me.” His expression hinted at sarcasm, and yet he didn’t sound the least bit sorry to have been summoned. “Another time, though.”
Keep the pleasant look on your face. Somehow. “Sure, yeah. Sounds good.”
“Have a nice evening.”
“You, too. Thanks again.” She turned to shove her way through the door of Petal Pushers, feeling like an idiot. A heartbroken one. No matter what he said, she was pretty sure Beck had made peace with Lila.
* * *
REALLY? SUZANNE HAD to get interested now? It had been one thing when she’d mentioned spring, but he was pretty sure she’d just asked him out for tonight, as in right this minute.
Beck walked up the street, soaking in that breathtaking sunset, torn down the center of his soul. Maybe he’d been a little torn ever since that conversation about spring. But a big part of him hadn’t taken it completely seriously, and had thought it might never go any further.
He’d been drawn to Suzanne from the start, an attraction at first sight when Dahlia had dragged him up to her on the café’s back deck one sunny day late last spring. The truth was, if they’d been dating before he’d met Lila, he probably never would have even looked at Meg’s sister in a romantic or sexual light. He wouldn’t have let himself. Or maybe he’d be so attached to Suzanne by now that he wouldn’t even have noticed how damn cute Lila was, period. He’d always been a one-woman man. Not because he tried to be—but because that’s just how it worked for him. When he was in a relationship with a woman, she had all of him.
But things hadn’t happened that way.
And maybe he was crazy to be pursuing Lila given that she’d be leaving soon, and that they had this big issue between them.
After all, Suzanne wasn’t going anywhere. And Suzanne wasn’t mad at him. And Suzanne didn’t have a family business he was potentially damaging, however unwittingly. Things with Suzanne—despite her baggage—suddenly seemed a hell of a lot simpler.
She was a beautiful woman. He wasn’t sure she realized it, but she was. Dark natural curls framed petite, feminine features, honest eyes, and an infectious smile.
He suspected she had a big heart. And he knew that heart had been broken.
And now, here she was, finally trying to open it, to him.
For the first time he could remember in a long while, he wished he could seek his dad’s advice. Yeah, they’d knocked heads, hard. Hard enough that Beck eventually hadn’t wanted him in his life. But Kenneth Grainger had been wise in many ways. He’d been moral to a fault. And Beck wondered what his dad would tell him to do right now if he could ask him.
Follow your heart.
He didn’t know where the words came from. Out of nowhere, actually—just popped into his mind. The simplest advice in the world. And probably not from the ghost of his father—or Christmas past or any other spiritual being. They’d probably come to him because it was just what made sense.
And right now...well, right now his heart told him he’d agreed to drop by Lila’s, so that was what he’d do.
They’d exchanged cell numbers at the tree-lighting, but he’d been surprised to get a text from her. I need you to stop by. I have something for you.
When?
How’s five?
Maybe she was going to surrender the bulldozer key? Was that too big a thing to hope for?
Probably.
Or maybe she wanted to give him...her.
The longing between them the other night had been palpable. The desire to kiss her had burned in him like a blazing furnace despite the cold. He’d wanted to take her home and to bed almost more than he’d wanted to breathe. But when Cade had come running up to grab his hand, Lila had smiled knowingly and parted ways by telling him to have a nice evening. A nice evening of frustration was what he’d had.
But if he’d learned anything about Lila Sloan so far, it was that she had a penchant for being completely unpredictable. Not his favorite attribute, but at the moment he was a moth and the big Victorian house was a flame. He climbed the steps to the Summerbrook Inn’s porch having no idea what to expect.
He rang the bell, figuring it just as likely she’d open the
door and punch him in the face as that she’d open the door and kiss him.
She opened the door and, looking grave, announced somberly, “I made you a hat.” Then she held it out.
He flinched. A punch in the face would have been less of a surprise. From her outstretched fist hung a thick winter ski-cap-style hat of dark red with a gray stripe. He would never have guessed it hadn’t come from a store or a catalog.
He lifted his gaze from the hat to the woman who held it, nonplussed. “You made this? Really?” He studied it again—it was a damn nice hat. Knitted or something? It looked warm, cozy. “How did you make it?”
