“Aren’t you going to lock it, again?” Dylan asked, falling into step behind his friend.
“Nuh. Everyone’s off the mountain or held up in the lodges. Snow’s coming. Haven’t you heard?” Tom glanced over his shoulder. “Besides, I’m expecting someone.”
Tom led Dylan into the bar section of the restaurant where he grabbed the good bottle of whiskey off the top shelf. He dropped two napkins embossed with a moose munching on a corn stalk on the spotless wooden bar and then poured two fingers of the amber liquid into a pair of mugs. Angleman had a rule—no man drank alone. “So are going to tell me what’s wrong? Some woman turned you down?” He topped the whiskey with coffee and slid a mug across the bar. “Here you go.”
“Just the opposite. Tried to turn me on and then I turned her down.” Dylan slipped off his parka and tossed it on the barstool next to him. Wearily, he slid onto the barstool and cupped his chilled hands around the steaming cup Tom had placed on the ivory napkin. He took a sip and relished the heat coating his tongue and finding its way to his stomach. “Thanksgiving is on my mind.”
“Thanksgiving was two weeks ago.” Tom chuckled. “It’s history.”
“Yeah. And it was a disaster.”
“Hey,” Tom’s mug thudded against the bar’s top. “You and the kids ate here.”
Dylan shook his head and smiled. “It wasn’t the food. The food was good.”
“Good is okay, I guess.” The big guy perched his lips and shrugged. “The years I spent at culinary school weren’t totally wasted.”
“Come on. Don’t give me shit. You know what I mean. Thanksgiving wasn’t the same for the kids. They’re used to the big family get together.” He arched his hands in the air, signifying the grandeur of the family dinner. “Elizabeth always made this huge feast and Bob would act as the host with the most. Afterwards, they’d all pile in the hay wagon and head out to the Mini-Moose Point to find the perfect Christmas tree.”
“You make it sound like Bob and Elizabeth had Norman Rockwell holidays.”
“They did. Everyone was sloppy happy.”
Tom swallowed a gulp of coffee, licked a droplet from his lips and sat the mug down with a thud. “I’ll let you in on a secret.” He waggled a finger at him. “The perfect holiday, like the perfect meal, is a myth.”
“Not according to the Jillian and Katy.”
Tom’s brow shot north on his wide forehead. “They’re kids. What do they know?”
“I don’t know. They’re pretty damn smart. They’ve taught me a few things over the past few months.”
“Well, they’ve only had what—six or seven Christmases’ to compare anything to? Wait until they have thirty-some behind them, like us. Then they’ll know holidays are not perfect.”
Dylan mulled Tom’s philosophy over for a few seconds while he sipped the hot liquid. His toes were finally warming. “I think Elizabeth and Bob made a mistake leaving the kids in my care. Maybe they should’ve sent them off to Scottsdale to be with Elizabeth’s parents. Or let them travel the country with Mom and Dad.”
Tom’s hearty chuckle echoed through the bar. “Oh, I’m sure the kids would’ve had a perfect holiday either way. No snow in middle Arizona and I hear the Baker’s nanny is real nice.” His brow furrowed. “Why do the Bakers have a nanny anyway? Elizabeth left home fifteen years ago.”
“They have very special pets.”
His friend waved Dylan off before he could go into more detail. “It does matter. And if they were with your parents… Now, don’t take this the wrong way. I love Gray and Lilac. They’re a hoot. The girls could mingle with radical groups and decorate the interior of the mini-van with peace emblems and tie-dye reindeer or elves. Both scenarios sound like every little girl’s dream Christmas. Don’t you think?”
Picking up his mug, Tom poked a finger at him. “Besides the fact that Jillian and Katy adore you and you them, your brother and Elizabeth decided to leave their children with you and not with either set of grandparents, or any other relative, for many reasons. The kids belong on this mountain, just like you. It’s their home. Elizabeth and Bob knew they could trust you to take care of them while they’re off serving our country. They’re safe, fed, loved and surrounded by friends they’ve known all their lives. You’re doing a good job, so stop being an ass-wipe and stop beating yourself up.”
