by Dora Hiers
Conner peered out onto the ice.
Yeah. There was no mistaking Chaney. One long leg stretched straight up in the air, her arms and torso achieving a perfectly balanced posture, as she glided across the rink with unmatchable grace, demonstrating a routine to her students, one of whom couldn’t be more than a couple of years old.
Wow! Even now, after all these years, watching her on the ice dredged up powerful feelings probably best left buried. His chest lifted with a sigh. God, is this Your doing again? You can stop throwing us together anytime now. I’m just here to clear out the junk from Dad’s house then I’ll be moving on. Remember? That was our deal. With all the memories, it’s too painful to stay here.
He dragged his gaze away from Chaney and tamped down the dreams that threatened to eat him alive. Steering clear of the parents hanging out in the same section of seats where his mother had always waited, he plopped down on a vacant bench and dropped his bag to the floor with a huff. He was here now. Might as well get on with it. He couldn’t exactly hand back the key to Mr., er, Pete, and tell the old guy he hadn’t used it, could he?
He laced his skates and made his way to the entry point onto the ice. A startled gasp caught his attention. He gave a half-hearted wave in Chaney’s direction and skated through the opening, sticking to the fringe, away from the class.
“Let’s try that routine once more, and then we’ll wrap up today’s session,” Chaney instructed her students, her voice a little shaky.
Had he rattled her with his presence? He stole a glance her way. She was bent over, stretching the little one’s miniature arms out in the proper position and helping her maintain a precarious balance. Even so, he couldn’t escape the feeling that Chaney’s watchful gaze followed him all the way around the rink as he warmed up.
“You’re doing great, Melanie.” Chaney’s voice floated to him. “Awesome, Mark.”
He rounded the angle, shuttering his lids. He didn’t need his eyes open to navigate the curves. Not when the distance from one end of the rink to the other came as natural as tinkering inside the engine of a car now. He picked up speed, savoring the cool breeze kissing his cheeks, the memories of skating with Chaney nestled against his side bubbling up to tantalize him, as real as if she actually skated next to him. His arms reached out, heavy with the weight of a decade’s worth of dreams and pent-up longing, but his fingertips landed on…nothing.
How many times did he circle the rink before she called an end to her class? Two? Three? Long enough that regret over his too-impulsive decision years ago kept stabbing him in the chest. Where would they be now had he stayed? Would they have achieved their aspirations, on the ice and off? Had her dreams of a lifelong partner ever included him?
He’d loved her from the minute he took her in his arms for the first time, when she’d gazed up at him, her face flush with excitement and vulnerable with trust. But she’d been so young, and he’d been so…messed up.
When he finally lifted his lids, most of the students had disappeared. Only one remained on the ice. The adorable tyke with long, nutmeg-colored hair pulled back into a ponytail, one hand gripping Chaney’s in a tight latch, her round eyes, as big as the biscuits he’d devoured for breakfast, staring at him.
Was Chaney waiting for him? He glided over to them, careful to stop a few feet away, still not sure that he wouldn’t make a fool of himself on the paper-thin blades. “Pete told me I’d be sharing the rink with a class, but he didn’t mention that you were the teacher,” he said.
“I didn’t expect an audience,” she said, her gaze dropping to the little girl at her side.
“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t disrupt your class.” His gaze skittered from Chaney to the girl, and then back to Chaney.
Chaney shook her head. “No. It’s OK. I was just surprised. That’s all.”
In the blaring light of the rink, Chaney was even prettier than he remembered, yet the same with her high, ivory-pure cheekbones, beautifully arched brows, and bow-shaped lips. In a similar band as the little girl’s, Chaney’s nutmeg colored hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
He used to rest his cheek against her head just to feel those silky strands tickle his jaw, to breathe in her soothing scent—vanilla mingled with spicy citrus and flowers. That hadn’t been part of the routine, but their coach never complained because they got so many compliments about their chemistry on the ice. Maybe because his mind had always drifted to a different time and place, away from a father who dogged him about his skating, and into a glorious future with Chaney, where after they won the gold, they did exactly what she was doing now.
