by Kate Kisset
With almost identical expressions, Adele and Monique both raised their hands to their faces trying to cover the same spectacular grins. Except for her darker hair color, Adele was the spitting image of her beautiful mother.
After setting the tree down and retying the branches, Trace found Joe in the lot. Under Monique’s close supervision, of course, he and Joe hauled the twelve-footer to the pickup and placed it on the ground. Trace let down the rusted tailgate.
“Where should we put this one, Joe?” He grasped the castoff by the stem and yanked it out of the pickup.
“Wait.” Monique nailed him with the sexy gleam in her eyes he never could resist. Is she flirting with me? “I just remembered something.” Her cheeks grew pink, and she covered a giggle with her hands. She is most definitely flirting with me. His body hummed. “You’re going to kill me for this.” She laughed. He’d almost forgotten how magical she sounded.
While mulling over options to lure Monique and her laugh into a date, her exotic blue-grey eyes worked like a magnetic field pulling him in closer. Acting on instinct alone, Trace clasped his hands around her velvet fingers and pulled them off her pretty face. Holding her hands now, he couldn’t let go. “What? What are you going to kill me for?” Whatever it was, he’d die a happy man.
Unfortunately, Monique shrugged out of his grip and pointed to the snubbed tree. “Um—you actually delivered the right tree. Sorry...” She clocked him with another giggle. “Um, I ordered two trees. That’s the one for the ladies’ room.”
Chapter Three
Trace pulled into the Napa Pines and Wines parking lot and shoved the gear in park while grinning. After transporting Monique, Adele, and both trees back to Santino Winery, she thanked him profusely and threw him for a loop by asking him on a date before he could ask her. Although he would’ve enjoyed partaking in a little one-on-one action without Monique’s little girl nearby, Joe needed him back at the lot. But Trace wouldn’t get on the plane to New York without seeing Monique again. When he asked if he could call her tomorrow, she gave him a killer smile and said yes.
Trace shut off the ignition and slid out of the truck humming. A cool fresh breeze whispered above, reminding him of the pleasures of small town life. Monique. She made the invitation to the Santino Winery party that evening sound like an afterthought, and suggested he might enjoy seeing the tree he worked so hard to deliver decorated. But Trace convinced himself Monique was only trying to find an excuse to kiss him.
Trace scooted around a line of customers in the Napa Pines and Wines gift shop. He’d left his suitcase, and more importantly Lola, the guitar he wrote his first song on, behind the counter under the cash register. He felt naked without her. He reached around Joe and grabbed her and the carry-on.
“Hey, you’re that guy!” A man holding an infant gestured to him with his chin. “Honey.” He bumped a woman near him with his shoulder. “That’s the singer we saw on the TV special, am I right?”
“Guilty as charged.” Trace slung the guitar case strap over his shoulder and gripped the handle of his suitcase. “Thanks for watching.” Trace didn’t have an issue performing in front of thousands blinded by the lights on a stage, but always became a little uncomfortable with one-on-one praise. Hoping to avoid any further attention, he kept his head down and moved to a darkened corner on the other side of the room.
While waiting for Joe to finish with the customers, sights, smells and sounds from his youth flooded his senses with memories. Under the shop’s thick pine scent, “Jingle Bell Rock” played over a crusty boom box. Outside the door, a gaggle of new smiling arrivals entered the lot in search of the perfect tree.
The old register dinged, and the money drawer opened with a clang. Joe counted out some bills and gave them to the last beaming customer in line.
“Thank you, Joe. We’ll see you next year.”
After waving them off, Joe glanced over. “Ready for a chat?” He eyed the suitcase. “You calling it a day?”
“Yep. I’ll be right back. Need to put these away. I don't want to leave Lola all by herself.” He gripped the case’s strap. “Any word from Barb?” Trace asked on his way to the door.
“No, not a peep.” Joe wiped the counter with a rag. “Where you staying tonight?”
Taken off guard, Trace stopped. What an unexpected question for Joe to ask. Wasn’t he welcome to sleep in the bungalow in back, the same place he’d stayed for years? “I thought I’d crash in the cottage if it’s okay with you.”
