My grocery list is long. I invited Clarice, Brock, and Maysie to join us for Christmas Day dinner. They’ve been so good to me. I want to return the favor. In the morning, before the kids arrive, I’ll drive into town and start stocking up.
It’s a snowy Sunday afternoon and I’m wrapping presents in the living room when my cell phone rings. I think it’s in the bedroom. Sure enough, I find it hiding under a pillow.
It’s Beth. I haven’t talked to her in a few days. “Hey, stranger.”
“Savannah, how are you?”
Something in the way she asks the question makes me a little nervous. “Good, I think. Wrapping presents at the moment.” I sit on the edge of the bed and watch snow fall on the already white front lawn. “Are you okay? Everything all right at home?”
“Ye-ah. I guess. It’s a beautiful day here. Sunny, not too cold at all. No snow yet. I’m just looking out the window at your house . . .” She’s hedging. Something is definitely wrong.
“Beth? What? What’s wrong with the house?”
“Um, nothing’s wrong with the house. It’s just that, well . . . Kevin’s there.”
“What do you mean he’s there? Is she there? I swear if—”
“I mean he’s up a ladder fixing your broken shutters, and no, she’s not here. He arrived about an hour ago. Alone.”
“Oh.” I blow air through my lips. Unpleasant thoughts launch an attack. “Why is he doing that now? Those shutters have been off their hinges for over a year. Do you think he wants to put the house on the market? Oh great. That’s all I need. Maybe I’ll have to get a condo or something. Maybe he . . . Beth? What are you doing?” I hear her heels clicking on her wood floor and the squeak and slam of the screen door on her front porch.
“I’m standing here watching him. He’s beating the crap out of that nail.” She laughs. “He’s met with John a few times. Did you know that?”
“I heard.”
“Oh, he saw me. Hi, Kevin!” I can just picture her waving enthusiastically. “Whoops. He’s coming down.”
“Beth!” I do not like where this is going. Not. One. Bit. I roll my eyes and squash the urge to hang up. I want to know what he’s doing there first.
“Hey, Beth. Is that Savannah?”
“Yes, but I don’t think—”
“Give me the phone.”
“No.”
“Beth. Come on.”
There’s a bit of a struggle and I shake my head. They’re children, really.
“Savannah? Hey.” Kevin’s deep voice thrums in my ear, heads straight for my heart, and settles over it like a favorite forgotten blanket, found again after a long absence.
I stomp over that thought and strengthen my resolve. “What are you doing at the house, Kevin?”
“Fixing stuff. I had some time and I started thinking about all the things you’d been asking me to do and so I figured I—”
He’s rambling like he always does when he’s nervous. “Kevin . . . Kev. Stop. Why are you doing this now? Are you . . .” I don’t want to ask but I have to. “Are you thinking about putting the house on the market?”
“What?” He sounds as confused as I feel. “No. Of course not. I’m just . . . fixing stuff. You don’t mind, do you?”
Do I? “No, I don’t mind. As long as you stick to our agreement. I don’t want her over there.”
“What?”
“Alison. Remember? I told you before I left that I—“
“I know what you said.” He lapses into silence. “She’s not . . . uh . . . Have you talked to Zoe?”
“I talk to her every day. Why?”
“Um, okay. Well, I guess I did ask her not to . . .” He exhales and my mind is mulling over the million and one things he could possibly be thinking. “Hey, do you know where my good hammer is?” That was not one of them.
A giggle gets stuck in my throat. It isn’t funny, really, and I’m half embarrassed to tell him. “Under the bed.”
“Where?”
“In our . . . my bedroom. Under the bed. So is your baseball bat.”
“You’re not kidding.”
“No. You know I hate being alone in that house. It’s scary at night sometimes.”
“So you’re gonna attack somebody with my hammer?” Kevin lets out a long whistle, followed by low laughter that winds around me and pulls moisture from my eyes.
Oh, I miss my husband. I can see his face so clearly, it’s as though he’s standing right in front of me.
