And they talked. They talked about the death of Will’s first wife. They talked of Holly’s nomadic life and her determination to roam no more. They talked of Tim, once carefree and the life of the party, now in his third tour of duty overseas and in harm’s way. And they talked of their own children and her vow to give Lisa a life of stability and family. They never seemed to run out of things to say to each other.
When she literally bumped into him in the doorway of a shop on Christmas Eve, the conversation picked up where they’d left off the day before.
“Finley’s pups are ready to leave their mamma. What did you decide about Lisa’s Christmas present? How does Lisa’s mother feel about having a puppy?” And at her smiling nod, “Why don’t we go pick it up right now?”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
* * * *
“These pups are cute as teddy bears. Did you know they are a herding breed? Our Buster never gives up trying to herd the chickens.” Will chuckled.
“Chickens! He must get awfully frustrated.”
“Nah. He thinks it’s fun. What did Paula say about a puppy in the house?”
“She’s fine with it.” Holly shook her head and laughed. “Apparently they make some marvelous stuff to use on carpets until we get it housebroken.”
He gestured to a coffee shop next door. “Buy you a cup of the good stuff?” He tilted his head, teasingly. “All the way from Ecuador.”
Coffee felt like the most natural thing in the world. “Sure,” she answered. “About that puppy...”
They walked next door and sat at a small round table with old-fashioned, wrought iron ice cream chairs
“Yeah, the puppy,” he said holding the chair for her. “Male or female?”
“Female, I think. How big will it grow?”
“A Corgi is mid-sized, not small, but definitely not big.” He measured with his hands. “Would you like another breed?”
“No, Lisa is crazy about the ones Queen Elizabeth has in London. They would be her choice.”
“Okay. Here’s the plan, if you approve. We’ll pick it out now then take it to my house for the night, and I’ll drive you home. I’ll bring it over tomorrow.”
Holly thought for a minute. “That would leave my car here. I’ll go with you to choose the dog, and you drop me off back here.”
At his frown she added, “You’re coming to Paula’s open house tonight, aren’t you? I’m making my famous cheese and sausage balls.”
He nodded. “If you want it that way, that’s what we’ll do.”
And so it came to pass that on Christmas Eve night Will stood in his best shirt and tie, in the arched doorway between Paula’s living room and dining room, not even trying to hide the calculating sparkle in his eye. The crowd milled around, holding tiny crystal plates in one hand and goblets of something liquid in the other. The sausage balls had disappeared some time ago.
Holly flitted between the buffet and the kitchen, helping Paula. After an hour of avoiding him, Holly saw Will weaving through the crowd, coming toward her with the look of battle in his eyes. The time for running had come and gone. She busied herself with a tray of canapés.
“Can you put that thing down?” he asked in her ear. “I want to talk to you.”
Carefully Holly placed the tray on the table beside a flickering red candle in a hurricane chimney and turned. In a swift sleight-of-hand movement, he maneuvered her into the unheated entry at the back door.
“Now, Holly Phillips. Will you go with me to the city next week for dinner and a concert at the Civic Center?”
Holly folded her arms around herself. “It’s cold out here. Why don’t we go into the house?”
He slipped out of his suit jacket and wrapped it around her. He turned her face to his. “We’re going to talk about this in private. Look, I know you don’t have much reason to trust men. Your father lived the life of a happy bachelor even though he had a wife and two kids. Your brother joined the Army the very minute he could legally do so. Your husband—we’ll leave him out of this right now, but he was no better. So, I can understand. I do.”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “But Holly, I’m not any of them. Don’t paint me with the same brush. At least give me a fighting chance.”
She couldn’t answer. Was it that simple? Could she really let go and lean? Just a little? Could she forget life, as she’d known it so far?
“I want to show you something,” Will said, interrupting her thoughts and opening the outside door.
On the top step sat a squat, green bush, the root ball bound in burlap. Brilliant red berries nestled in the spike-tipped leaves, and a fine dusting of new snow etched the spiny structure in silvery strokes.