Foolish dreams. That’s what his father had called his skating, and as much as Conner hated to admit it, his father had been right. Dreams didn’t pay the bills, and—he glanced down at the grease staining his fingernails—it was foolish to think he could have a future with this beautiful, classy woman. He gave his head a little shake, dislodging the memories.
“Pete must have given you the key.”
“Yeah. He said I could use it whenever, but early morning fits in best with my work schedule.” He didn’t really need to point out that his dreams had been reduced to working part time at an automotive shop with his head buried under hoods instead of arching to the glimmering lights. Word got around quickly in a town this size, so she’d find that out soon enough.
“Oh.” Her gaze flitted to the girl again. Was that disappointment she was trying to hide?
“I guess we’ll be seeing more of each other then,” her voice came out barely above a whisper.
He met her gaze head on, trying hard to control that frizzle of excitement and anticipation that zinged through his veins at the thought of seeing her every morning, but not succeeding. “Looks that way.” He stole a lightning-quick glance at Chaney’s hand. No rings. He could do nothing to stop the rush of adrenaline that surged, almost painful in its intensity.
She reached down and scooped up the little girl, who wrapped her tights-covered legs around Chaney’s hips and stared at him with curious eyes.
The image in front of him couldn’t have been more beautiful, more exquisite, if heaven floated down to earth. So precious, he wanted to hang onto it forever. God, You’re killing me here. Skating, Chaney, now this…You’re making it impossible for me to think about leaving.
“This is my niece, Annabelle.”
“Ah. That’s why she looks so much like you. Hailey’s daughter?”
“Yeah. But I’m raising her since Hailey…” her voice trailed off.
What had happened with her sister? He waited, but she didn’t complete the sentence. “I bet you’re an awesome surrogate mother.” Was that the right term?
“Thank you. I try. I was so worried about getting to her last night.”
Realization smacked him across the face. “Wow. I’m sorry. I probably should have just hooked you up to the truck first and not wasted—”
Her hand reached out to land on his forearm, her touch feather light. “It’s OK. My mom was able to get to her. When I got home, Annabelle was already fed and in her jammies. And if it hadn’t been for you coming out in that storm, I might have had to spend all night in my car.”
At the mere mention of such a horrible scenario, his gut plunged to his skates.
But, obviously, she hadn’t needed him in all these years. She’d managed to take care of herself just fine without him.
“School, An Chaney?” Annabelle’s hands reached up and framed Chaney’s cheeks, forcing Chaney’s face and her attention back to the little one.
He chuckled.
Chaney’s hand left his forearm to cover Annabelle’s tiny hand. “Are you ready to go to school, sweetheart?”
Annabelle wagged her head, her eyes bright with excitement.
“Well, let’s go, then.” Her glance landed back on him as a dark shade of pink crept up her neck. “I guess we’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I’ll be here.” Not much would stop him.
She nodded
and set the little princess back on the ice. Grasping her hand, they skated to the sidelines, their similar ponytails swaying against their backs. Chaney shortened her strides to match Annabelle’s.
When Chaney assisted Annabelle off the ice, he exhaled. Imagine that. Chaney. Annabelle. Living in Evergreen Peak didn’t seem near as bad right now.
3
Conner twisted the jumbo garbage bag closed and hauled it to the back door, setting it next to the five others already stuffed and lined up against the wall. He had never realized how much junk was in this house. Had it been his dad or his mother who’d been a packrat?
Judging by the dates from the stacks of newspapers he’d tossed in the recycling bin, his father was the culprit, but then, his mom had been dead a long time, so maybe his father had already pitched most of her belongings. He wouldn’t put it past his father.