Tom could be a damn psychologist. “You’re right. But, if you had seen the girls’ smiles turned into frowns when they came downstairs on Thanksgiving morning and they didn’t smell a bird cooking in the oven, you’d know how I feel. Then like a stupid idiot,” he continued, despite a tightening jaw, “I told them we were going out to eat and afterwards I had to go to work. Like it was any other day. But it wasn’t any other day. It was fuckin’ Thanksgiving. I felt like I’d failed them. Their expressions nearly ripped my heart out.”
He down the last swallow of Irish coffee and pulled a breath in behind it, before squaring his shoulders. “Christmas is going to be rough for them, with their mom and dad so far away. They’ve never been apart from each other. Somehow I need to make the holiday special.”
“Get them a pair of kittens. I think Amos Knittle mentioned their cat had a litter a few weeks back. You know Amos. The town clerk. Little girls love kittens.”
“No.”
“A puppy?”
“No more pets. I trip over the girls’ rabbit now. They hate seeing Buzzy in a cage. The rabbit thinks he’s a dog. He follows them around. I never saw a rabbit that liked to be held and brushed as much as this one does.”
“Okay.” Tom scratched his chin. “I can help. I’ll make a holiday feast and bring it out to the house. The local fire company volunteers would appreciate you not attempting to cook something new.”
Hearing Batmen’s hearty chuckle, Dylan’s spirits lifted. A smile pulled at his lips. “Funny. Thanks for the offer, but I can’t ask you to do that. You have your hands full here. You’re open on Christmas, right?”
“Yeah, the mountain doesn’t shut down, so neither do I.” He grabbed the whiskey bottle and placed it back on the shelf. “Look, what’s the difference if you eat my food here or at your own table?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I sort of would like to make dinner on my own. Let the girls help. Make it a family event. I was thinking of making something Elly made for them, like her Flaming Maple Salmon. The girls asked for it several times—whenever I’ve made them tuna sandwiches for dinner.”
“Whoa, I have one friend who is getting over a fire loss this week and holding it together by a mind thread. I don’t need another one.”
“Knock it off. I’m not that incompetent in the kitchen. Who—”
Tom’s cell rang and he snatched it off his belt. “Hold that thought,” he said, holding up an index finger, and then spoke into the phone. “Hey. Where are you? Great. The door’s open. I’m in the bar.”
The guy’s face beamed as he laid the phone down on the polished wood. “I’m glad you stopped in tonight, buddy. I want you to meet someone special. She’s going to be staying with me for a week. Hopefully longer.”
Surprise cocked his brow. He really didn’t feel in the mood to meet anyone, but Tom hadn’t mentioned a woman before and his curiosity level shot toward the rafters twenty feet above. “You have a woman?”
“A friend. You’re going to love her.” Angleman’s eyes lit up as they lifted over his head and the guy’s grin stretched from dimple to dimple. “Here she is. Hi, sweetheart. My God, look at you.”
As his friend circled the bar, Dylan swung the bar stool around, meeting the sparkling green eyes of the woman entering the room. His stomach did a backflip. Never in his wildest dreams would he have guessed quiet Tom, the burly giant who spent ten hours every day slaving over the food he prepared for customers and another six hours serving it, would have the time or the energy to find a woman as gorgeous as the one that walked toward them.
“I almost didn’t recognize you.” Tom hoisted her small frame in
to a bear hug and whirled her around.
“I know.” She laughed. “It’s been a long—”
Dylan slid off the chair, admiring the women’s long, auburn waves. Her leather coat shifted up on her hips to her trim waist as she laced her arms around Tom’s stump of a neck, offering Dylan a nice view of her heart-shaped rear end encased in designer jeans. She stood on tiptoe to peck Tom’s cheek, leaving a nice full mark of wine-colored lipstick behind.
“I finally convinced you to visit,” Tom cooed, smiling down at her.
“You’re the only one I’d drive through hell freezing over to see.” She pinched the man’s cheek with long fingers without a bit of nail polish. “Oh, it’s so good to see you. I’ve missed you,” she purred in a southern accent that made Dylan’s male hormones spike even higher.
Tom’s blue eyes twinkled like old St. Nick pictured in Katy’s Christmas storybook.
