Sweet Surprises

by Shirlee McCoy

  He’d thought he’d succeeded, but now, standing there with the recipe for Forever Kisses in his hand, he wasn’t so sure.

  It was a little past ten, the house sleeping soundly, the silence a relief after the chaos of moving Joe in. He was sharing a room with Huckleberry while the group home contacted a lawyer to find out if he could stay at the ranch permanently. River had been surprised at how eager they’d been to work things out to benefit Joe. Apparently, his housemother really cared and wanted what was best for him. It was up to the courts to make the final decision. In the meantime, Huckleberry had thought it was safer for the two of them to share a room. A better way to keep Joe from wandering was what he’d said.

  River had agreed, but he wasn’t sure how long it would last.

  In some ways, Joe was like a toddler, wandering around asking the same question over and over again. That would get old after a while, but for tonight the guys were quiet, Angel was locked in her room, and Belinda was sleeping soundly.

  River would have been smart to go to bed, too.

  He had a lot of long days ahead of him, a lot of big plans to see to fruition.

  Yeah, River was pretty damn sure his best option was sleep.

  But he’d never been one to take the easy road, and he’d never been one to turn away from something he wanted.

  He walked inside, locked the back door, and turned off the kitchen light. He grabbed his keys from the hook near the front door, the recipe card still in his hand, the list of ingredients kind of dancing through his head:

  A dash of humor.

  A pinch of patience.

  A tablespoon of truth.

  A cup of love.

  A pint of faithfulness.

  A gallon of commitment.

  Mix well and dust with laughter, sprinkle with tears, bake with friendship that lasts through the years.

  He’d learned a lot of recipes in his years as a chef. He’d created a lot of them, but he thought the one he was holding, the one he needed to return to Brenna, might just be the most delicious one of all.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brenna remembered the envelope, and the guy who’d given it to her, right around the time she’d messed up her twenty-fifth batch of fudge. She eyed the pan and the lumpy concoction she’d filled it with and wanted to cry. She seriously did.

  She also wanted to cart the entire mess out to the Dumpster and toss it in, pan and all. She lifted the pan and headed to the back door, digging in her apron pocket to be sure she had her keys. With the way the day had gone, she’d probably end up locking herself out.

  That’s when she felt the envelope. The one she’d been handed by the way-too-nosy guy. She pulled it out of her pocket, looked at the stark white paper, and felt that same little shiver of fear she’d felt when the guy had pulled it out of his pocket.

  When you see Willow, give her this.

  For some reason, those simple words had sounded like a threat. If Brenna hadn’t gotten so caught up in helping Angel and finding Joe and . . .

  River.

  Yeah. She’d been caught up in him, too.

  As a matter of fact, she’d wasted way too much time thinking about him, wondering if he’d made it back to the ranch, if he’d been able to keep Joe there a few more nights, if he was as tired as he’d looked when he’d walked away from her.

  She should have just called and asked.

  That’s what she should have done.

  But, of course, she hadn’t.

  She’d come back to the shop and sent May home, she’d filled dozens of orders, she’d made more candy, sold it, and repeated the process. The entire time, she’d been thinking about River.

  Now, though?

  Now, she was thinking about Willow.

  About the creepy guy.

  About the envelope and what it might contain.

  She grabbed the phone and dialed her sister’s number. At this time of night, Willow was bound to answer. Most other times of the day, she was in court or preparing for court, or building a case. If she wasn’t doing any of those things, she was spending time with her fiancé, Ken.

  But at night she was at home and usually not in bed.

  Not this time of night anyway. Willow was a night owl and a morning person. Which was kind of sickening if Brenna let herself think about it.

  She didn’t.

  Comparing herself to Willow was like comparing the moon’s tired glow to the sun’s blazing glory.

  “Great analogy,” she muttered as Willow picked up.

  “What’s that?” she said, her voice softer and gentler than either Brenna’s or Adeline’s.

  “Just talking to myself, Sis.”

  “Which means you’re stressed out.” As always, Willow cut straight to the point.

  “Why would I be stressed out?”

  “Because you’re in Benevolence working in Chocolate Haven, listening to Mom harp on your love life?”

  “Good guess,” Brenna said with a laugh, her gaze dropping to the envelope. “But I’m actually doing okay. Chocolate making isn’t as difficult as I thought.”

  “So you’ve got the magic, huh?”

  “What I’ve got is the burning desire not to fail again.”

  “When have you ever failed before?”

  “Plenty of times. Dan is a prime example.”

  “Dan’s the failure. Not you.”

  “That’s pretty much what River said.” The words slipped out before she realized she was saying them, and Willow was quick to pick up on them.

  “River?”

  “Maynard? You probably remember him from school.”

  “Of course I remember him. I just didn’t realize he was back in town.”

  “He’s helping Belinda Keech.”

  “I did hear she’d had a stroke. How is she?”

  “Getting better, but River is here to make sure she gets back on her feet.”

  “And you and River have been discussing Dan, huh?”

  “Not discussing exactly.”

  “Then what have you been doing?”

  “He’s been explaining his opinions.”

