When the Stars Come Out--A Cottonbloom Novel

by Laura Trentham

  Sutton continued to chatter about Christmas in Cottonbloom. The Santa had showed up to the parade rip-roaring drunk and the Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts had gotten into a fight about whose float would go first.

  While her ears were focused on Sutton, the warmth and smells and the racks of clothes overwhelmed her other senses. Zigzagging through the racks, Willa reached out and skimmed her fingers along the sleeve of a silky white blouse that was as thin and airy as gauze.

  Sutton stopped in the back of the store next to a display of scarves and jewelry. She set her hands on her hips and examined Willa like a pinned bug. “You look like the marshmallow man. How many layers are you wearing?”

  “Three or four. It’s cold out.” Defensiveness crept into her voice.

  “And that hat.” Distaste made the word sound like an epitaph. “Will you take it off?”

  “It keeps my head warm.” She didn’t make a move to remove it.

  “We’re inside, and it’s plenty warm in here.”

  Willa gave in, mostly because her scalp was tingling with sweat, although it was due more to embarrassment than temperature. Pulling the hat off, she caught sight of the two of them in one of the six-foot mirrors mounted on the wall. She ruffled her hair and looked away, the comparison too depressing.

  “To be clear, I’m not here to take you up on your offer of a dress,” Willa said.

  “Weren’t you? I think subconsciously that’s exactly why you were standing outside my shop.” Sutton moved around the back of the cabinet and came out with a tape measure. “I need to get your measurements.”

  Was she right? Willa wasn’t a fan of fairy tales, and Cinderella happened to be her least favorite of them all. Cinderella never took charge of her destiny. She let a fairy godmother and a prince save her. That’s one reason why she loved Jane Eyre. Jane took charge of her life, and it had been her choice to return to Rochester at the end.

  Willa held her hands up to ward off Sutton and her tape measure. “Look, I don’t need a damn fairy godmother.”

  “How about a friend, then? Everyone could use more of those.” Sutton’s smile was so genuine and her eyes were so full of understanding that Willa had to blink back a rise of tearful emotion, her breathing turning ragged.

  “Are you doing this because of Wyatt?” Her voice was wobbly.

  “Him but mostly Jackson. Underneath all his frowns and the loner vibes is a pretty special guy. Wyatt and I might not be together if it wasn’t for him.”

  “Jackson and I aren’t … I mean, you don’t think … there’s nothing going on.” Willa flapped the front of her hoodie and wondered if it was possible to spontaneously combust.

  One corner of Sutton’s mouth rose along with her eyebrows and her uh-huh was definitely sarcastic. “You can’t tell me you and Jackson haven’t kissed or anything. I see the way you two look at each other.”

  “How’s that?” Her voice had acquired a weird squeak.

  “Like you’re the chocolate to his peanut butter. So have you kissed him or what?” Sutton tugged the hem of the hoodie up, and Willa raised her arms like a toddler and allowed her to slip it off.

  Clayton’s advice rang in her head. She wanted a friend, maybe even needed one, and it wasn’t like Sutton was a stranger. She was Wyatt’s girlfriend which gave her extra marks. Willa peeled the sweatshirt off by herself, leaving her in a baggy red plaid flannel shirt.

  “Okay, so we’ve kind of kissed. The first time—”

  “The first time? Way to go.”

  “Yeah, well, I ran off and he thought I was mad at him for taking advantage of me because he’s sort of my boss.”

  “But you weren’t mad?”

  “I was embarrassed. And a little wigged out.”

  “But you do like him?”

  Willa sighed and rolled her eyes. “Yes. Although I’d prefer to be the peanut butter in any potential relationship. Crunchy and not smooth.”

  Sutton’s laugh pealed through the store. “Crunchy peanut butter, it is. Have you got anything on under that shirt?”

  “A bra.”

  “Come on back here.” Sutton led her into a spacious changing room. “Off with it.”