Joe tossed the rag on the counter. Sighing, he came around to him. “Of course, it would be perfectly fine for you stay there, if—we need to talk.” Joe put a hand on Trace’s shoulder and led him out back. A customer waved, wrangling Joe's attention. “Can you give me five?” Joe asked, but kept walking. “I’ll be right back, promise.”
Joe didn’t take the usual footpath that wound behind the tree lot to the private area where the cottage stood. Instead he ushered him twenty feet behind the gift shop. Dangling white lights from the tree lot illuminated the area.
“What’s going on, Joe?”
“Welp, the thing is”—he kicked the ground—“the cottage, well, it isn’t here anymore, Trace.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Trace set his carry-on on the ground and waited for Joe to explain.
“I’m real sorry.” Joe scratched his head. “I guess I should’ve mentioned the fire.” His lips were a straight line and thick crevices wedged into his forehead. “The bungalow burned to the ground with everything in it. That's what I wanted to talk to you about tonight.”
The sucker punch came before Trace could brace himself. Joe could’ve delivered a kick in the teeth and the result would’ve felt the same. Without knowing why, Trace clutched his stomach and dropped his head.
Knotted pine counters, the old white fridge with the cracked handle, his grandmother’s Christmas ornaments, and discolored photographs in his uncle’s album flashed before his eyes. Those were some of the items he came to retrieve, others he would’ve said good-bye to before he sold the place. Trace jotted reminders to himself that morning during his flight from La Guardia to Oakland so he wouldn’t forget.
“The fire happened last year, right after you left your uncle’s funeral. Things were pretty hectic.”
“How?” A vein in Trace’s neck twitched.
“Vandals? That’s what the inspector said, anyway. They never made an arrest.” Joe wiped his forehead with his arm. “I don’t know, maybe a copycat arsonist? You know about the Valley fire right before—”
“Uncle Glenn died, yeah I remember. Smoke clogged the air the entire week of the service.” Trace drew a deep breath and loudly exhaled. “Jesus.”
“I should’ve told you.” Joe patted his shoulder. “At least it didn’t spread to any of the trees. We didn’t lose any inventory, thank God.” He pointed to a ramshackle RV a few yards away. “You’re welcome to stay in the castle.”
The rusted shell appeared ready to collapse. Used to crashing on tour buses, and ready for a hot shower, Trace snatched his suitcase.
“I’ve got the keys right here,” Joe said, pulling a set from his pocket and moving to the door. “Let’s get you settled.”
Sighing, and giving the accommodations a second thought, Trace kept his distance. He watched Joe struggle getting the key into the slot and tug the handle. The door creaked when it opened.
Joe stepped inside and raised his voice. “The bed’s not too lumpy. I sleep here sometimes when Barb gets mad. Haven't changed the sheets in about a year though.” He guffawed. “So they're broken in. Come,” Joe beckoned, “make yourself at home.”
Trace narrowed his eyes and adjusted the strap on his shoulder. He kept his feet firmly planted. Although not picky about accommodations, the distinct musty smell of mildew pouring from within the cabin made his stomach turn. The thought of sleeping on Joe’s crusty sheets wasn’t appealing either.
“You can wash up in the lot’s bathroom. Water’s not
hooked up in here and she doesn’t have power, so change while it’s still light.” A few loud thumps came from within. “There’s a flashlight in here, somewhere.”
Gripping his carry-on’s handle, guitar strap over his shoulder, Trace eyed the heap on wheels. Drawing his hand to his neck, he stroked his Adam’s apple deliberating. “You know, Joe?” Tilting his head, Trace massaged the tension in his jaw. If everything went according to plan, he'd have a date with Monique tomorrow. “I appreciate the offer, but I think I need to find another place.” Joe popped his head out the door and raised his eyebrows. “It’s just that I’m here for a week,” Trace explained. “And after a few days, as comfortable as the trailer probably is, I’ll need a place with a shower.”
“Welp, suit yourself.” Joe stepped out the trailer and locked the door. “Don’t know if you’ll find a place to stay nearby, Trace. The valley’s booked up with the lighted tractor parade in Calistoga next week.”
