Love on Main Street: A Snow Creek Christmas

by Juliet Blackwell

  "Stopping what?"

  "The talk about you and me."

  "Does that bother you?"

  Eileen thought about it for a moment before shaking her head. "No," she said.

  "Good." He started the truck and headed back toward town. The snow came down harder as he turned onto Main Street. "Shall I just take you home?"

  "Sure," she said. It was already past six and Crystal would have closed down the shop. Besides, she needed to change before the committee meeting.

  The snow was falling in earnest now. It seemed that Daniel had found them just in time. By the time that Paul had made the turn on to her street and pulled in front of her house, it was almost white-out conditions.

  Eileen looked over at him as he killed the engine.

  "You probably shouldn't drive all the way up your parents’ house in this," she said.

  He shook his head slowly. They both knew that he'd driven through worse a hundred times before. A little snow didn't scare anyone from the town.

  "You're probably right."

  “I’m guessing that they’ve probably cancelled the meeting because of the blizzard. I could make us dinner if you like," she said.

  "I'd like," he said.

  They rushed from the truck to her front door. Eileen’s house was in one of the older neighborhoods. It wasn't fancy or new, but she liked it. She didn't need a lot of space, not when she spent most of her time at the store.

  The house was warm and dry and filled with the homey smell of slowly drying Christmas tree.

  "Is pasta okay?" she asked as she led him into the kitchen.

  "Sounds great."

  "Good. Cause I'm pretty sure that's all I have."

  She started a pot of water boiling on the stove, and got a box of bow-tie pasta before grabbing a couple of wine glasses. She had to rinse off the dust before she filled them.

  "How can I help?" Paul asked.

  "Let's see. There are some tomatoes and olives in the fridge if you don't mind slicing them."

  "I'd love to."

  It was nice standing next to him in the kitchen, drinking wine and working together. It felt right. Right enough to ask the one question that had been wriggling around in her brain all day.

  “Hey, I was wondering if you might want to be my date for the Fezziwig Ball,” she asked tentatively.

  "I forgot all about that thing. Do you really go to that now?"

  "I'm on the Main Street Council. So, yeah."

  “Does Mr. Cornelius still dress up like Santa?"

  "Of course," she said.

  "I wish I could, but it's the same day I have to go down to LA."

  Her face fell. LA. Of course. She'd forgotten about that. More accurately, she'd been trying to forget about it.

  “So you’re still planning on heading down there?” she asked.

  The rhythmic thwack of the knife on the maple board next to her slowed, but it didn't stop. “Looks like it.”

  Eileen took in a deep breath. "I wish you wouldn't," she said.

  The chopping stopped. "Why?"

  "Because I can’t believe you're done with hockey yet. You're still in your prime," she said.

  He glanced down at his feet. Just for a second. Just long enough to tell her that her words upset him more than he was willing to let on. He didn't want to go to LA for these talks. He wanted to play.

  He shrugged. "You sure about that?"

  She turned toward him. "Yeah, I am. Your dream was always to get your name on the Cup. The Generals are in a better position than ever to do that this year."

  "But this...." His voice trailed off as he rolled his left shoulder.

  "Will heal," she finished for him. "You're not done yet."

  He looked deep into her eyes. "Do you really believe that?" He sounded skeptical.

  "Of course I do. What's more, so do you. Come on Paul, you know what you are."

  "You ended up changing what you do," he said.

  "That's because I never wanted it in the first place. I was a fool and did what people expected of me and not what was in my heart. I made a mistake."

  He leaned in closer. "You sure you're talking about being a lawyer?"

  She wasn't. Right now, all she could think about was his kiss. Now that she had tasted it again, it was the only thing that she wanted. She turned her back toward the counter.

  "Not entirely."

  She couldn't stand here and tell him that he shouldn't worry about shielding himself from pain if she weren’t going to take her own advice. She eased her shoulders and arched her back. He took her invitation and stepped forward. He nestled his hips flush against hers. His hand came up to cup her cheek.

