by Cara Colter
And he vowed right then and there that for as long as their time together lasted, put-downs would never be part of the way he communicated with her. He wanted to snatch back every careless word he had said about her dreams and the inn, but instead, he took her hand, kissed the top of it, a gentleman acknowledging a complete lady. “Their loss,” he said quietly.
And the way the sun came out in her eyes made him kiss her hand again.
There was no shortage of work while the road remained closed, and the hard work was as amazing an antidote to his pain as Emma. Until the road reopened and the power came on there was more work to do every day than ten men could have handled. It was back-breaking, hand-blistering work, and it was just what he needed. It was what he had tried to achieve with punishing workouts at the gym and never quite succeeded. Not like this. Exhaustion.
Utter and complete.
He crawled onto that mattress at night and slept as he had not slept since the fire.
To add to that, he had a sense of belonging that he had not had since the death of his brother and then his sister-in-law had ripped his own family apart.
Tim, Mona, the girls formed an old-fashioned family unit, their love fluid rather than rigid, the circle of it opening easily to include Ryder and Tess, just as once it must have opened to take in Emma. It was a plain kind of love: not flowers and chocolates, not fancy Christmas gifts, or dramatic declarations.
It was the kind of love where people worked hard toward a common goal, then ate together, laughed over simple board games. It was a love that toted a demanding baby with it everywhere it went, as though there was nothing but joy in that task.
What had really happened when he had told Emma he was broken beyond healing?
It was as if the healing had begun right then.
It was as if he had given Emma permission to love him in a different way—one that did not involve kisses—and that love—steady, compassionate, accepting—was stronger than the kisses could have been. Building a foundation for something else.
But what? Maybe it was as simple as building the foundation for one perfect day.
Was there such a thing as a perfect day?
People thought there was. They tried to find those days on beaches in tropical countries in the winter. They tried to have them on the day they got married. They tried to create that day on Christmas in particular.
Who would ever have thought a perfect day looked like the one he had had on the second day after the storm? By late afternoon, all of them, Mona, the girls, Emma and Ryder had cleared a ton of broken limbs off the pond, Tim pushing it to them with his tractor shovel, clearing snow in preparation for skating. Tess shouted orders from the little sled they all took turns pulling her in.
An army emergency team arrived on snowmobiles to let them know they were close to having power restored, and the roads would be reopened within twenty-four hours.
Ryder did not miss the stricken look on Emma’s face and her quick glance toward him, but he understood perfectly what she felt.
They had built a world here separate from the world out there and their own realities. They had built a family of sorts, one filled with the things people wanted from family and that he suspected Emma had never had: a sense of safety and acceptance.
But when the roads opened and the power was restored, they were all, in their own ways, moving on, leaving this place that necessity had created. The sense of belonging and of meaning was going to be hard to leave.
Especially since Ryder had no idea if he was taking this new sense of peace with him or leaving it here.
“Enough,” Mona cried, as the light was fading and she dragged one more branch to the fire. “Enough work!”
Hot dogs rescued from a snow drift appeared and buns, more mugs of hot chocolate were served from the huge canning pot Emma had wrestled from the warming shed down to the side of the pond where they were burning branches.
After he’d eaten enough hot dogs to put even his teenage self to shame, he noticed Mona sorting through the skates she found in the warming shed. “Come on, girls, let’s go skating!”
And soon all the Fenshaws, including Tim, were circling the pond, graceful, people who had probably skated since they were Tess’s age. They were taking turns pulling Tess, still, and he could hear her squeals of delight as they picked up speed, as the sled careened around the edges of the pond behind the girls.
And then Ryder noticed Emma putting away things, stirring the hot chocolate, sending the occasional wistful glance toward the frozen pond.
“How come you have so many skates?” Ryder asked. “Are you renting them at Holiday Happenings?”
“No, people are bringing their own. But there will be a few here for people who don’t have them or forget. And the kinds of families who are coming to the Christmas Day Dream probably don’t have skates. I tried to collect as many different sizes as possible, so everyone can skate.”
“Including your size?” he asked, seeing her cast another wistful look at the pond.
“Oh, I don’t skate. I’ve never even tried it.”
Wasn’t that just Emma to a T? Giving everyone else a gift, but not taking one for herself?
“How is it possible you haven’t tried skating?” he asked. “You must be the only Canadian in history who has never skated.”
“Ryder,” she said, “not everyone had the childhood you had. My mother didn’t have money for skates.”
He saw suddenly the opportunity to give Emma a gift, humble as it was. He would teach her the joy of flying across an icy pond on sharp silver blades, give her the heady freedom of it. He would give her something from a childhood she had clearly missed.
He sorted through the skates, found a pair that looked as though they would fit her.
She sat on a bench and put them on, and he sat beside her, lacing up a pair that had looked as though they would fit him.
“No,” he said, glancing at her. “You have to lace them really tight.” And then he knelt at her feet and did up her skates for her.
Her eyes were shining as he rose and held out his hand to her. She wobbled across the short piece of snow-covered ground from the bench to the pond.
