“You haven’t been completely miserable so far working at A Warrior’s Hope, have you?”
“Not completely.”
She rolled her eyes at the heavy emphasis he placed on the word, as if he had been mostly miserable but had somehow endured.
“I’m asking in all seriousness,” she said. “I don’t want you to hate it. If you don’t think you can stand it, I’m sure Spence could work with the court system to find somewhere else for you to fill your communityservice hours. The legal system probably doesn’t care where you do it, as long as you fill the requirements. You could maybe even do something else at the recreation center without us having to go through the system. Sign out basketballs or something.”
He gave her a long look. “I love you, sis. You know I do. But if I live to be two hundred years old, I will never understand you.”
She made a face. “Why do you say that?”
“From the minute you and Smoke came up with the crazy idea for A Warrior’s Hope, you’ve been nagging me to help. How many times did you come up to my place to bug me about it?”
“A few,” she muttered.
“More than a few, as I recall. I do believe it’s come up every time I’ve seen you in the past six months. You finally got what you wanted, with the help of a little blackmail and one night of stupidity, and now you’re trying to weasel out of the deal.”
“I am not weaseling out of anything! I want you there. I just…don’t want you to feel forced.”
Siblings could drive a guy crazy like no one else. He sighed. “I was forced. We both know it. I didn’t have a choice in the matter. Not really. I can’t say I’m thrilled to be volunteering there, but now that I’m into it, I don’t want to switch canoes midstream. Change skis halfway down the hill. Whatever metaphor you want to use. I just want to finish my obligation and be done with it so I can go back to my mountain.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re sticking it out. I’m sorry you’ve been stuck with Genevieve the first two days. Once the session starts next week, I’ll make sure the two of you aren’t always assigned the same jobs.”
He wanted to tell her not to do that, that he didn’t really mind working with Gen, but he had a feeling Charlotte would be quick to misconstrue any such claim.
“Whatever,” he said, in what he hoped was a casual tone.
To his relief, one of the twins—Patrick’s teenage boys who were almost as tall as Dylan—came in to grab a soda out of the refrigerator and ended the conversation.
Dylan managed to stick it out for another hour, until Pop opened all his presents, before the noise and crowd started to press in on him. He found his coat in his parents’ old bedroom and shrugged into it, then went in search of Tucker. Last time he checked, the old dog had been blissfully getting the love from Maggie, Peyton Gregory and Eva, Drew and Erin’s daughter.
They were still there, unfortunately, which meant he couldn’t quietly slip away.
“Tuck, come on. Home. Sorry, girls.”
The dog gave him a disgruntled look but lumbered to his feet and padded over to him.
“You can’t be leaving already,” Dermot protested. “You haven’t had dessert. Erin made a cake and I baked a huckleberry pie just for you.”
Since his father didn’t even know he was coming,
He doubted that, but he didn’t want to argue with the man on his birthday.
“I’ll take some home, if you don’t mind, but I should really head up the canyon before the storm hits.”
He had a garage just off the main road where he stored a snowmobile for those times the snow was too deep for his pickup until he plowed, but he would rather not have to use it. Beyond that, the canyon road to his house was twisty and could be tough to navigate in bad conditions, especially when his night vision and nocturnal driving skills weren’t the greatest with only one working eyeball and one hand.
“I don’t know why you have to live clear up there by yourself, especially in the winter,” his father said. “I’ve all these empty bedrooms, you know. And what’s more, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss that rascal hound of yours.”
“I like it up there,” he answered quietly. “Even in the winter. When it snows, the silence is absolute.”
Dermot looked at him for a long moment then gave a smile tinged with sadness. “I told myself I wouldn’t badger you about it. I know you find peace up there and I understand it. But I’m your father. It’s my job to worry, especially with winter upon us.”
His father would worry in the middle of a blazing summer afternoon. That was just who he was.
“Don’t fret about me, Pop. I’m fine. Better every day. Thanks for dinner.”
“Stop a minute in the kitchen so I can ready your pie.”
He followed his father and leaned against the counter while Dermot set a large piece in one of the café’s to-go boxes he always kept at home for the family to package leftovers.
“Thanks,” he said when Pop finished, but to his surprise, Dermot slid another piece of the pie in a second box. “I’m sure you won’t mind doing a favor for your old man on his birthday.”
“What kind of favor?” he asked, wary at the sudden crafty look in his father’s eyes.
“Oh, not much. I’d like you to drop a piece of that huckleberry pie to your Christmas-tree-decorating friend Genevieve. Her grandmother’s house is right there at the mouth of the canyon, isn’t it? It’s on your way home. Won’t be any trouble at all.”
“Pop. Really?”
“I’ll have you know, Genevieve loves my pie. She stops into the diner for a slice whenever she’s in town from her travels. She even brought that troublemaking fiancé of hers in before she had the good sense to drop him. I never liked him, I can tell you that.”
Dermot closed the lid of the box and tucked in the tab closure. “You’ll take it for me, won’t you? I’ve a feeling she could use a bit of cheering up. From what I hear, she and her family are on the outs. That can’t be easy on a young lady during the holidays.”