  "That's what I thought," he said.

  He leaned over her shoulder and turned off the stove. So much for the pretense of dinner.

  “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not hungry for pasta anymore,” he said.

  A rush of heat filled Eileen's cheeks. Other places as well. "Are you sure about that?"

  He lowered his lips towards hers, stopping when he was just a fraction of an inch away. "Very sure."

  His kiss was every bit as heated as it had been at the pond. But now, there was no reason to stop. She wrapped her arms around him. He cupped his hands around her hips and lifted her up against the counter. She wrapped her legs around him.

  She clung to him as he walked effortlessly out of the kitchen. "Where's the bedroom?" he asked.

  ***

  The week of Christmas came and went so quickly that afterward, Eileen only remembered it in little flashes. There were more customers in the store than ever before. Tons of online orders came in, last-minute requests that she struggled to fill. The Main Street Committee rushed to prepare for the parade and the ball, and the whole town got caught up in the swirl and magic of the holidays. It was amazing that Eileen was still standing afterward.

  Then there was Paul, the brightest spot in her days. He didn’t seem to care how busy she was, or the hours she put in on her computer, as long as they could spend some time together hanging out on her couch, or in the Main Street Diner...or, in her bed. For all its rush, it was the best week that Eileen could remember, because he was always there at the end of the day.

  Except for today.

  She closed the shop early for the Christmas Parade. The sun was still high in the sky when she locked the door. But Paul wasn't there.

  He'd gone to LA. She couldn't help the gnawing feeling of disappointment in her stomach. He was taking the safe road, just like she had done a decade ago—and she knew how that story ended.

  It was a good distraction to go to the Fezziwig Ball.

  Everyone was more than a little surprised to see her there alone. And she couldn't tell them why. Paul had left, just as she had done all of those years ago.

  It served her right.

  What should have been a joyous night—the best of the year if you lived in Snow Creek—felt like a weight in her heart. And her smile wasn't fooling anyone: she was receiving more condolences than Merry Christmas wishes.

  She danced in a slow circle with Sully, one of the old men who always hung around Main Street. Even at eighty-something, the man was still a player. He'd managed to score a dance with every unattached lady over the age of twenty. No one turned him down, and when you danced with Sully it was always a slow dance, no matter what song was playing.

  Eileen was just pulling his hand back up to her hip for the umpteenth time when she heard a voice behind her say, "Excuse me, sir, but do you mind if I cut in?”

  Paul.

  Eileen froze. Sully kept moving.

  "Of course I mind, you little hoodlum," Sully said. "You should learn to wait your turn just like everybody else."

  A wide smile spread across Eileen’s face as she moved in another lazy circle with Sully. "You didn't go to LA."

  "I didn't," he said with a smile.

  "Why not?"

  "I was about thirty miles down the road when I remembered something someone
much wiser than me said about not quitting before you’re done."

  "That must have been a very smart person indeed,” she said.

  "Smartest person I know," he said. "Damn sexy too."

  Sully stopped on the dance floor. With a sour look curling his lips, he snapped, "Durn kids. You have no manners. Didn't your mother teach you nothing?”

  "Sorry, Sully.”

  "Never mind," he said, grimacing at Paul. “I’m pretty sure Margaret Ingraham has been eyeing me all night. I'm no fool. I'll go where the fish are biting."

  He moved away and Paul stepped into his place. "Sorry I pushed out Sully. I could see that you were doing well there."

  "Well, you better make this dance worth my while then."

  "Oh, I intend to," he said, wrapping his arms around her.

  About Adrienne

  Adrienne Bell has lived her entire life in Northern California. She now resides on the far edge of the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and kids. You can follow the minutia of her life on Twitter (@writerbell), or see the pictures she likes to share on Facebook, or check out the exciting topics that she decides to dedicate a few hundred words to on her blog at AdrienneBell.net. Oh, and she thanks you for reading.