“It’s my Christmas gift to you.” Will turned her chin so that she looked up at him. “Holly bushes grow to be holly trees if they are left alone in one place and are never moved. They grow tall and strong and healthy and bring beauty to barren winter months. This bush is yours, Holly, but it will be planted on my property in full view of the bay window. I give you my solemn word of honor that I will do my damnedest to make sure it is never moved...for any reason. Do you understand me?”
Holly understood a lot of things. This was a good man. A dependable man. He would never leave, but would stand beside her through thick and thin, as the saying went. Besides that, she had to admit she was falling in love with him. He was a keeper. She’d be foolish to cling to hang-ups that were merely ancient threats. And, no one had ever accused Holly Phillips of being a fool.
From his pocket, Will withdrew a bedraggled bit of mistletoe and tucked it into a crevice in the wooden roof. His eyes sparkled, and the laugh lines deepened. “We all need magic as well as roots. And now, come here. Unless you object, I’m going to kiss you.”
She shivered, from nerves or the cold she didn’t know or care. A mesmerizing feeling crept over her body. Vaguely she felt the world slip away. She relaxed as he pulled her close. A wild, devil-may-care spirit grew within her until her reluctance faded into nothingness. His hands caressed her back beneath his coat, and her own repeated the action on his muscled back. His lips were warm against hers, and the wild spirit seemed to gather strength and roar through her. He trembled; she could feel it coursing within him as she pressed herself closer. It was as if they were being seared together. Melding into one. Married to Billy Gene she’d never felt anything like this.
Breathing roughly, he set her away from him. “Wow! Lady, you pack a hell of a punch.” His eyes were bright with emotion, and she gloried in knowing she’d caused the powerful feeling.
But just as he bent his head to kiss her again, he glanced over her shoulder. “Damn,” he said, looking through the window and into the kitchen. Holly turned.
Richard was trying to put his arms around Lisa. Young love had obviously taken a hit because she wriggled away, glared at him for a moment, socked him in the belly and flounced off.
His voice muffled, Will said, “I’m going to have to talk to that boy.”
He pulled Holly, still wrapped in the folds of his jacket, close again and swayed gently back and forth as if cherishing the feel of her against the warmth of his chest. “Sometime real soon I’ll sit him down and tell him.... I’ll tell him.... Oh Holly, my love, what took you so long?”
Holly honestly didn’t know. What she did know was that it was Christmas Eve, and she had come home at last. And her heart which had been frozen for so long had begun to thaw.
THE END
About the Author
Marilyn Gardiner’s first office was beneath the covers, at night, with a flashlight, at the age of eight. Since then Marilyn has published in many newspapers and magazines, taught a creative writing class, tutored adults learning to read, and volunteered in the public school system. Her book shelf holds eleven published novels, and two more not yet published. She also writes daily devotional booklets for Advent and Lent, called Whispers From The Heart.
All of her books fall under the umbrella
of romance: suspense, paranormal, historical, adventure, inspirational, and contemporary. Even her four-book series is considered romantic suspense. Her most recent publication, Comanche Moon, has won the award for best Historical Romance in the EPIC 2014 competition. All are available on Amazon/Kindle, B&N/Nook and on her website: booksbymarilyn.com.
Her second passion is music. She has been a vocal soloist as well as a chorister for most of her life. She also enjoys knitting. Despite the fact that the first sweater she knitted—for her husband—had one sleeve ten inches longer than the other, she remains fascinated with new patterns.
Marilyn married her high school sweetheart and has two grown daughters, six grandchildren and five “greats.” They have been enormously supportive of her writing and rarely complain of late dinners and laundry done in the middle of the night.
www.booksbymarilyn.com
Twitter: @marilynsbooks
Amazon: www.amazon.com
Other works by Marilyn Gardiner
Cicada Summer
Falling on Ice
by Bess Kingsley
Thanks to my family for putting up with all my late nights and loving me before I’ve had my first cup of coffee. I am forever grateful for my crew of cheerleaders—Sal, Kate, Beth, Elizabeth, Bethany, Cynthia, Sharon, and Corrie. And a huge thanks goes out to my Mom and Ginger, the two amazing women who read this first and were so gentle with my creative spirit.