  Willow laughed, the sound light and easy. “Right. I’m sure that’s all that’s been happening.”

  “It is,” she lied, because she didn’t have the time or the energy to tell Willow everything.

  “Well, maybe it shouldn’t be. You’re young. You’ve got a lot of dreams left in you. You need to pursue them.”

  “Dreams? Since when am I the dreamer in the family?”

  “Since forever. It’s one of my favorite things about you. Me? All my dreams died a long time ago. Now I’m just trying to be content.” There was a hint of something in her voice: sadness, maybe. Or resignation.

  It hit Brenna in the heart because it had never occurred to her that Willow hadn’t pursued her dreams and hadn’t made them come true. “You’re not happy, Willow?”

  “Happiness is a relative term.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s the only one I have.” She sighed. “Listen, I may as well tell you now because you’re going to find out when I come home for my birthday. I broke up with Ken.”

  “No way!”

  “Yes way.”

  “Why? I thought you guys were . . .” Happy was on the tip of her tongue, but then she remembered what Willow had said and the word died away.

  “We were good together. He’s a good guy. Everything was just . . . good, but I’m in my thirties, Bren, and good just doesn’t seem like enough anymore.”

  “Mom is going to have a cow.”

  “She’s going to have two because I don’t want a party, and I plan on telling her that tomorrow.”

  “I already tried, Willow. She’s determined.”

  “I’m more determined. I hate parties. I’ve hated parties for a long, long time. I want to spend my birthday just being with people I really love, relaxing for a few days, maybe getting some of my energy back.”

  That really wor
ried Brenna.

  Willow always had boundless energy.

  Now she was tired?

  “Are you okay? There’s nothing wrong is there?” She lifted the envelope, her heart thudding painfully.

  “I’ve just been burning the candle at both ends lately and I need a break. Anyway, enough about me. There must be a reason for your phone call.”

  “Someone came into the shop today. A man.”

  “Men come into the shop all the time, Brenna.”

  “This guy was different. He was asking questions about the family. Specifically, about you.”

  Willow was silent for a moment. When she finally spoke, her words were clear and precise and absolutely devoid of any emotion. “What kind of questions?”

  “He wanted to know if you lived in town. I told him it was none of his business. Then he handed me an envelope and told me to give it to you when I saw you next.”

  “That’s . . . odd. Did he give his name?”

  “No.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Tall. Dark hair. Maybe in his midfifties.”

  “That could be a dozen different people I know.”

  “You want me to open the envelope?” Brenna asked, her heart still thudding against her ribs, her stomach churning. There was something very, very wrong here and she had no idea what it was.

  Willow hesitated again and then sighed. “Sure. Go ahead.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I won’t be in town for another month. By that time, whatever is in the envelope might be old news.”

  “Okay.” Her hand shook as she broke the seal.

  There wasn’t much in the envelope. Just a folded piece of paper. She pulled it out, unfolded it, a check falling to the ground.

  Surprised, she stooped to pick it up.

  “Well?” Willow demanded. “What is it?”

  “A letter and a check.” She looked at the number on the check, the dollar amount with so many zeroes she wasn’t sure she was reading it correctly.

  “Good God,” she whispered, and she thought she heard Willow’s breath catch.

  “What?” she said. “What is it?”

  “Twenty thousand dollars.” She read the letter, just a few stark words that made no sense. “The letter says, ‘Silence is golden. Happy birthday.’ No signature. The check was printed by a company. It says—”

  “Burn it,” Willow barked, the words so sharp, Brenna wasn’t even sure it was her sister speaking them.

  “What?”

  “Burn the damn thing.”

  “Willow!” Brenna protested, shocked by her sister’s attitude. Willow never lost her cool, she never swore, she never made rash decisions or said things she might regret.

  “Brenna, I mean it. If I find out that check and letter are still around when I get there, or if I find out you said one word to anyone about this, I swear I will never forgive you.”

  “Will—”

  “I mean it. Promise me you’ll burn it. Promise me you won’t say a word to Mom or Adeline or Granddad.”

  “I promise,” she said, because she couldn’t not say it.

  “Okay. Good. Thanks. I’ll see you in a few weeks.” Her voice broke and Brenna stomach’s lurched, her body icy cold with fear for her sister. Willow never cried, but she was crying now.

  “Willow, what’s going on?” she tried to say, but Willow hung up.

  Brenna dialed her number, the check in her hand, the letter somehow on the floor.

  Willow didn’t answer.

  Not the first time. Not the second. Not the third.

  Brenna slammed the phone into the cradle, tore through drawer after drawer until she found a candle and a book of matches.

  Her hands were shaking, but she still managed to strike the match and light the wick.

  She burned the check first, smoke filling the kitchen and setting off the alarm. She dragged a chair across the room, climbed on it, yanked the alarm from the ceiling, and tossed it into the hall.

  Then she returned to the candle, making sure every last piece of the check had been turned to ash.

  She didn’t realize she was crying until a tear dropped onto the flame. It sputtered, relit itself, and she grabbed the letter and tore it into three pieces, still crying. She wasn’t sure why.

