by Irene Brand
Van took another look in the rearview mirror. Owen had come to the kid’s rescue, but just as he reached down to help the boy, the wagon toppled over on its side, spilling the load of bricks all over Owen’s feet.
Holly awakened on the couch with a snort. What time was it? She glanced at her cell phone. 6:10 p.m. Hmm. Had the doorbell rung? She rubbed her head and neck, trudged to the front door, and found Owen standing on her porch. “Hey, Quig.”
Owen didn’t give her the standard greeting or elbow rub; he just stood there staring at her. Finally he said, “I’m here to invite you to dine at my house. A celebration dinner.”
“Oh, yeah?” Was he going to help celebrate Van’s proposal? How could he know so soon? “What are we celebrating?”
“Life.” Owen grinned.
Holly shook her finger at him. “You know, you’ve been acting kind of funny lately.”
“Moi?”
“Yes, moi.” Holly narrowed her eyes at him. “And speaking of funny, why did you ring my phone when we were on our hike? It was like you’d never seen me kiss a guy before.”
“Dinner will be served in my gazebo tonight.” His hand made a flourish as he dipped his head. “I’ll pick you up at seven. Good?”
Holly realized he wasn’t going to answer her question. But he would later—she would make sure of it. “Okay.” Before she could pelt Owen with more questions, he headed down the front path back to his car. Why was he limping?
As she shut the front door, guilt trickled in. Was dinner with Owen kosher while she considered a marriage proposal from another man? But it was only Owen, the man who was like a brother. Van knew well that Owen was her best friend; he knew they spent time together. She had accepted no ring from Van, made no promises—except to consider his proposal—and yet she felt mutinous!
She drummed her fingers on the door. Owen is like a brother to me. And he had always thought of her as a sister. Holly slid down to the floor and placed her head in her hands. Au contraire. She suddenly realized that the new look in Owen’s eyes wasn’t the gaze of a brother.
Maybe the timing of the dinner would work out after all, since she should talk to Owen about the proposal. If she did choose to marry Van, they would need to discuss how marriage might change their friendship. Oh, my. Oh, my. Oh, my. What would life be like without Owen? Would they be reduced to passing each other on the streets of Noel and merely saying hello? That sounded like torture. Unthinkable, really. Why couldn’t Owen have been born a woman? Then there’d be no complications surrounding their friendship, no appearance of impropriety. But Owen wasn’t a woman. He was a man. And he had that funny look in his eye.
Then Holly remembered the crazy vow they’d made when they were twelve—a pledge to marry each other if they hadn’t found love by age thirty. The oath flooded back to her in great detail. They’d been in Short Bottom Cave, talking about nothing and everything as usual, when Owen got down on one knee—an idea he’d gotten off a TV sitcom—and slipped the toy ring on her finger with a solemn vow. She embraced the pledge that day, saying the words back to him. It had been so silly—and yet.
Holly went to her bedroom, opened the bottom drawer of her jewelry case, and after poking around in a jumbled mess of old costume jewelry, found the ring. It was brown like dirt with a clear plastic stone perched on top. She chuckled.
Well, she promised to go to Owen’s for dinner, and go she would. Maybe she’d just “forget” to freshen her deodorant or brush her hair. That would give Van a fair advantage.
But no matter how Holly rationalized her prospective dinner with Owen, she still felt guilty. She put the ring back in the drawer and sighed. Why was it women emerged from the womb with a supply of guilt ample enough to last a lifetime? Holly thought it was a reasonable question.
Chapter Sixteen
Holly kept her word by not tidying herself for dinner. For Van’s sake she would look as grungy as possible. She looked in the bathroom mirror. Hmm. Disintegrating makeup, crumpled pantsuit, and tufts of hair going in assorted directions. Yep. Pretty mangy.
The doorbell rang, and even though it was just Owen at the door, she felt nervous. All because of that look in his eye? Oy! She swung open the door. Owen Quigly stood before her dressed in the nicest-fitting and most ridiculously handsome tuxedo she’d ever seen. “What are you doing wearing that thing?”
The light in Owen’s eyes dimmed, and Holly felt awful. In fact, she felt as softhearted as a rock—a big ol’ stub-your-toe-and-holler kind of rock. “I’m so sorry, Owen. You just took me by surprise. You look—very—nice.”
“Thanks. And you look beautiful.”
Considering her scruffy appearance, Owen had to be lying, but his words made her smile anyway. “So, we’re going to your house for dinner?”
“That’s right.”
“Since you went to so much trouble getting all dressed up maybe I should go and change.”
“You’re perfect.”
Holly grinned. “Okay.” She stepped outside and locked the front door. “Do you mind if I ask why you’re all decked out?”
“You’ll see.” Owen offered her his arm.
“I’ve never known you to be so mysterious, Mr. Quigly.” Holly stole glances at him as they made their way down the front sidewalk.
“Maybe there are still a few things you don’t know about me.”
“Impossible. I’ve known you since we were both feeding mud to each other. There isn’t anything I don’t know about you.”
“There’s one thing. And you’ll know it tonight.” Owen opened the car door for her and she slipped inside. Hmm. Van might not be so forgiving if he knew about the tuxedo and the secret.