Dylan wondered when and how the pair had met. If he’d seen this girl in Black Moose Ridge before, he surely would have noticed her.
“I’m glad you listened to me,” Tom said, lifting her up against his barrel chest again. She looked like an oversized rag doll in the man’s embrace. “It’s been way too long.”
“I agree. A year is way too long.” She struggled to touch her leather-clad toes to the plank floor.
Okay, so their relationship was long distance. That would explain why he’d never seen her before. Still, Angleman never mentioned her. They’d been friends for over five years, ever since Tom moved to the mountain, bought the oldest structure in the small village and began work on The Lone Grist Mill restaurant.
“Ah, hum.” Dylan coughed, tired of being the proverbial third wheel during the joyous reunion.
Tom’s grin wilted only to a respectful level as the petite woman slid to the floor. “Sorry, buddy. Darcy, this is my friend Dylan Kincaid. Dylan, Darcy Witherspoon.”
A name like that sounded like a lot of very old money, and, again, he wondered where the two had met and what they had in common. Angleman was a working stiff—a self-made man.
She straightened her sweater under her jacket. Then she righted her leather coat over her full breasts and the scarf draping her neck, before pulling off her leather gloves and offering her right hand to him. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Kincaid.”
There was strength behind the softness of her grip. “Dylan. Call me Dylan.”
She batted long lashes at him and smiled, tilting her head ever so slightly, like she was shy. Scarlet O’Hara had nothing over Darcy.
“All right, Dylan.”
He could get use to her saying his name real quick.
“And you do the same. You may call me Darcy. Miss Witherspoon is my sister. And I’m not her by long shot.”
Her hand was as soft as Jillian’s and Katy’s and he wondered if she lived the life similar to Scarlett’s, before the Civil War.
“So how do you know this guy?” He poked his free thumb toward Tom.
“We went to Le Culinary of America together.” Angleman dropped an arm over her shoulders, anchoring her against him and caused her hand to yank from Dylan’s grasp. Tom smiled down at her. “Darcy graduated top of our class. She’s an awesome chef.”
Her cheeks, already pink from the temperatures outside, brighten a bit. “You almost toppled me with your desserts.”
She wrapped an arm around Angleman’s backside—at least as far as she could. Tom wasn’t fat, but he wasn’t small and she looked like a dwarf standing next to the mountain-sized man.
“Ah, but I didn’t.” Tom pecked her head. “And we’ve been best friends ever since.”
It was clear Tom was marking his territory. “Ah, that’s the connection. I didn’t think a guy like him could attract a woman like you.”
Her brow arched up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Angleman squeezed her. “He’s just stating what’s obvious. I’m a hulk and look at you.” He twirled her. “You’re hot.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better.” She laughed and hugged Tom. Her eyes closed momently and Dylan noted their long length resting against her tawny peach-colored skin.
Her sweet scent made him want to step closer. Remembering she was Tom’s girlfriend, he took a step back and inhaled a deep breath to clear his head and cool his libido.
“If you haven’t figured it out from her accent, Darcy is from the south,” Tom said.
“Charleston to be exact,” she added, clearly stating her pride.
Tom slid his hand down her arm. “So how long did it take you to drive up here?”
She moved away from Angleman’s side which shot happiness through Dylan.
“Twenty drive hours. Coming around Philly was a nightmare. I heard on the radio later they had both a football and a hockey game on the same night. I think both events ended at the same time.” Her curls reached her waist as she lifted her chin to look up at Tom. “I stopped over in D.C. and spent the night with Tony and Mark.” She glanced at Dylan, including him in the conversation. “Tony and Mark were in our class too. They now work under one of the greatest chefs in the White House.” Then she turned back to Tom. “They say hi, by the way.”
“I still haven’t made it down to see their place. I’ve just been too busy, working on this place.”
“Their place is nice. Small.” She shrugged. “But we’re talking D.C. They’re happy.”
“So, the two of you meet in culinary school.” Dylan said. “Are you in the restaurant business?”
“I ah... I own … I mean I did own…”
Sadness filled her mumble and the joy she apparently felt at seeing her friend again faded from her expression. Her situation dawned on him. “You’re the one with the fire?”