“You are no athlete,” he told her fifteen minutes later, putting his hands under her armpits and hauling her up off her rear again, but then he remembered she had heard nothing but negatives about herself all her life. “Though I’m sure you have other sterling qualities.”
“Name them,” she demanded.
“World’s best giraffe imitation.”
The laughter in her eyes, true and sweet, the shadows lifting, rewarded him for this gift he was giving her.
“Hard worker,” he went on, “passable cleaner-upper of baby puke.”
“Stop! I can’t learn to skate and laugh at the same time.”
“Smart. Funny. Cute. Determined. Brave. Generous. Compassionate. Wise.”
“You must stop now. I’m having trouble concentrating.”
But he could tell she was pleased. It was time for Emma White to have some fun, even if it was true that she had not an ounce of natural-born talent in the skating department. She walked on the skates, awkwardly, her ankles turned in, her windmilling arms heralding each fall.
“Can you relax?” he asked her.
“Apparently not,” she shot back, and then she dissolved into giggles, and the arms windmilled and she fell on her rump again.
He got her up, glanced at the shore of the pond. They had moved all of fifteen yards in as many minutes.
“Watch the girls,” he told her sternly. “Watch how they’re pushing off on one leg, gliding, then pushing with the other leg.”
She pushed tentatively, fell.
“We’re going to go,” Mona said. The sun had completely gone from the sky, the ice on the pond was striking as it reflected the light of the huge brush fires they had lit around it. “We’ll take Tess home again for the night. Brrr, it’s getting too cold out here for her.”
And then the gigg
les and shouts and laughter faded as they moved further and further away until Ryder and Emma were completely alone.
He didn’t feel cold at all. He felt warmer than he had felt for nearly a year.
“You want to take a break?” he asked Emma. She had to be hurting.
“No.”
There it was. That fierce determination that let him know that no matter what, she would be all right. When he left.
The road was going to be open tomorrow.
And knowing that, and that it was his turn to give to her, something in him that had held back let go. Enough to tuck his arm around her waist and pull her tight into him.
It was time for her to skate. He thrust off on one leg, and then the other, steadying her, holding her up, not allowing her to fall. There was something so right about holding her up, about lending her his strength, about the way she felt pressed into his side.
“Oh,” she breathed, “Ryder, I’m doing it.”
She wasn’t. Not at first. He was doing it for her. But then he felt the tentative thrust of her leg, and then another.
“Don’t let me go.” The end of the pond was rushing toward them. “How do I turn? Turn, Ryder!”
And he did, taking her with him, flying across the ice, feeling her growing more confident by the second.
“We’re like Jamie Salé and David Pelletier,” she cried, naming Canada’s most romantic figure-skating duo.
He laughed at her enthusiasm. “This year, White’s Pond—2010, Whistler,” he said dryly. “You might have to learn to lace up your own skates, though.”
She punched his arm. “I can’t believe I’m still on the ground. How can you feel like this without flying? Let me go, Ryder, let me go.”
And he did. She took her first tentative strokes by herself.
He watched her moving slowly, and then with growing confidence. At first he called a few instructions to her, but then he let her go completely. She had about as much grace as a baby bear on skates, falling, skidding, picking herself back up almost before she had stopped, then going again, arms akimbo, blades digging into the ice.
And then, just like that, joy filled him. It came without warning, sneaked up on him just as those memories did. Only this time he felt young again, and carefree, like that boy he had once been on his mother and father’s backyard rink.
He whooped his delight, thrust hard against the ice, surged forward. He flew down the length of the pond, raced the edges of it, skidded to a halt in a spray of white ice, turned, skated backwards at full speed, crossed his legs one over the other, and then raced around the pond the other way in a huge, swooping circle.
He moved faster than a person without wings or a motor should be able to move, delighted in his strength and the clear cold and the freedom. He delighted in knowing her eyes followed him.
He knew he was showing off for her, did not care what it meant. He raced down the ice to where she stood, swooped by her, snatching her toque off her head, challenging her new skills.
Game as always, Emma took off after him, those curls gone crazy. He teased her unmercifully, skating by her, making loops around her, swooping in close, holding out the hat, and then dashing away as she reached for it.
And then she reached too far, and slammed down hard. She lay on the ice silent and unmoving.
“Emma?”
Nothing. He rushed over to her, knelt at her side. What if he had hurt her? What if he had pushed her too hard? She was brand new to this, and if she was hurt badly there was no place to take her.
They weren’t wearing helmets. And she wasn’t tough. Her skull could be cracked open. She could be dying. He, of all people, knew how it could be all over in a blink. How you could be laughing about a stuffed marlin or a snatched toque one minute, and the next minute life was changed forever. Over.
Cursing his own foolishness, not just for playing with her, but for letting himself care this much again, he leaned close to her, felt her breath warm on his cheek.
And knew, from the panic that hammered a tattoo at his heart he had come to care about her way, way too much. And he also knew he could not survive another loss. That was why he had built such strong walls around himself.