Owen turned left on Highway 59 and drove out to his home on the meadow. Holly had always loved his house—a cozy little place made of rough timbers, a steel roof, and a wraparound porch. Owen led her around the house to the backyard.
A large stone gazebo—one Owen had built himself—was lit with a bazillion white Christmas lights. Holly gasped. “You know I’m a sucker for twinkly lights.” A fire was lit in the outdoor rock fireplace, and it crackled and sputtered pleasantly. Inside the arbor, a table had been covered with linen and set with fine china and crystal. “Where did you get all of this?”
“My granny gave it to me years ago. It’s been in my attic. I never had a reason to use it—until now.”
“I wish you would tell me what the special occasion is.” She raised an eyebrow.
Owen pulled out a chair for her. “All in good time, my dear.” He covered her lap with a quilted blanket. “I don’t think you’ll need this, but just in case.”
Apparently God was in collusion with Owen concerning his special plans, since Holly could never remember such a warm fall evening in Noel, and so close to Thanksgiving!
After she’d gotten settled comfortably at the table, Owen brought out baked salmon and wild rice with roasted butternut squash on the side. She wanted to say how shocked she was that he wasn’t serving her food out of a can or spread from a jar, but she curbed her tongue. It might not be the best time for one of her snorting laughs either, so she said demurely, “I didn’t know you could cook.”
Owen filled her goblet with chilled Pellegrino. “Cooking channel.” A slice of lime floated to the top.
“You’ve made it all look—irresistible.”
Grinning way too much, Owen gave the blessing.
They ate heartily but more quietly than usual. Holly kept sneaking glances at Owen as she took sips from her glass. The evening was not what she’d expected. As they finished the last of their entrées, a breeze came through the gazebo, blowing her napkin onto the floor.
Owen rose from his chair, came around to her side, and picked up her napkin. “You dropped this.” With a sweeping motion he flung the napkin outward like a seasoned waiter, slipped it carefully back on her lap, and then let his hand linger on hers.
“Thank you.” Holly looked up at him. Had his dark eyes always sparkled? Had h
is red hair always curled over his forehead like that? The depth and perplexity of those queries overloaded her senses. Her thoughts fuzzed like a TV losing its satellite signal. She fumbled with her utensils until her fork took a flying leap, flipping up, up, and away.
With remarkable reflex, Owen caught the utensil in midair. His expression turned earnest with a hint of mischief. He leaned down to her ear. “You seem a little undone this evening, Miss Goodnight.”
The airflow from his whisper tickled her ear. “No, it’s the breeze. It’s being unpredictable this evening, don’t you think?”
Owen raised back up. “Is that so?”
“And there might be a butterfly or two.” Holly let the words escape in the air before she could catch them. She wanted to laugh but couldn’t. Perhaps she had a momentary clog in her laughing ducts. She wanted to give his arm a friendly jab, diffuse the intensity of the moment, but she couldn’t do that either. What was happening? Their repartee had never taken such a provocative turn. Could friendship become something new after decades? Or had her feelings been maturing all along, and she hadn’t realized it? “Dinner was wonderful. My stomach welcomed it with open arms.”
Owen laughed. “Good, because I forgot to make dessert.”
Holly sputtered out a chuckle. “This is plenty sweet.” She rubbed her earlobe.
“You always do that, you know.”
“What?”
He leaned down to her again. “You always play with your earlobe when you’re reflecting on something. When there’s a decision to be made.”
“I guess I do.”
Owen came so near that she thought he might kiss her cheek.
Holly turned toward him, which brought his face only inches from hers. Something stirred, something more than agreeable. Warm, lovely feelings encircled her, drawing her closer to him. She could feel his breath on her cheek. Their lips were so close.
“Holly?”
“Yes, Owen?” She licked her lips.
“Your hair is caught on my tuxedo button.”
Owen cringed. Oh man, how smooth was that?
Holly blinked, looking puzzled. With a light touch she gingerly untangled her hair from his button.
He sat back down, and the wood groaned out his frustration. Why hadn’t he kissed her? Instead, he’d taken an escape route. Holly had looked so receptive. She certainly wouldn’t have slapped him. But what if she’d pulled away with a look of disapproval in her eyes? Disappointment? It would have been unendurable.
“I’m afraid my hair is a gnarly mess, Owen. I’m sorry.”
Someday he’d have to stop playing the role of the coward and just tell her how he felt. Maybe the moment could still be redeemed. “I have an idea about your hair. Give me a minute.” Owen went back into his house and rounded up some shampoo, conditioner, and two bathroom towels. He dropped them into a bag, filled a pitcher with warm water, and then carried everything back out to the gazebo, praying the mild weather would continue and hoping Holly hadn’t fled to the hills.
“What in the world are you up to now?” She chuckled.
Owen took hold of her hand. “Do you trust me?”
“I do, Quig, with my life.”
“Then you can trust me with your hair.” He took his bag of surprises and a chair down toward the stream. “Follow me.”
Holly did, and when he motioned for her to sit down, she obeyed.
“Okay, lean your head back on this rolled-up towel.”
“Are you going to wash my hair?”