Dedication
To Tom. You are my proof that sometimes the best things happen when everything else is going wrong.
Chapter One
Sam McLeod was having a bad winter. Actually, that was putting it lightly. A massive pile of bills that was threatening to devour her desk blocked the dwindling light of the shortened winter afternoon and cast her in shadow. She rubbed her small hands together. The tiny room above her workshop was damp and cold since she'd unplugged the space heater two weeks ago, and it seemed she'd never warm up. She pulled her fleece-lined sweatshirt tighter around her body. Probably the only bright side to the post-breakup eating she'd been doing, the extra insulation was welcome.
She reached for an over-sweetened cup of coffee. It had been piping hot only minutes earlier but was already lukewarm and syrupy instead of comforting. Though she'd rather do anything than face the damage, she knew she couldn't keep on turning off the heat and avoiding the skyscrapers of financial doom that loomed before her. She reached for a stack and flipped through it. Her eyes scanned over the pages. She actually felt her body temperature drop, as she let out a deep sigh. How did it get this bad so fast? Just a few months earlier she and Kevin were so busy, they could barely keep up with all the orders...and happy too. They were so in love, or so she thought. Partners in business and in life, planning the folk art school together. So much had changed. Now here she was, alone, in the aftermath of Kevin.
She swiped her hand over the wet, tan circle on her desktop, but it had already stained the paint. Everything left its mark, even coffee cups, she supposed. She reached for her order logbook, mostly out of habit, but remembered that she'd misplaced it weeks ago. She accessed the online version on her laptop and looked at the nearly empty page for the following week—just the Minnetonka Inn's standing order and something for the new Lakeside B&B, otherwise her calendar was empty except for the Annual National Ice Carving Championship, of course.
Sam picked up the phone. She wanted to make sure she gave Jessica, the manager at the Minnetonka Inn, the best service possible. Hopefully, she'd spread the word and business would pick up. It was set right on the outskirts of the quaint town center of Rigby, Alaska. That way the guests could enjoy the quiet, historic streets with eclectic shops and a handful of restaurants, and still be within walking distance of the great Alaskan wilderness—complete with a nearby lake, Pike’s Mountain, and a Dog Sledding school. It wasn’t unusual to see a grizzly walking down the town’s quiet streets. The hotel hosted upscale clienteles and winter weddings, and it would be booked solid all winter with potential customers who would see her weekly creations. Jessica was particular, but Sam enjoyed working with her. She had a good eye. Sam barely minded the extra two drafts she'd had to craft for the set of winter wreaths she was working on.
“Hi, Jessica. It's Sam McLeod over at Ice Impressions. I just wanted to touch base with you about setting up the final design meeting we spoke about in the fall.”
“Oh yes, Sam. The final meeting won't be necessary.”
Sam's auburn eyebrows furrowed and her teeth dug into her bottom lip.
“Really? At our last meeting, you had some changes you wanted to make to the wreath ribbons. Do you want to go with the original design now?”
“No—how do I put this?” There was a long, painful pause. Sam clutched the phone tightly as her body tensed. “We've decided to go another direction.”
“But, we've already had two planning meetings and a draft design. There's not much time to start over. Of course, I could—”
Jessica's voice on the other end of the line was cold and flat as she said, “We're using someone else, Sam.”
“What?” Sam choked.
“Don't get me wrong. Your work in past seasons has been lovely. Just wonderful. We're just looking for a change. A fresh perspective.”
“A fresh perspective?” Sam tried not to snarl, as her eyes narrowed. She swallowed forcefully. “Would you mind telling me whose perspective you've decided to go with after I've invested hours and hours of my time in meetings and drafting?”
“Jake Pane.”