“I’d probably try the bat first.” Come to think of it, now that I know how to use a rifle . . . maybe I should get a gun. “I know how to shoot now.” I can’t help it. I’m proud of the accomplishment.
“Shoot what?”
“A gun. Brock taught me. Well, it was a rifle, I guess. But he says I’m a fast learner and a very good shot.”
Kevin makes a noise that sort of sounds like a growl. “Brock Chandler taught you how to shoot a rifle?” He doesn’t sound impressed. Or happy.
“Yes. He’s southern, remember?”
“Maybe you should get a dog.”
“I did.”
“What?”
“Well, she’s just a baby, but she’ll be big enough to come home with me soon. Brock’s dog, Willow, had puppies just after I got here. So I took one.”
“You took one. I see.” He sobers, clears his throat, and I imagine the look he gives Beth. I also imagine her face and know she’s going half-crazy standing there listening to only one side of the conversation. “You certainly seem to be spending a lot of time with Brock Chandler.”
“Do I?” My grin is without a doubt wicked but I don’t care. “Who I spend time with is none of your business anymore, Kevin.”
“Savannah.”
“You should probably give Beth her phone back. And don’t forget to set the alarm again when you leave the house.”
“I’m going to call you later.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. I might be out.” I hesitate. “With Brock.” I can’t resist the jab.
“Seriously?” There is definite panic in that question, and I have absolutely no idea why it is there. But part of me takes pleasure in knowing it is. In the same moment I’m regretting my words.
“Bye, Kevin.”
“Oh. My. Gosh.” Beth is back on the phone, laughing her head off. “Sweetie, what did you say to that poor man? He’s stomping back across the road like he wants to strangle the devil himself.”
Oops. “I told him I might be going on a date with Brock Chandler.”
“What?” Beth practically screams in my ear. “Why do you not tell me these things?”
“Because I’m not.” I sigh and flop backward onto the bed. “I just . . . I don’t know, Beth, it just popped out.”
“Girl, that’s just mean.”
“I know. I feel bad.” And I have no clue why. “Well, it’s not like Kevin wants me. Why shouldn’t I go out with Brock Chandler? Not that he’s asked, but if he did . . .” If he did I’d probably run for the hills. Maybe.
“You . . . don’t know, do you?” Beth’s voice gets quiet all of a sudden and I’m a little scared.
“Know what?”
“When did you last talk to Kevin, hon? I mean, other than just now.”
“It’s been a while, a few weeks. I don’t remember. Why?”
“Ah, John just pulled up. We’re going to the mall to get last-minute Christmas gifts. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Sure.” She’s gone and I groan. Loudly. I can’t let myself think about what she meant. I have too much to do.
Okay, back to wrapping. But of course all I can do is sit there and think about Kevin and the way things were . . .
“Close your eyes.” I jump as Kevin comes up behind me. He covers my eyes with his hands anyway so I don’t have a choice. It’s Christmas Eve, the kids are in bed, and I have no idea what time it is. I just finished placing the last present under the tree. Kevin has been down in the basement putting the final touches
on the dollhouse for Zoe and Shelby he’s been working on for weeks.
He propels me forward, stops, grabs something . . . a blanket? . . . He wraps it around my shoulders and I hear the back door opening. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He wraps his arms around me and presses his cheek against mine. “Okay. Open.”
Our back patio has been transformed into something magical. Twinkling white lights hang from new cedar planks above a gazebo where a brand-new hot tub sits, bubbling in merry invitation. A bottle of champagne and two glasses sit on the wooden deck, along with a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries and a vase filled with long-stemmed red roses.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I’m speechless. “When . . . How?”
“This afternoon. While you and the kids were at the mall. John and Beth came to help. You didn’t notice the blinds in the kitchen were closed when you got home?”
“Kevin, it’s Christmas Eve and we have three overly excited children. I’m not noticing much.”
“Well, they’re in bed now.” He growls low in my ear and slides his hands beneath my sweater. “So why don’t we try this baby out, Mrs. Barrington?” He spins me around to face him, his grin more than sexy. Sometimes I don’t know how I got so lucky.