“I knitted it on a round loom,” she said, remaining just as stone-faced as when she’d answered the door. “It’s a faster form of knitting by wrapping yarn around pegs in specific patterns and sequences.”
“And why do you sound so serious and glum about it?” he asked.
“Because you don’t particularly deserve a hat,” she explained. “At least not from me.”
The woman had been a mystery to him when he’d met her, and she remained a mystery now. He arched one brow, playing detective. “Then why did you make it?”
“Because the only other one you seem to own is ugly as sin and currently residing on a snowman’s head. And despite that they sell a variety of lovely hats at the Knitting Nook, you don’t seem smart enough to go buy one. So I felt it was my duty as a human being with hat-knitting skills to make you one.” She finished on a succinct and conclusive nod.
And he held in his laugh—but a smile escaped him anyway. Okay, no bulldozer key. But maybe this was better in a way. His father would have called it a gift of the heart. “It’s really nice, Lila. Really great,” he told her. “Thank you. Even if it pains you to give it to me.”
“Put it on,” she commanded, still speaking as solemnly as if at a funeral. “See if it fits. Fit can be tricky—there’s some guesswork involved.”
He tugged it obediently onto his head. It felt good, pleasantly snug. “How’s it look?”
“Amazing,” she told him, voice still dry. “I knew the colors would be good on you.” Only then did she gently bite her lip, her expression finally softening, just a little, her voice along with it. “I’ve been making them for everyone, for Christmas gifts. But this is the first one I’ve given to anyone, the first one I’ve seen on any head except my own. It’s kind of...”
“What?” he asked.
She hesitated, clearly seeking the right word—and eventually settling on, “Satisfying. I think I’m pretty good at this. I dabbled in it as a teenager, but the current hats are much better.”
“You are good at it,” he agreed. Not just to appease her, but because the hat on his head was truly impressive. “And I’m honored you would make this for me.”
“Don’t be,” she insisted. “I told you—it was practical. I just don’t want you to die in the cold because I’d feel guilty. A large percentage of body heat escapes through the head, you know.”
He recalled hearing something about that back in his school days, but Lila’s brand of pragmatism amused him and this time a small laugh snuck out. He grinned at her and said, “So are you gonna invite me in? Or—” he pointed over his shoulder “—should I just take my hat and go?”
“I thought maybe it would be wise...not to,” she told him. Back to the slightly softer Lila.
“Why?” he asked. “I don’t bite.”
“Lots of reasons,” she said, pretty much blowing off the question. “And there are worse things than biting.” He didn’t know if she was referring to sex or land development, but he let it go when she kept talking. “Though unfortunately, I now find myself wondering if you’re hungry.”
“If that’s a question, I could eat,” he told her. Then raised his eyebrows, offering up another small smile. “Grilled cheese?”
She shook her head. “I have a sort of chicken and stuffing concoction simmering in Meg’s Crock-Pot.”
“Sounds good,” he said, and just then caught the aroma wafting conveniently down the hall to greet him. “And smells good, too.”
“I’m not much of a cook,” she confided, “but the Crock-Pot does the work. And the recipe makes way more than I can eat, but desperate times—by which I mean Summer Island in winter—call for desperate measures. So I suppose it only makes sense to offer you some.”
“Well, if that’s an invitation to dinner, I accept. But, um, one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Unless you’re packing me a to-go plate, this means you’re gonna have to let me in.”
She sighed. “That’s the unfortunate part.” Then stepped aside to let him cross the threshold.
* * *
THEY MOVED AROUND the kitchen in relative ease, setting the table together, getting drinks from the fridge, Beck growing more grateful every minute that Lila seemed to be relaxing with him again. Until she started to take the lid off the slow cooker, only to stop and say, “Dinner’s gonna cost you, Indiana Jones.”
Did she have any idea that calling him that transported him back to the hot, tension-filled moment by the Christmas tree when he’d known they were about to dive on each other? He pulled himself back from it, refocusing on the moment at hand. “Cost me how?”
She tilted her head, looked curious and thoughtful. “You said some cryptic things the other night at the tree-lighting.”