Had Charlotte been talking to Pop? Or had Dermot picked up some kind of hint while the conversation had revolved around Genevieve that Dylan’s feelings for the woman were a big, tangled mess?
He should say no. That would be the wisest course. He could use the weather as an excuse, even though he knew he had a few hours before the storm was supposed to even start.
On the other hand, what would it hurt? He could stop by, say hello, drop off the pie and be on his way in only a few moments.
Besides, after listening to her ramble on about the horrors of her grandmother’s house, he was more than a little curious if the place was as bad as she said.
“Yeah. Sure. I can take her a slice of pie.”
“While you’re at it, you might as well take her some of the mashed potatoes and roast beef, as well. She can warm it for her dinner tomorrow.”
She had to say, she had spent more pleasant Sunday nights.
Removing layer after layer of hideous wallpaper from the dining-room walls was a much more arduous task than she’d expected. In her home-improvement naïveté, she had expected the steamer machine she had rented from the hardware store would make everything sheer away, ripple after ripple of ugliness, but the reality wasn’t nearly as cheerful.
After three hours of work, her arms ached, her hair was a frizzy mess and she had only finished one depressingly minuscule section of wall.
“Come…on…and…move!” she muttered, trying to budge the massive buffet where Grandma Pearl had kept her best china. She only needed to push it away from the wall a few feet but even that seemed an impossible undertaking.
She drew in a deep breath and shoved with all her energy. It moved about an inch at the same moment, ironically, that the “Hallelujah Chorus” doorbell rang out through the house.
She froze, muscles twitching. Oh, she hoped that wasn’t her parents, stopping in for a pleasant visit. In the mirrored top to the buffet, she caught her reflection. It wasn’t p
retty. A fine sheen of moisture clung to her skin. The hothouse humidity in here from the steamer had contributed to most of it, along with a considerable amount of perspiration.
Her hair was coming out of the pony holder she had shoved it into and any makeup she had applied earlier that day had long ago dripped away.
Maybe it was the Angel of Hope, the mysterious benefactor in Hope’s Crossing who went around doing nice things for people. Paying utility bills, delivering bags of groceries, leaving envelopes of cash for needy families.
Maybe the Angel was dropping off some miraculous gift to help her finish de-wallpapering.
Not likely.
The doorbell rang again. She pushed a bedraggled strand of hair out of her eyes, fiercely tempted to ignore the summons. How could she possibly face anybody in her current situation? She could just imagine her parents’ reaction if they unexpectedly came calling on her.
She could hide out in here. On the other hand, every light in the house was on, music was blaring and the curtains were open. Whoever it was could probably hear her and see movement through the windows.
With a sigh, she found the remote to turn down the speakers, wiped her sticky hands off on a rag and headed to the door.
Grandma Pearl didn’t have anything as modern as a security peephole, though she did have a chain. Genevieve pulled the door open just wide enough to see who was sending Handel chiming through her house—and just about fell over.
A girl could use a little warning about these things. When she considered all the people she might have expected to see on the other side of the door, Dylan Caine wouldn’t have even made the list. Yet there he was, looking completely gorgeous in the light from her porch, dark and forbidding.
He had a couple of boxes of what looked like takeout from his dad’s café in his hand, she noticed through her shock as she fumbled with the chain and opened the door wider. For some reason, she thought he looked completely uncomfortable to find himself on her doorstep.
So why was he here?
Though his ranch coat hung on his frame as if he’d lost weight since he bought it, he still had rather delicious muscles. She had noticed that while they were working together at A Warrior’s Hope.
She glanced behind her at the dining room and then back at him, making an instant decision she had a feeling she would regret.
“What a coincidence. You’re just the guy I need right now.”
She grabbed his arm and dragged him across the threshold then closed the door behind him against the December cold that hung heavy with impending snow.
“Am I?” He blinked a little, though she didn’t know if he was trying to adjust to the light or her enthusiasm. Okay, maybe she had been too hasty. She suddenly remembered how awful she must look, bedraggled and damp.
She pushed it away. If she wanted to finish this project, she didn’t have room to let vanity stand in the way. “Yes. I desperately need a hand.”
He held up both arms, including the empty sleeve. “Yep. I’m your guy, then.”
She made a face. “You know I meant it as a figure of speech. What I really need is a strong back. I’m trying to move a piece of furniture that I swear feels like it’s bolted down. Can you help me?”
He looked back at the door and then at her. “I guess I can spare a minute.” He held out the boxes in his hand. “Where would you like this? I just came from Sunday dinner with my family and my pop wanted me to drop off some leftover roast beef and mashed potatoes for you. Don’t ask me why. I have no idea. And pie. Huckleberry. He says it’s your favorite.”
She gazed at the boxes, her stomach rumbling a little at the realization that she hadn’t eaten since a late breakfast.
“How kind,” she exclaimed. Her insides completely dissolved into soft, gooey warmth—whatever hadn’t already melted from three hours with a wallpaper steamer. “You know, I would marry your father if he were a few years younger.”
His mouth quirked just a little. Not quite a smile, but close. “Apparently, he’s quite fond of you, too. Who knew? He might even marry you back, if he wasn’t already head over heels in love with Katherine Thorne.”