“I don’t have a bathing suit on.”
His grin broadens as he puts his lips over mine. “Sweetheart, you don’t need one. In fact, the only thing you need to wear”—he steps back and forages in the pocket of his jeans—“is this.” He’s holding the most exquisite diamond ring I’ve ever seen. “Merry Christmas.”
I clap a hand to my mouth. “Oh my gosh, Kevin! What did you do?”
“When we got married I promised I’d get you a proper ring one day, remember?”
I do. We were so young back then, we could barely afford to pay rent, let alone worry about an engagement ring. Our parents loaned us the money for wedding bands, and we’d always said those were more important anyway.
“It’s stunning. I don’t know what to say.”
He smiles and slips it onto my finger, in front of my plain gold band. The brilliant cut glows under the sparkling lights above us. “Say you’ll love me forever, Savannah.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, meet his shimmering eyes, and nod. “I will.”
My phone rings again and startles me. It had better not be Kevin because I’m not ready to talk to him. Not yet.
“Savannah? Walter Kline.”
“Oh. Hi, Walter.” I go into the kitchen and flick on the kettle.
“Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, hon, but I’m flying out to Aspen for the holidays and I’m wondering what’s going on.”
“With?” I have to stand on tiptoe to reach the mugs. My mother is shorter than me and I have no clue why she insists on arranging her cupboards like she’s six feet tall.
“We haven’t received anything from Kevin’s lawyer. I called him on Friday and he says he’s gone over the agreement, but Kevin hasn’t signed the papers. Says Kevin told him the two of you might reconcile?”
“We might what? Reconcile? Kevin said that?” I just shrieked at Walter Kline. And broke another of my mother’s favorite mugs. At least now I know what to get her for Christmas. “Walter, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“So I gathered.” He chuckles, then sighs deeply. “Look, Savannah . . . sometimes a couple needs a break. Time to work things through. If Kevin hasn’t moved on this, I suggest you talk to him and find out why.”
“Yes. That’s probably a good idea.” Uh, no, it’s not. It’s the most terrifying idea anyone has ever suggested, and I want nothing to do with it.
The clock on the wall reads 4:00 p.m. Close enough to five. I open the fridge and pull out a bottle of chardonnay.
“Get back to me after the holidays. Okay, Savannah? And have a good one.”
“Thanks, Walter. You too.” My hands are trembling so badly I’ll probably break something else any minute. Like the wineglass I’m filling. To the brim.
My mind is swirling with a thousand unexpected thoughts, making me slightly dizzy. What in the world is going on?
Kevin must be having some kind of mental breakdown or midlife crisis. Well, that much is already abundantly clear. But it’s possible he’s crazier than I am. Which, right about now, would be pretty darn crazy.
I’m just about to sink onto the couch in front of the fire with my glass of wine when the doorbell rings. I’m so flustered I don’t even bother to put down the glass, just yank open the front door and stare into Brock Chandler’s dancing eyes.
His large frame fills my doorway and he looks every inch the southern gentleman in a sheepskin jacket and Atlanta Braves baseball cap. A light dusting of snow covers the black rim. He’s holding a tray laden with four small white ceramic pots each containing a red amaryllis in full bloom. His lips part in a lazy smile as his gaze rests on my glass and then on me.
“Well, I reckon it’s five o’clock somewhere.” His wink renders me speechless. Somehow I manage to move backward and allow him in.
“This looks bad, doesn’t it?” Not that I care right now. I take a long sip and give a sigh of satisfaction. “Those are beautiful.”
Brock strolls through my house and sets the cardboard tray on the kitchen table. “Clarice said they all bloomed this morning. I guess the heat’s working the way it should in there.”
“I had no idea they’d bloom so quickly. We only planted those bulbs a few weeks ago.”
“I suspect Clarice waved her magic wand over them when you weren’t looking.” He turns to face me and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket. His grin is wide.
“Right. But still.” I study the plants. “Weird.”