Sam's face tightened. Before she'd even responded, her hand had already clicked the phone off. She glanced at the screen before her, with all its grayed-out boxes, each with a set of initials in them over and over again. All the cancelled clients. Poached by some new competitor. JP. JP. JP. JP. Who the hell was this Jake Pane? He wasn't from Rigby that was for sure. She'd never heard that name until last month, when her first and oldest client, Mrs. Morehead, had cancelled her weekly order for the Alaskan Women's Cultural Council meeting sculptures. Sam had been heartbroken. Mrs. Morehead always gave her carte blanche to create whatever she wanted for the events, as long as they went with the theme. Over the years, she'd made totems, characters from Broadway shows, famous female historical figures—and budget was never an issue either. Mrs. Morehead was also one of her benefactors for the Rigby Folk Art School she was trying to get up and running.
Sam's gaze moved toward the small side window. The barn was starting to lean under the weight of the snow. She'd hoped to have enough saved up by now to at least shore it up before the rebuilding and renovations were scheduled to start in the spring. But that hadn't happened. Not even close. When Mrs. Morehead called to cancel her order, she also inexplicably withdrew her financial support of the school. And now? Not only was it looking like the school wasn't going to happen after all, the possibility that Sam's business wouldn't last the season was becoming less remote with each cancellation.
But Sam was Alaskan, born and raised in the rough country, far outside of the town limits, and she wasn't about to give up. She smoothed her auburn waves away from her pale, lightly freckled face, and pulled it roughly into a too-tight ponytail. So her boyfriend and business partner had left her to go make some ice hotel halfway across the world without a second thought, and now the very reason she had stayed in Rigby, to fulfill her dream of opening the art school, was pretty much dead—even her business was in jeopardy. She was down to one client for the month, a small commission for the B&B, and the very big, very well known ice sculpting contest. All was not lost. The grand prize carried a cash award of 50,000 dollars. All she needed was her charm, talent, hard work, and a miracle. No problem. But first, she was going to tell this work-poaching jerk, Jake Pane, exactly where he could put his ice sculpture for the Minnetonka Inn.
* * * *
Jake Pane was covered in paint. He was usually covered in paint. The music in his sunlight-flooded studio was loud and haunting as his brush swept across the c
anvas in time with the guitar. He raised the hem of his t-shirt to wipe a splatter of red paint from his face. Even in the winter, the skin covering his rippled abs was a warm coffee color.
In the doorway, his agent, Theresa Brooks, cleared her throat. He looked up, surprised by the interruption.
She raised her hands in front of her. “I know. I know. You were in the zone. But you're going to be late for the meeting with Jessica Ryder.”
Jake's raven eyebrows arched quizzically.
“Oh seriously?” Theresa said in a verbal eye roll. She shook her head disapprovingly, but her severe, bleach-blonde hair didn’t move. “She's the manager of the Minnetonka Inn.”
“Yeah,” Jake said slowly. “That's it. Jacinda.”
“Jessica.” Theresa's patience appeared to be waning. Her hands were actually on her nonexistent hips. “She hosts several big names from the international art scene each year. You should pay more attention.”
Jake turned back toward the canvas and eyed it carefully before he pressed the brush to it again.
“After that meeting, you need to go plan out your set-up and fill out your ice order at the competition site. You need to be there by five at the latest, because everything has to be completed by seven.”
“It's just ice, Theresa.” He gestured to the large half-finished canvas in front of him. “Now this, this is for the Guggenheim.”
“We hope. But first you'll have to stage quite a comeback.”
“Why do I keep you around again? It's definitely not for your moral support.”
“I make sure you make your appointments. That's better than moral support.”
“I don't know about that.”
“Fine. How about, without me, you'd disappear into nothingness?” She turned to leave, but stopped and tossed a small white envelope at him. “I almost forgot. You got a letter. Looks personal. Oh, and change your clothes before you go this time. You look like a bum.”
Frozen: A Winter Romance Anthology Page 40