  A Christmas Yarn

  by Rachael Herron

  Knitting has always served as a distraction, something that Clara can hide behind. After a significant weight loss, though, she's still not sure if she wants to be noticed. When sexy Lincoln ends up on the front porch of her yarn store, he seems to see everything clear as day. Will Clara finally be seen for her true self?

  A Christmas Yarn

  “You’re a pusher,” groaned Peggy.

  Clara nodded. “It’s like crack. First taste is free.”

  “Then you’re hooked for life.”

  “I just made a pot of tea,” said Clara, putting Peggy’s yarn into the plastic bag. “Come sit with me on the porch for a while.”

  “Oh, no.” said Peggy. “I can go buy a cup of coffee over at the diner and bring it back. You want one, sugar?”

  “I brewed Hibiscus Rose. That’s your favorite, right?”

  Peggy's red cheeks flushed to match her wild hair. “I do love that stuff.”

  When Clara had opened String Theory in Snow Creek, outdoor seating was her first priority. Her yarn store wouldn’t be just another one of those shops where women crunched three and four abreast onto a low-slung couch—no, her place would have tables and awnings outside. When the French restaurant whose escargot delights had never quite caught on declared bankruptcy and pulled up stakes, Clara had jumped at the chance to fulfill her fiber dream.

  She used the money her parents had left her and her waitressing tips—those singles added up after a while—and when she made the offer on the white clapboard Craftsman, she was able to offer a little extra to keep the enclosed porch’s wrought-iron tables and chairs.

  Perched right next to the Main Street Diner and just a short walk to Rosie’s Bakery, Clara didn’t have to carry treats other than the kind spun from wool. She encouraged her customers to go next door and order coffee and crullers, or, if it was later in the day, wine and biscotti.

  The knitters loved it. Clara had to admit, the six bistro tables on the front porch were her favorite part of the store by far. She made half her sales while knitting outside. She’d be working on a lace shawl in the newest Miss Babs yarn, and three people would stop to touch and to buy either the pattern or the yarn (or on good days, both).

  Her customers chatted to each other about the best needles and most popular patterns, and Clara listened. Because Janet loved the Feral Knitter’s fair-isle patterns, Clara carried Jamieson’s Spindrift. Because Lorraine loved the sharp tips of the Signature needles, Clara had actually sold a few of the prohibitively expensive tools. Never in her life would she have predicted being able to sell a forty-five-dollar needle. But she didn’t have to. Word of mouth and time spent on her knitting porch did.

  On the coldest days, like today, Clara lit the outdoor heaters. With two of them pointed right at the small tables, the glassed-in porch was easily warm enough if the knitter wore the right light sweater.

  And boy, did her customers have the right sweaters.

  Clara grabbed the pot and two of the porcelain teacups. “Good. Follow me.” When Peggy was seated, a blanket on her lap, Clara went back inside and scooped up her current work-in-progress, a pink lace sweater she was making in a softly-spun, worsted angora-merino. It would be a little pilly for a while when it was done—this yarn did that—but the softness would make it worth bonding with the lint shaver.

  Outside again, she gave Peggy her favorite teacup, the one with the full-blown purple pansies, and poured.

  “Oh, honey. You put something like this in these hands, I might break it.”

  “You don’t fool me. You’ve got a steadier hand than I ever will.”

  With one hand, Peggy fished her sock out of the brown paper shopping bag she kept it in. “You could pretty much say I actually am a needle junkie.” She ran the Low Down Dirty Shame tattoo parlor, and if she wasn’t holding a tattoo needle, she was knitting. “Doesn’t mean I won’t break your pretty cup.”

  “Well,” said Clara. “If you did, I’d just charge you the full amount I paid for it.”

  Peggy clutched the cup tighter in her free hand.

  Clara continued, “It cost a dollar down at Lutheran Thrift. Oh, wait. I think I got it on blue-tag special, so it might have been a quarter. You better be careful with it.”

  “You have the gift, you know.”

  “Ooh! The gift that Riah says those stones can impart at Magic Baubles? I think those might be good old geodes, myself.”

  “Not like that. You have the gift of making everyone around you comfortable.”