Brushing his hands, he made his way back into the family room. Nothing left in here but the furniture, a couple lamps, and the shabby area rug. Which room should he tackle next?
Since he didn’t have to work a shift today at the automotive shop, he should probably start on the second floor unfinished room that his parents had used for storage. He grabbed a couple empty trash bags, trudged upstairs, and flicked on the light.
He scanned the room. Boxes, stacked almost as high as the rafters, covered most of the floor space. Maybe he’d finally find some of his mother’s personal things in here. Pictures or jewelry or something to indicate that she’d lived here; tiny fragments of her life that he could hang onto.
He started in the first corner, slicing the tape holding the box tight, and lifted the lid. He reared back as if he’d been punched. Was that what he thought it was? Really?
He leaned in and peered at the fake silver tree. Its branches were all folded neatly towards the top, but yeah, this was the same tree his mom had put up in the family room faithfully every year, including the year she’d died.
But it couldn’t be. He’d chucked it out on the street. Christmas day. The day she’d died.
Gulping down the weighty emotion crawling up his throat, he scrubbed a hand across his jaw, the heavy stubble making a scratching noise, filling the dead space in the attic room.
He shoved that box aside and reached for another, slid the blade through the tape, and lifted the lid.
What? His breath squeezed through constricted lungs as he picked up the miniature wood manger, and then the baby Jesus. He stared into the box. The rest of the nativity scene, the one his great-great-grandfather on his mother’s side had carved, nestled inside.
So his dad had saved it after all these years? This, and the tree?
Air. He needed air.
With trembling fingers, he set the pieces on top of the box, making sure they were stable, and then stalked to the only window in the room and heaved it open. Late afternoon sunbeams warmed his chest as he stared at the snow covered yard and the bare limbs of the two white aspens reaching to the heavens. He lifted his gaze to the sky, untainted by clouds, azure and peaceful compared to the chaos from the storm of a few days ago.
God, is that what You’re trying to tell me? That I’m finally past the storm and can rest in Your peace?
****
Chaney hit the button, shutting down the car’s engine, and squinted through the darkness at the pickup truck in the driveway. It looked to be the same black pickup she’d seen parked outside the rink when she’d left with Annabelle the other morning. Conner must be inside.
She took a deep breath, willing up all her courage, and plucked the music player from the car seat. She’d seen Conner with one this morning. He’d left before class ended, and none of her students claimed it. It had to be Conner’s. Not like she made a habit of visiting handsome men in their homes, but she was willing to make an exception for an old friend.
Stuffing the player in her pocket, she marched to the front door, her finger poised to ring the bell, but then the door swung open, and there was Conner. All six foot plus, glorious hunk of man, the firmness of his legs and arms clearly evident through the thin material of his workout pants and long-sleeved tee. His subtle fragrance, wood and some kind of fruit, drifted her way with the cool breeze. His head was bent, his fingers gripping a trash bag.
Why was she standing on Conner’s doorstep at nine in the evening? This was a bad idea. Dangerous. Potentially hazardous to her heart. She gulped. The words she’d practiced in the car on the way here disappeared down her throat.
He plowed into her, pushing her backwards. She didn’t have time to respond.
His long arm wrapped around her waist, tugging her around so that his back landed hard against the snow. He grunted out an “Uumph.”
She landed on top of him, his cinnamon scented puffs of air stealing her breath more than the fall. “You need a bit more practice on the ice,” she teased, shifting against an unexpected weight on her back.
“You offering to give me lessons?” His intense blue eyes, showing no sign of humor, pinned her in place.
Even if the pressure on her back slid off, she couldn’t move away. “Would you like them?”
“Only if you’re the teacher.” His words came out soft, matching the vulnerable expression on his face, but belying the strength of his body beneath hers.
Had she heard him correctly or had the stiff breeze that whipped strands of hair across her face mangled his words? “That can be arranged.”
His arm tightened and his head inched closer, his eyes darkening, as the cinnamon scent grew stronger.