“Yes.”
“Owen, please don’t feel obligated because I said my hair was—”
“I do not feel obliged or forced or pressured.” Owen put his hands on her shoulders. “It’s okay to accept help. Then others can know the joy of giving like you do.”
“But—”
“Shush, please.” Owen dug the shampoo out of his sack.
She shook her head but grinned.
“You warm enough?”
“Amazingly—yes.”
Fortunately he’d found the perfect spot where they were surrounded by a cluster of cedar trees. A little nervous, Owen plunged forward with his plan. He’d never been very romantic or spontaneous, but for Holly he would try anything. If he could teach himself how to solve a Rubik’s Cube or play six games of chess simultaneously then he could surely come up with a creative way to show his affections. After he poured some warm tap water over Holly’s hair he began to massage in a little shampoo.
To his satisfaction, Holly let out a moan. Then she opened her eyes. “Have you been watching Out of Africa?”
“No, but I like that movie.”
“And are you going to tell a story like Meryl Streep?”
“I don’t think so, but I’m hoping you’re enjoying this.”
“I am.” Holly shoulders relaxed in the chair. “You bought coconut shampoo. Mmm. I feel like I need a grass skirt.”
Owen grinned. In all the years he’d known Holly, he’d never touched her in such an intimate way. The connection felt pleasurable and stirring, and he had an overpowering urge to kiss her. But timing was everything, and he was determined not to blow it. When Owen had finished shampooing and conditioning her hair, he poured more warm water over her dark locks. “Nice?”
“Very.”
Owen dried her hair thoroughly with another towel.
Her eyes fluttered open again. “That was a first.”
“I hope—I pray it was a good first.”
“It was.”
“Still warm?”
“Very.” Her word came out in a faint whisper.
Owen leaned down again. His mouth hovered over hers. The time had come to say the lines he’d memorized—the ones he’d held in his heart all of his adult life: “Nothing in the world is single; all things by a law divine in one spirit meet and mingle. Why not I with thine?”
Holly smiled. “That poem is so beautiful, Quig.”
He winced when she called him Quig, since it was the nickname she’d started using when they were barely out of sippy cups. “I have to give credit where credit is due. The poetry came from Percy Shelley, but the heartfelt way you heard it was my touch.” Owen stayed near her face. So close, and yet he still didn’t consummate his feelings with a kiss.
Holly took his face in her hands. “You’ve never quoted poetry in your life, except when Mrs. Jerkins forced you to in the fifth grade. But why quote poetry to me now? Now that another man has fallen in love with me?”
Owen knelt down next to her. “Remember when we were little and we’d play by my granny’s spring and you said, ‘This water never stops coming out of the ground. I can’t imagine it ever drying up’?”
“Actually I do remember saying it.”
“I must have felt that way about us, thinking the spring would always be there. I got way too comfortable with us, always believing you’d be around. Couldn’t imagine such a nice thing ever drying up. You’ve dated other guys before, but you’ve never gotten serious.”
“Or they never got serious about me.”
“Thank God.”
“Please tell me something.” She gave his sleeve a tug. “Are you feeling obligated somehow? You know, that vow we made as kids? Are you—”
“Can’t you see it, Holly. In my eyes? This has nothing to do with the promise we made as kids.”
“I do see something I’ve never seen before. I just don’t know what to do with it.”
“Well, I do.” Owen didn’t wait any longer as he lifted her into his arms and kissed her.
Holly didn’t hesitate in returning his affection. In fact, the intensity of her kiss surpassed all his imaginings. It was a kiss he could get lost in. After years of pondering and hoping for such a moment, she was finally in his arms, and nothing had ever felt so good. He moved his kisses to her temple and then down to her neck. He whispered in her ear, “Isn’t this better than rubbing elbows?”
“Light years beyond.” Holly chuckled. “It made my lips go numb.”
He pulled away to look into her eyes, to see the Holly who had become so much more than a friend. “I love you, Holly. I’ve loved you all my life. And I don’t mean like a brother or a dad or a nice uncle.”
She straightened his bow tie. “My dear Owen. So this was your secret?”
He nodded.
“That explains why you told me you loved me out on the hiking trail.”
“It wasn’t the best timing to make a confession of love.”
“Holly shook her finger. “And that’s why you were acting so strangely.”
He caught her finger and kissed it. “I gotta tell you, watching you with Van became agonizing. Much more painful than the time I got trampled by Luther Burdock’s miniature horses.”
She touched his cheek. “You should have told me how you felt.”
“I sensed that you didn’t feel the same way, and because I didn’t want to lose you as my friend, I convinced myself that what we had was enough. When I first talked about not getting married years ago, and even recently when I said I was hoping to marry, well, I was just waiting for you to come around—to see me differently. But these are the ramblings of a coward.”
“You are the finest man I’ve ever known.”
“Finer than Van Keaton?” Owen hated himself for asking such a pointed question.
“You must think I’m so fickle. The way I’m carrying on with you both.”
“You’re not capricious, but I’d sure like to know if you kissed Van with such fire.” Owen lowered his gaze. “Oh, wow. Guess I deserve to be slapped for that one. Forgive me.”