Because he knew. He could not survive if he lost one more person that he loved.
And, as he contemplated that, her eyes popped open and, with an evil laugh, she reached out and snatched her toque from his hand, slammed it back on her head, and managed to grab his before she clambered to her feet and skittered away, taking advantage of the fact he was completely stunned by the revelation he had just had.
He wanted to be angry at her for frightening him, and for the realization he had just had. But how could you be angry with her when the laughter lit her eyes like that, when her cheeks glowed pink?
“I’m laughing so hard I can barely skate,” she shouted at him.
Give yourself to it. One night. To carry these memories deep within you once it’s gone. “I hate to break it to you, but you could barely skate before.”
“Not true,” she said, spreading her arms wide and doing a particularly clumsy stumble down the ice. “Jamie Salé, move over.”
“Somehow, I don’t think Jamie has anything to worry about!”
He caught her with ease, tugged at her wrist, turning her around to face him on the ice.
Was it that momentary fear that she had been hurt that made him so aware of how he felt?
Not saying a word, for some things were without words, he let the laughter between them fade and the mood between them soften until it glowed as golden as the pond reflecting the firelight.
One night.
“Though if you want to be Jamie, you have to learn how to do this.”
And then, he laced one hand with hers and put the other on the small of her back, pulling her in close to him. He danced with her. He, a hockey player who had never danced on ice in his life, took to it as if he had been born for this moment.
To the music of the crackling bonfire, and blades scraping ice that had turned to liquid gold, he danced with her. Her initial uncertainty faded as she just let him take her, gave herself over to it, surrendered to his lead.
They covered every square inch of that pond, his eyes locked on hers, and hers on his.
And then it was over, the fire dying to embers, the chill of the night penetrating the sense of warmth and contentment they had just shared.
It was time to end it. Not just the dance, either.
He pulled her hard to him, kissed her forehead where her curls had popped out of her toque and whispered to her, “Thank you, Emma.”
She looked at him, stricken, and he knew she had heard not thank you, not heard thank you at all.
Emma had heard what he had really said. That all this was too scary for him. What he had really said was good-bye.
He could see that she wanted the road open tomorrow—indeed, her business needed the road open. And she wanted the road closed, this cozy world kept intact.
The magic had been building every day that road was closed, and it had culminated in this: for a few short days he had felt young again, carefree, as if the world held only good things.
For a while, here at the White Christmas Inn, Ryder had been free from that place of pain he had lived in. At first he’d been free for minutes, and then for whole hours at a time. Today, he had experienced a day that had been nearly perfect, from beginning until end.
Ever since Ryder had told Emma the source of his deepest pain, everything had felt different between them. He had revealed the brokenness of his soul to her. He had done so out of absolute necessity, and he had done so to back both of them off from the attraction they were feeling.
He was not available. As not available as a man who was married. In a way, he was married to his sorrow. It was his constant companion, particularly with all things Christmas reminding him, triggering memories and his overpowering sense of failure.
He had come a long way, but he did not feel he had come nea
rly far enough to accept what he saw in her eyes. She was falling in love with him.
He found himself looking at her now, on that skating rink with the firelight dying around them, the way an art lover would look at a painting. With a kind of tender appreciation for who she was and what she did.
When had he stopped hoping for, planning his escape? When had he started dreading the opening of the road, because he was committed to a decision he’d already made?
The decision never to love again.
And, despite that decision, and despite the fact this was good-bye—or maybe because of it—he could not stop himself from tasting her lips one last time, as if he could save something of her, hold it inside himself, a secret source of warmth when he returned to a world of coldness.
She tilted her head back, met him halfway, and his lips touched hers. He was not sure what kind of kiss he intended—sweet farewell, perhaps—but he did not have the kind of control to execute that kind of kiss.
From the instant of contact, when he tasted her hunger, felt the passion that lurked just below her calm surface, something in him unleashed. The part of him that wanted things he could not have rose up to greet her, urgent and fierce. Instead of having an experience he could save, he found himself having an experience he did not want to end.
Instead of the kiss saying a chaste good-bye, her answering fire consumed him and filled him. His hands tangled in her short hair—he knew a startled ah of satisfaction that it felt exactly as he had known it would—and his lips claimed her and branded her, even as hers claimed him and branded him. He found his hand at the back of her neck, pulling her closer, wanting to go deeper, wanting more.
Her tongue danced with his lips, the edges of his teeth, tangled with his tongue, and he thought he would melt from the inferno she was creating. It felt as if the ice could be banished, as if he could be alone no more—
He pulled away from her, but it took every ounce of power he had left. His armor, made of steel, had melted like butter before her.
And he didn’t want her ever to know that.
“We should go back to the house. I’m going to go start packing my stuff—” His voice was rough with determination that hid his weakness from her. “—tonight, so that Tess and I will be ready to go as soon as the road opens tomorrow.” He hoped to slip out quietly, no long-drawn-out good-byes.