“Uh-oh.” He had. Then wished he hadn’t. And had been thankful when she’d moved on from them.
Sounded like now she’d come back. “Uh-oh is right, Becker. I want to know about your father. And your...marriage.” Did she actually sound pained saying the last word? Did she truly care? It was the opposite of what he’d have expected, but again, Lila was the queen of unpredictability. “So you have to tell me over dinner. Or no chicken for you. Deal?”
He took in a breath, blew it back out. Unpleasant subjects, and ones he never talked about. But what the hell? He’d get through them quickly and be none the worse for wear. “Deal,” he said. “If you care so much and want to know so bad.”
“I didn’t say I cared.”
The denial made him smile.
“I’m just curious,” she claimed. “Maybe I’ll find out what makes you so Grinchy and hard-ass when it comes to your work—when you seem, otherwise, like an at least fairly nice guy.”
He shot another smile in her direction—or maybe it was more of an amused smirk. But as he used a wide spatula to scoop a boneless chicken breast covered in a cream sauce and stuffing from the Crock-Pot and onto his plate, he said, “If I’m a Grinchy hard-ass about my work, it’s because it’s my work. Business. What you call Grinchy I just call doing my job and not getting emotional over it.”
She shrugged, taking the spatula from his outstretched hand. “You might get more emotional if it was your family’s trees.”
He was quick to assure her, however, that the answer to that was, “Probably not, actually.”
“Ah, so you hate your family,” she said like someone interrogating a criminal as they took seats across from each other at an antiqued, farmhouse-style kitchen table.
He only laughed at her amateur detective work. “No—afraid it’s not that dramatic.”
“Then start talking—tell me everything.”
I’ll tell you just enough. He thought about where to begin, how to say as little as possible without her realizing he was cutting corners. But hell—just go for it, get it over with, then you can eat your chicken. It smelled delicious and looked good, too, and he thought she might be as much a Crock-Pot gourmet as a loom-knitting savant. “Okay, the deal is—I was estranged from my dad for the last ten years of his life.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“WHOA.” HER EYEBROWS shot up, and her fork stopped mid-bite. “That’s not dramatic?”
He shrugged. “Okay, I lied. Fairly dramat
ic.”
“What did he do to you? To make you...you know, estranged?”
Beck weighed the question. There was no short answer. He’d thought he could tell her succinctly, but he’d been wrong. Damn. Okay, start. Say something. Just tell her.
“He was a minister,” he said.
“I didn’t see that coming. You don’t seem like a minister’s kid.”
“Maybe that was the problem,” he said with a tilt of his head. Then went on, being honest. “But...it was a lot more than that. We valued different things.”
She peered across the table at him with big hazel eyes. “I’m intrigued. Go on.”
“A big part of his ministry,” he said, pausing to take a bite, chew it, swallow, “was giving to the less fortunate. Which I admire, don’t get me wrong. But he often gave at the expense of his family, his children. He sometimes gave away our things, even things we’d worked for—earned.”
She blinked, looking taken aback. “Wow, that’s intense.” He supposed most people could remember being young, valuing certain possessions—be it toys or clothes or sports equipment or something else—and learning a work ethic in order to get those things. And he appreciated Lila acknowledging that what he’d just told her kind of sucked when you were only a kid.
“He was the most charitable man I ever met,” he told her, “and he was trying to teach my sister and me to be charitable, too—but he took it too far. As in, ‘You’ve got a roof over your head and a warm bed to sleep in, so you shouldn’t mind giving your bike to a needy child for Christmas.’”
“Oh.” She looked truly shocked. Which he continued to appreciate. “That’s...awful.”
“I lost more than one bicycle that way. And a video game system. Basketballs, footballs, a catcher’s mitt. A boom box or two. You name it—if it was something a needier kid might want, it was fair game. And, for what it’s worth, it’s not like we were rolling in dough ourselves. We...got by. His job paid the bills. But we always lived in a small rectory house next to the church, drove a beat-up car, never took a vacation. So, all in all, his acts of charity always made me feel poor, and more like he was hurting us than helping someone else.”