“I’ll find someplace in Napa.”
“Doubt it. Even the Napa Palace is booked. Delivered their tree yesterday. They mentioned the tractor parade one time in Sunset Magazine and folks from all over the country are pouring in to see it.”
Walking through the scented pines and maneuvering around the rows of trees in the busy lot, Trace steeled himself for a hotel room hunt, determined to make the three hour round trip from San Francisco daily, if needed. He pulled out his phone to start making calls.
“Sir, we found one, could you help us?” The customer Joe deserted ten minutes ago interrupted. “Please? My daughter needs to go to bed early for school tomorrow.”
“Hold on.” Joe pulled a phone from his pocket and pivoted to Trace. “Hold on to you. Don’t make any reservations yet.” He gestured to the woman waiting. “One minute.” He held his finger up to her and then put it on his phone and punched a number.
Rolling his eyes, Trace second-guessed his decision to pass on Monique’s invitation to the Santino Winery party. Even though she’d be working, he could be sipping a tasty Santino Syrah and gawking at her right now.
“You’re all set.” Joe stashed the phone back into his pocket. “I just texted you the address.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the effort, but what sort of accommodations are we talking about here?”
“Bed and breakfast.” Joe shrugged. “And before you ask, yes, they have a shower.”
Chapter Four
A few miles up the road from Napa Pines and Wines, Trace found the sign on the Silverado Trail that read “Nana’s Garden Bed and Breakfast. Clean beds. Hot breakfast and dinner for your wine country pleasure.”
After checking into the lavender room, the only available suite in the inn, Trace took one of the longest, hottest showers of his life and tried not to think about the fire. He changed clothes and did what he always did when he needed to unwind: he unpacked Lola. Finding a comfortable position on the bed, he practiced a few new riffs he'd been trying. Lola wasn't an acoustic guitar, so when he didn’t plug her into an amp, Trace could play anywhere without making too much noise. He didn't hear any complaints from the innkeeper, so he practiced tunes until the light faded over the vineyards.
Chuck Berry’s “Run Rudolf Run” seeped into his suite, interrupting his song's melody. A low murmur of laughter and shoes echoing against hardwood floors below distracted him. But the mouthwatering aroma of chicken and onions is what persuaded Trace to tuck Lola away and investigate.
Spying over the staircase railing, he couldn’t see any action but heard it clearly. A child’s familiar laugh rang and she sang, “Run, Rudolf, run.”
Taking two stairs at a time, he hurried down the staircase. “Mr. Trace! What are you doing here?”
“Adele?” He wanted to ask her the same thing, but she wasn't in the mood for talking or standing still.
Dressed in all-in-one pajamas covering her toes, she broke into a smile that took up most of her pint-sized face. With her curls flying and little feet barely touching the floor, she shrieked and tore straight at him. Seeing where her flailing elbows were heading, Trace bent down to protect his lower body parts.
He wouldn’t have believed how sharp her elbows were until one connected with the area right under his rib. “Ohh!” She grabbed his arm and hung on swinging, practically dislocating it from the socket. “You realize I need that arm when I play,” he teased. “Hi, Adele.”
“Hi, Mr. Trace.” Stretching her neck back, examining his face, Adele focused her blue-grey eyes on him, looking astonishingly like her mother. Then she poked him in the stomach with a sharp pointed finger.
“Hey. That's no way to say hi.” Trace scanned the room for Monique. He thought she'd still be at Santino Winery. He never dreamed he'd see her here. “Where's your mom?”
“How many cookies did you have, Addie?” The woman who checked him in earlier placed her hands on her hips. “Trace Montgomery is our guest, dear. Please leave him alone.”
“It's okay.” In fact, Adele's jubilation over seeing Trace beat any welcome a stadium packed with fans could’ve given him. “I had the pleasure of meeting Adele today. I’m a friend of Monique’s.” Trace extended his hand. “It's nice to meet you properly.”
“I'm Loretta, Monique’s grandmother,” she said, shaking his hand.