Anticipation blossomed in her belly and tingled from her toes all the way to her head, blooming and expanding until…an empty gallon jug landed on his head and bounced off.
He grimaced then chuckled. “Well that’s a first.”
The intensity of the moment shattered, she pushed away using his chest as a springboard.
Another “uumph.”
She stood, and all sorts of items tumbled to the snow. “What—”
“Cleaning out the house. I didn’t realize Dad was such a packrat.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” She picked up the trash bag and started scooping things back in, trying hard to ignore how he hoisted himself off the snow in one smooth athletic motion, but failing.
He took the trash bag out of her hands. “You don’t have to do this.”
“That’s OK. I’m responsible for this mess.”
He tossed some kind of ancient-looking metal contraption in the bag. “No. You’re not. I should have been paying more attention. I could have hurt you.” His head whipped around to study her. “Did I? Hurt you?”
Her heart did a little cartwheel at the concern in his gaze. “No. You’re the one who took the brunt of that fall. Just like…” Always. But she couldn’t finish her sentence. He’d always been so careful with their intricate lifts and jumps on the ice, vigilant in protecting her if the element didn’t go as planned. But “always” implied a future, didn’t it?
“Let me add this to the collection at the road. Go on in. Make yourself at home.” If he noticed her lapse in coherent dialogue, he didn’t mention it. He turned, trash bag firmly gripped in his hand.
“OK.” She didn’t argue. She hadn’t come dressed to frolic in the snow, and she surely wasn’t prepared to deal with any more intimate moments like that. She pushed the front door open and stepped inside the family room, the warmth blasting her cheeks, the soft music playing in the background calming her still-racing heart. She shrugged out of her coat and hung it on the rack beside the door, and then glanced around.
A sad-looking artificial Christmas tree, rather bare and sickly with only a few strings of lights draped around its silver branches, stood in one corner of the room. A couple boxes of ornaments cluttered the floor nearby. A Nativity scene, made up of antique hand-carved wood pieces, nestled on a table near the glowing fireplace, the only light in the room besides a tiny lamp. Cozy.
Maybe she’d have been safer staying outside. Her boots clomped against the
hardwood as she made her way to the table and scooped up the manger with the baby Jesus, cradling him in her palm. Someone had painstakingly carved—
A stiff breeze gusted into the room, and Conner stomped his shoes on the mat and closed the door behind him.
She twisted around, the manger in her hand. “Someone made this set. It’s absolutely beautiful.”
“Yeah. My mom’s great-grandfather.” He came near and picked up the wooden Mary. Appreciation gleamed from his eyes. “I can’t believe my dad still had it.”
“Why not? It’s an heirloom.”
“He wasn’t exactly sentimental.” Shaking his head, he set the piece in his hand on the table. “Where’s Annabelle?”
“Home. In bed. My mother’s there with her.”
“Well, I knew you wouldn’t leave her there by herself.” He grinned, his blue eyes dancing with humor and reflecting the flames from the fireplace. “Want some hot chocolate or coffee?”
“Coffee sounds divine. Thank you.”
“You got it.” He vanished, and suddenly the family room seemed ginormous and…cold.
But then he’d always had that effect on her. She gave her arms a brisk rub and stole another glance at the pathetic tree. He must have discovered that, as well. She attached a few more ornaments to the tired looking limbs and stood back. Yeah. It was looking a little…revitalized.
She knew the second Conner stepped back in the room. His warmth and energy preceded him.
“Wow! That tired old tree looks way better now. Must be the feminine touch,” he said, handing her a mug with steam hovering above the top.
“Thanks.” She blew on the hot liquid and sipped, peering at him over the rim.
He set his mug on the fireplace ledge and continued with the decorating. “I surely didn’t think I’d ever see this tree again.”
She took another sip, and then set the cup down, joining him by the tree. She picked up a bulb and attached it to a limb, waiting for him to continue.