  Surprised, Clara said, “What?” Funny, she was so rarely comfortable in her own skin. This new skin….

  She pulled on the hem of her T-shirt, forgetting again that she didn’t have a big stomach to hide. Portion control and exercise. And a constant, constant knowledge that she’d never be a person who didn’t have to think about her health. Most days the weight loss seemed worth it. Some days, though—the bad ones that still hit her like a clap of thunder—it really wasn’t.

  “So.” Peggy rested her chin on her fist. “I want to hear about that date you had last week.”

  “Oh, God,” said Clara. “No, you don’t.”

  “I do. You know I live vicariously through you.”

  She laughed. “Really? Because I think you get way more action than I do, woman.” Clara looked down the walk, where a man and an older woman were entering the gate. “Saved by the bell,” she said, standing.

  “I’m going to get it out of you,” warned Peggy.

  “It’s awful. They’re all awful.” In a lower tone, Clara said, “Sometimes I think I should never have lost the weight. It’s horrible. I’m seriously never dating again. I’ve made up my mind.”

  Peggy laughed and waved her toward the new customers.

  Clara had seen the older woman in town before but didn’t know her name. She was, however, wearing a spectacularly-cabled sweater that must have taken months upon months of intricate work. She was obviously a capital-K Knitter.

  “Howdy, Peggy,” said the woman.

  Peggy lifted her tea cup in greeting. “Weezie. You’ve come to the right place.”

  Clara knew she’d never seen the man with Weezie, because she definitely would have remembered him. He looked like a guy who would leave his motorcycle idling while he robbed a liquor store. His hair was dark and wavy, just a touch too long, hitting the collar of his black leather jacket. His sunglasses were mirrored, like a cop’s, and his stance was wide in jeans that fit him just right. His jaw was square and now, at three in the afternoon, just beginning to show a thick stubble.

  For the first time in…forever, Clara felt her heart flutter. “Hi,” she said, feeling stupid.

  “I’ve heard about this place,” said
the older woman. “I live on a fixed income, see, and I get all my yarn down at the thrift store.” She tugged at the blue, cabled sweater she wore over baggy jeans that were thin at the knees. “Guess I shouldn’t tell you, but I pull apart old sweaters and reuse the wool.”

  “I’ve been known to do that myself,” said Clara agreeably.

  “Now my nephew here’s staying with me, and he says he wants to buy me some yarn since I won’t take his money for rent. Who would do that? As if I’d take money from a relative. I’ll take yarn from him, though. I want to see this alpaca silk I’ve been hearing so much about.”

  Clara stood. “Come on in and I’ll show you all I’ve got.”

  “You see! I told you she’d have some. You sit out here.”

  The man nodded. “All right, Weezie.”

  “Here, I’m going to leave my hat on this table. You can watch it for me.”

  “There’s a sofa inside if you’d rather wait out of the cold,” Clara said. She almost wished, though, that he would stay out here. He made her nervous, in a visceral way.

  Weezie set her blue pom-pommed hat down and patted the table loudly. “Right here’s good for him. I don’t want him to see the damage I intend to do to his wallet until the last minute.”

  “Fine by me,” said the man, sitting. “Have a good time in there, ladies.” He rested his arm on the table and looked out the glass at the street as if he had nowhere better to be.

  Inside, Weezie proved to be an easy sell. Some customers weren’t—Clara could spend all day, hours and hours, showing them the merits of one yarn over another, letting them swatch, allowing them to test needles and notions, and they’d leave with nothing more than a single pattern.

  Weezie, though, wandered the store, touching everything, which was the exact right way to do it, of course. She made soft exclamations of joy as she held cashmere to her cheek and rubbed the alpaca silk against her neck. Clara did her best to help, but Weezie was rapturous in her pile-making, and didn’t want the assistance. Shooing her away with her hands, Weezie said, “Go back out there to your tea and your friend. I’m going to take forever in here, and I’ll feel better if I’m not stopping you from having a good time.”