“Katherine? Really?” She thought of the elegantly proper city councilwoman who used to own Claire McKnight’s bead store.
Katherine’s granddaughter Taryn had been severely injured in a car accident a few years ago, a passenger in a truck driven by Genevieve’s brother, Charlie. Charlie had been drinking when he climbed behind the wheel, and the ripple effect of that one decision had affected countless lives.
Even before the accident, Genevieve had always had the vague feeling Katherine disliked her. Perhaps she was someone else who only saw her as a brainless, snobbish debutante.
“I hadn’t heard they were dating,” she said now to Dylan.
“Oh, they’re not. As friendly as he might be to customers at the café, Pop is actually on the shy side when it comes to women. He might get around to asking her out before they’re both in their seventies.”
She smiled. These little flashes of Dylan’s sense of humor always seemed to take her by surprise.
“If it doesn’t work out between them, I’ll be waiting to snatch him right up,” she said. “I’ll just take this in the kitchen for dinner later. Leave your coat on the chair there.”
He obeyed with a faintly amused look and followed her into the kitchen. As she placed the takeout containers in the refrigerator, he took a good look around at the harvest-gold, severely outdated appliances, the cheap dark cabinets, the orange-patterned carpeting— ew!—on the floor.
“Didn’t I warn you it was hideous?”
“It’s not so bad.”
She stared at him. “To somebody used to living out of a tent in the desert, maybe.”
He again had that faint smile, that tiny easing of his harsh features. She found it amazing how that slight shift in his expression could make him so much more approachable.
“It has four walls and a window, anyway,” he answered. “And electricity.”
“Don’t forget running water. I guess you’re right. Why would I need to change a thing?”
This time his smile was almost full-fledged. That smile was a dangerous thing, only because it made her want to wring it out of him, again and again.
“If I had my way, I would like to gut the whole thing and start over. Travertine countertops, stainless-steel appliances, custom cherry cabinetry. Unfortunately, my budget for this entire house project is minuscule to nonexistent. I can afford new paint for some of the rooms but that’s about it.”
“Don’t you have some designer purses or last season’s clothes you could sell online?”
As she hadn’t expected to be forced to live here for weeks on end, she had left most of her things at her apartment in Paris. She supposed she could have a friend ship them over or liquidate there but she would need them when she was ready to return to her life in Le Marais.
Of course, she did have her little side business nobody knew about, the purses she had started sewing for fun.
She had started making them as a bit of a joke. Her friends in Paris had loved them and on a whim one night she had had a few extras delivered to Maura McKnight’s bookstore, just to see if she could sell them.
To her shock, the first order of a half dozen had sold within a week and Maura had written a letter to her mystery supplier, seeking more.
Gen had sent her ten more and they had also sold out. She had decided she should stop there, though Maura had sent multiple letters to the PO Box she had forwarded to her in Paris, requesting more.
She would have to sew all day and all night for weeks and sell everything she made in order to earn enough profit to even afford a square yard of travertine countertop.
“I’m going to have to be content with doing what I can to freshen the place up on a shoestring. I really don’t know why I’m bothering. Whoever buys it will probably tear the whole place down to build some mega vacation house anyway.”
She l
ooked around at the kitchen, so familiar to her from her childhood, and a little sadness seeped through her. Despite the aesthetic affront, she had many pleasant memories of her grandmother here.
When she was young, she used to stay overnight with Pearl. Her grandmother would make her luscious hot chocolate with whole milk and chocolate chips— oh, the calories!—and they would watch game shows and try to beat each other to the answers.
Pearl had taught her how to sew at this very kitchen table, on her old Singer. She’d made aprons and hot pads and even a few wraparound skirts that had been quite cute.
She pushed away the memories that clung like cobwebs.
“Come on. I’ll show you where I need help.” She led the way to the dining room next door.
He looked around at the section she had worked on and the curls of wallpaper scrapings that littered the floor. “This looks fun.”
“I don’t know why Grandma Pearl was compelled to change her wallpaper every other week. And of course, she didn’t bother to take off what was underneath— she just slapped up another layer. I swear, every time she changed her hair color, she decided to change the walls, too.”
He chuckled a little, and the rough sound sizzled along her nerve endings.
“So where do you want the buffet?”
“I just need to push it a few feet from the wall into the middle of the room so I can work behind it. The two of us should be able to manage it, don’t you think?”
He looked a little doubtful and held up his empty sleeve. “Keep in mind, one of us has a little bit of a liability.”
She frowned. “Why do you always feel as if you have to point that out?”
“I don’t,” he said. A little defensively, she thought.
“You’ve mentioned it twice since you showed up on my doorstep five minutes ago. Do you think I’m going to forget? I know you lost an arm, Dylan. That doesn’t mean I think the rest of you is worthless.”
As soon as she said the words, she wished she hadn’t. His eyes widened and he looked as if she’d just smacked him in the back of the head with the wallpaper steamer. He must think she was an idiot. She really, really hoped he didn’t pick up the signs that she had developed a serious crush on him.
Christmas In Snowflake Canyon Page 13