“She’s my nana.” Adele squealed, throwing her hands up to her face and laughing.
“Yes, I’m your nana and nanas know when their great-grandbabies have had too much sugar. Wash up now. Dinner's ready.”
SO ENTHUSIASTIC ABOUT sitting down for a real meal in a homey dining room instead of having a bite at a road stop, Trace lingered for three servings of Nana’s famous chicken and potatoes. Adele, Loretta and a few of the other guests kept the conversation light. But Trace cringed when Loretta mentioned Monique’s situation and how she had lost her house because of Jarod.
Never in a million years would Trace have expected to find her living in two small rooms in the back of her grandmother's B and B. Now he understood why she got so worked up about the tree today and hoped her party went off without a hitch.
After pumpkin pie, Adele dragged him into the living room to read. Trace eyed the entry hall. According to Adele, Monique’s keys would rattle against the front door any minute.
He poured two glasses of wine and tucked into the couch in front of the Christmas tree near the fireplace.
“Got it!” Adele scampered over from the bookshelf, waving a book. She climbed on the sofa and wedged next to him. “See?” She pointed to a white puppy with brown spots on the cover. “That’s him.”
This was a first. Instead of playing with Lola upstairs, something he did almost every night, Trace was about to cheat on her with a puppy named Poky.
“The Poky Little Puppy’s First Christmas.” Smelling like a fruit salad and soap, Adele sounded out and pointed to each word on the cover. Then she flipped to the first page and began reading aloud.
This was another first. Trace had never helped read a bedtime story or any other book to a child. As an only child from a small family, the opportunity never presented itself. Instead of being uncomfortable, he hazarded a guess as to when he’d become a father. Trace furrowed his brows, listening to Adele. If he met someone immediately and if he knew she was the one after six months of dating, he’d be off to a good start. Then, if she wanted to start a family too, and if she got pregnant right away, he’d be thirty-five when he became a dad.
He sighed, sinking deeper into the couch, enjoying the homey chicken and onion aromas leftover from dinner. Adele’s soft, melodious voice lulled him. In the dimly lit room, the sweet red, green and blue lights on the Christmas tree began to blur. His eyelids felt heavy.
“What’s this word?” Adele pointed her dainty finger to letters on the page. “I know this is a Y. Is it why-a-wh-ned?”
Trace examined the page. He stretched his hands above his head. Then linking his thumbs together, he arched his back against the pillows and yawned. “The power of sugges
tion.” He winked at Adele. “It’s ‘yawned’. The Y sounds like yah.”
Trace continued helping her sound out words while she read the book to him over and over until she could barely keep her eyes open. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so cozy.
“What are you doing here?” The sound of metal keys hitting a dish and a recorded, “Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas,” chimed from the entry. He swiveled his head around. Monique dropped her purse on the hall table.
Jabbing her knee into his thigh, Adele scrambled off the couch and bolted to her. “Mommy!” She threw her arms around Monique’s leg.
Gripping Adele’s bottom with both hands, Monique picked her up and snuggled her close. With Adele’s arms around her neck and legs straddling her, they covered each other with kisses.
Smooch, smooch, smooch sounds filled the room. Trace stifled a smile, and not wanting to intrude, looked away.
“He's helping me read, Mommy!” Adele skipped to the couch and grabbed the book.
“You don't have to help her, Nana’s here.”
He grinned at the flickering sparks in her eyes.
Monique put her hands on her hips. “You're a paying guest?”
“I—Joe made the reservations. I didn't know you lived here, and it's no problem reading with Adele.” Trace picked up his glass and took a sip of wine.
“Time for bed, Adele. Get going and I'll meet you in your room and tuck you in.”
Adele tossed her book on the couch and stood in front of him. Full of energy again with Monique’s arrival, he didn’t know whether she would come in for a hug or sock him in the stomach.
“Night, Mr. Trace.”
“Sweet dreams, Adele,” he said unable to stifle a grin.
She took off loping down the hall. “See you in the morning.”
“How many of those cookies did Adele have?” Monique approached the couch, shrugging out of her jacket.