“It’s something. I have to admit, what goes on in that greenhouse is beyond the scope of even my imagination, darlin’.”
“Even yours?” I widen my eyes in mock surprise. “Now that’s saying something.”
“You haven’t been by the past few days.”
“No. Christmas kind of snuck up on me. I realized how much I had left to do.”
“Oh. Well. I missed you.”
He what? “Would you like a glass of wine? I probably shouldn’t drink alone.” I move past him in a hurry, off to find another glass, and I’m pouring him one before he’s even said yes.
“Why not.” Brock chuckles, hangs his coat and cap over a chair, and takes the glass with a grin. “I’m more of a beer guy, but when in Rome . . .”
“Precisely.” I raise my glass in salute. He follows me into the living room, and I’m strangely aware that my nerves have jacked up more than a notch.
He nods toward the vast array of colorful tubes of wrapping paper and the pile of presents sitting by the fake tree I hauled down from the attic yesterday. “Ah, the dreaded wrapping wars. No wonder you’re drinking.” He makes himself comfortable in a leather chair near the fire and kicks up the footrest. “Look at these paper cuts.” He holds up a hand. “I’m betting those elves don’t get paid near enough.”
“Slave labor. Speaking of elves, where’s Maysie?”
“On a secret mission with Aunt Clarice. And then they’re having dinner together in town. I wasn’t allowed to accompany them.” He doesn’t look at all upset about it.
“Should she really be driving at her age?”
Brock shrugs in that nonchalant way of his, his mouth curling in that grin I’ve decided should be illegal. “I put a few pillows on the front seat and rig the brake pedal. She does pretty good for a six-year-old.”
Wine fizzes up my nose as I choke on laughter.
He takes a sip from his glass, then sets it down on the coffee table and rests his hands behind his head. “I like watching you laugh.”
Okay then. I’m wondering if I can blame my flushed face on the fire and the wine. I blow out a breath and steady my gaze. This is Brock. We’re friends. What on earth am I nervous about?
We talk for a good hour, finish off the bottle of white,
forage the fridge for cheese and crackers and some fruit. He’s not much for sitting around apparently, because pretty soon he’s rebuilt the fire and we’re stationed on the floor in front of it and he’s teaching me how to play poker.
“That’s a flush, darlin’. Aces high. Which means you win.” His hand brushes over mine as he retrieves the cards I’ve just laid down. A tingle of electricity starts at the spot he just touched and shoots all the way up my arm and back down the other side, and my mouth suddenly feels like the Sahara.
“Another round?” He shuffles the cards like he’s working tables in Las Vegas, his dimple flashing far too dangerously. “Maybe we should raise the stakes. What do you think?”
There is no way he’s getting an answer to that question. “I’ll just . . . get some water.” I scramble out of there and take a couple of deep breaths. This is okay. Nothing is happening. We’re just . . . breathe . . . friends.
And, yes, I am fully aware how overused and ludicrous that statement is.
In the safety of the kitchen I fumble with a bottle of Perrier and wonder why I let Brock Chandler in here in the first place.
On my way out of the kitchen, I find him standing in the dining room over my open laptop. “Uh. Please don’t read that.”
The side grin he gives says it’s too late. I put the bottle and two tumblers on the table and slide my fingers through my hair. Brock gives a low whistle and sits.
“This is your blog? You’re Jane, right?”
“Original, I know.” Jane’s Journal. It was all I could come up with at the time, but it stuck. I sigh and sit beside him. No use hiding it now. I pour fizzy water, slide a glass his way, and take a long sip.
I watch him scroll through the various posts in silence. “You write well.” Finally, he pushes the laptop away and sets serious eyes on me. “Your last post was three weeks ago.”
I nod. “When I first started blogging, it was more about Shelby. About dealing with the loss of a child. It was a good thing. Maybe even a healing thing. But now . . . all I seem to do is vent. And my anger spreads faster than the flu.” I run my hands down my face with a groan. “I don’t think this is helping anyone. Least of all me.”
Where Hope Begins Page 12