  This was Willow’s thing, but it felt like hers.

  It felt like she was failing again. Her sister this time, because she couldn’t get her to pick up the phone, and she couldn’t call anyone in the family for advice because she’d damn well promised she wouldn’t. She’d tied her own hands and now she couldn’t help someone she loved more than she’d ever loved Dan, her modeling job, the money she’d earned walking runways all over Europe.

  She held the first torn piece of paper over the flame, the fire licking her finger as it devoured the letter.

  She yanked her hand back, the tears coming even harder, the disconnected alarm beeping, the air hazy from smoke and filled with the scent of chocolate and marshmallow and dead dreams.

  Someone knocked on the back door.

  She ignored it, grabbing the second piece of paper and holding it over the candle.

  Next thing she knew, the person was rapping on the window.

  “Damn it, red,” River shouted through the glass. “Open the door or I’m going to break the window and climb in.”

  He meant it.

  She knew it just like she knew that whatever she was burning was a secret her sister had to bear, a burden only Willow could carry, one that all the burning in the world couldn’t rid her of.

  She unlocked the door and opened it, cold air sweeping in. And then River was there, looking at the paper she was holding, the candle and ashes on the counter, the fudge everywhere, and her face, which she knew was smeared with chocolate and smoke and tears.

  He touched her cheek, her chin, looked into her eyes for a heartbeat, and then he pulled her into his arms, so gently, so sweetly, she cried even harder.

  * * *

  River stood there for a long time, cold air sweeping across his back, Brenna’s hot tears soaking his shirt.

  He didn’t speak because he didn’t think Brenna could.

  Sometimes there were no words for pain. Sometimes the hurt was so deep, the wound so raw, no amount of talking could mend it.

  He smoothed his hand up her back, kissed her temple, and waited. There was nothing else he could do, nothing else he wanted to do but be there for her.

  A candle flickered on the counter, the flame sputtering and dying. Next to it, a torn piece of paper fluttered into the sink. Brenna had been burning something, a small singed scrap of it still in her injured hand, her other hand clutching his shirt.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath, tried to step away, but he held her in place, his hands on her slim waist.

  “There’s no rush,” he said quietly.

  “I need to finish,” she said, her voice hoarse, her eyes red-rimmed.

  “Tell me what needs to be done. I’ll do it for you.”

  “No. I promised.” She stepped around him, closed the door against the wind.

  “Promised who?”

  “Willow.” She relit the candle, held the singed paper over the flame. It blackened and curled, but she didn’t release it until it was nothing but ash.

  “You’re going to get burned,” he cautioned, but she’d grabbed the scrap out of the sink and was repeating the process.

  He watched as the last bit of white turned to dust; then he blew out the flame, pressed Brenna into a chair.

  “Sit.”

  “I don’t have time. The kitchen is a wreck and I can’t make the fudge, and tomorrow will be here before I know it.”

  “Tomorrow will be here whether the kitchen is a mess or the fudge is made. When it comes, it will be good if you’re well enough to be here for it.” He grabbed a glass from a cupboard and filled it with water, then handed it to her.

  “Thanks.” She took a sip, set it on the counter next to
the candle. “I’m sorry about your shirt.”

  He shrugged. “Tears wash out.”

  “It’s the soot I’m worried about.” She stood, her gaze sweeping the room. “Who’d have thought a check and a piece of paper could cause so much smoke?”

  Her voice was shaky, but the tears had stopped.

  “What happened, Brenna?” he asked, and she shook her head.

  “I promised Willow.”

  “Promised what? That you’d burn the shop down?”

  She laughed shakily. “Wouldn’t that have been something?”

  “Not if you’d been in it.” He tilted her chin, looked into her eyes. “What did you promise, Brenna? Whatever it is, you can trust me with it.”

  “Trust isn’t an easy thing when you’ve been betrayed a few million times.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” he asked, and he saw the moment she understood, saw it in her eyes—that quick connection, the realization that their stories weren’t all that different.

  “A man came into the shop. He asked me to give something to Willow.” She paced to the candle and then into the hall, where a smoke alarm was beeping. She was nervous. He could see that, but he was willing to wait her out.

  He watched while she took the battery out of the fire detector.

  “I’m probably going to have to get a new one. I tossed it pretty hard.”

  “I’ll get one for you in the morning,” he said, and she met his eyes, smiled.

  “You shouldn’t be so perfect, River.”

  “I’m not even close,” he said.

  “And yet here you are, standing in my wreck of a kitchen, your shirt stained with soot because I cried all over it. It seems like every time I need you, you’re there.”

  “Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be?”

  “I . . . don’t know. I never had anything like this before.” She used a dish rag to brush soot off the counters, ran water into the sink to wash it out, and then turned to face him again. “The thing the man gave me? It was an envelope with a note and a check in it. Twenty thousand dollars, River. That’s a heck of a lot of money.”

  It was, but he stayed silent, just watching her face as she cleaned soot off the cupboards, swept it off the floor. Finally, she finished, the counters and cupboards gleaming, her hand stained black.