Golden ambers flared in her eyes and they slanted toward Tom. “You’ve been talking about my situation like an old woman hanging wash?”
Angleman took a step back. “Nah. I just mentioned I had a friend who had a fire this week. That’s it. He must have guessed it was you.” The big guy’s gaze flew to Dylan like a man searching for a lifeline. “Right? I didn’t say who.”
Imagine that. A woman who didn’t like gossip. Darcy clearly was a little peeved that Tom might’ve blathered about her loss. Her backbone was as straight as a yardstick.
Dylan jumped to Tom’s defense. “No. He didn’t.”
Larus Roth, one of Tom’s assistant chefs, chose that moment to push through the kitchen door located at the end of the bar.
“Hey, Tom, we have a problem. Hi, Dylan.” The hand he lifted stopped in mid-wave as his gaze landed on Darcy. Larus smoothed his white chef’s smock over a flat stomach, and straightened to a full height of not too tall. He took on a Jack Sparrow swagger. “Hi, Ms. Ah…”
Dylan’s fingers curled. The guy had to stand on tiptoes to look through the porthole in the kitchen door, but he was built like a brute.
“What’s wrong?” Tom stepped in front of Darcy and Larus pulled up short, having rounded the bar.
“I just checked the walk-in fridge, and I can only find three pork loins in marinade. That’s not enough for a special. We’ll run out before seven.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Tom’s face tightened into an angry mask. “I told Butch to put six loins in the marinade. Did you check all the containers?”
“Yeah,” Larus said.
“Double check. I’ll be right with you.”
“I’m Larus, by the way,” he said, after rounding the bar again and waving at Darcy. “I hope we see you again.” He winked and pushed through the kitchen door, whistling.
Angleman blew out his aggravation before facing Darcy. “Always a problem. Look, sweetheart, really, I didn’t tell Dylan about your misfortune.”
They both glanced at him and Dylan hoisted a smile.
“Okay, I believe you,” she said, arching her neck back to look up at Tom.
A smile softened the creases in his friend’s forehead. “Good. Now, excuse me for a moment. I’
ll be right back and then I’ll show you the way to my house. You must be tired.”
“No problem. I know how it is. Take your time. I’ll have a cup of coffee.” Darcy pointed to the pot still on the burner. “And take a look around.”
“Dylan, I know you have to get home, so I’ll catch you later,” Angleman said while back-peddling toward the kitchen entrance. “We’ll talk later about your problem. You’re delivering my maple butter tomorrow, right? And those pine greens?”
“Yeah, I’ll be here by ten. Thanks for the drink.”
“No problem, buddy.” Tom disappeared around the corner.
“Maple butter?” Darcy looked at him quizzically.
“Come on. You’ve heard of it.”
“Sure, but you.”
“Yeah, I own a maple farm. I make syrup and with a local dairy farmer butter.”
“I thought you worked at the ski lodge.” She pointed to his parka, lying over the barstool. The ski slope’s black moose insignia showed plainly against the yellow and orange nylon.
“I do. There’s not much happening with the maples during the winter, so I keep busy with the job at the ski lodge, among other things.”
“Other things?”
“You know. Hobbies.”
He liked the way she combed her long fingers through her hair and flicked it over her shoulder. In fact, there wasn’t anything about her that he didn’t like, which was very bad. She was Tom’s woman. He’d lay odds her lips were sweeter than maple candy.
He cleared the want from his throat before saying, “I’m sorry about your restaurant.”
“Thanks. It was a freak accident. I’d intended to remodel next year. It’s just going to happen sooner than later.”
Darcy’s light tone didn’t match Tom’s depiction of someone on the verge of a meltdown or her reaction to him guessing her situation. If it wasn’t for the way her lips had tightened and her gaze lifting to somewhere over his shoulder, he would’ve bought the line.
“That’s the spirit.” He liked her smile better than the frown she now wore and wanted to see it again. “Tom didn’t tell me it was you. He had mentioned a friend had a fire when I said I wanted to cook Christmas dinner instead of eating out. That’s all.”
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