  Willa squeezed her eyes almost shut to block out the three-sixty view of the two of them, slipped the shirt off, and crossed her arms over her chest more to hide the ratty bra than her boobs. Next Sutton tugged Willa’s pants low on her hips.

  “Arms up.”

  When Sutton didn’t tease her about the sorry state of her underwear, Willa complied, and Sutton efficiently took several measurements, mumbling the numbers under her breath as she jotted them down.

  “You have a gorgeous figure. I’m jealous.” Sutton tossed her the flannel shirt, and Willa held it over her chest.

  The compliment unfurled in her chest like the beauty of spring’s first buttercup. “I’m too busty.”

  “I have a feeling 99.9 percent of men would disagree with that assessment.” Sutton shot her a smiling sidelong glance before leaving her to get dressed.

  It wasn’t her habit to spend much—or any—time in front of a mirror. But with her reflection unescapable, she forced her shoulders back and her hands to her sides and really looked. The physical work in the garage plus her skipped meals had left her stomach flat and her arms taut. Even so, her body had filled out since she’d left home. Curves that she hid under her coveralls were on display.

  What would Jackson think of her body? She yanked her pants up and shoved her arms into the sleeves of her flannel shirt, fumbling with the buttons. Getting naked was a far cry from a couple of kisses. Not going to happen. But now the thought was planted, it grew roots and flowered. Heat in her lower belly made her ache like a fever was coming on. Or maybe the stomach flu. She actually felt sick with desire.

  When she emerged from the changing room, Sutton was sitting on a stool behind the counter with a white sketch pad in front of her, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, as a pencil flew across the page.

  Without looking up, Sutton said, “I’m thinking something simple. Not black. Too stark for you. Maybe a blue. No lace or ruffles or fringe. Not your style. A classic old-Hollywood silhouette that will highlight your amazing bod.”

  Willa stepped forward, hypnotized by the lines and curves taking shape. The sparsely drawn figure even looked a little bit like her, with short hair and a pointed face. The dress was something a heroine out of one of Willa’s books might wear. If the actual creation was even half as pretty as Sutton’s drawing, Willa would be in awe.

  “You like it?” Sutton’s tone and Cheshire cat grin made it clear that Willa’s face already bore the answer.

  “You know it’s beautiful, but I’m not sure I’ll feel comfortable wearing it.”

  “Comfort, schmum-fort. You think these bad boys are comfortable?” Sutton came around from behind the counter and kicked up her foot, showcasing her red high heel. “Newsflash—they’re not.”

  Willa couldn’t help it, she laughed along with the other woman. Still, the camaraderie was slightly nerve-racking after so many years without. “I’d better head. River will be whining for her dinner.”

  “I’ll have something for you to try on soon after Christmas. I’m going to get started tonight.” Sutton walked her to the door and leaned in the gap after Willa hit the sidewalk. “I’m closing up early and headed back to the garage. I’m giving Wyatt his Christmas present. You going to be around?”

  “No.” Again the impulse to see Jackson was like a chant in her head. “No,” she said more firmly. “I’m headed back to my place.”

  “How about we keep this dress business between us and surprise Jackson?” Sutton raised her eyebrows.

  “Sure.” Probably smart in case Sutton didn’t follow through or Willa decided not to go to the party. Sutton took a step back. As the door was closing, Willa grabbed it before she had a chance to stop herself. She swallowed. “I just wanted to say ‘thanks.’ This was unexpected, but really nice.”

  Sutto
n’s smile didn’t disappear but morphed into a surprised delight. Willa partly meant the offer of a dress, but mostly she’d meant the offer of friendship, even if Willa couldn’t take her up on it. Before Sutton could say anything else, Willa mashed her cap on her head and ran-walked back across the river.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jackson slipped back inside the garage after watching Sutton present Wyatt with his Christmas present—his dream car, a 1970 V8 Plymouth Hemi Cuda. Jackson had helped Sutton locate one that wasn’t too expensive or too beat up. Wyatt would relish the chance to lovingly restore it. As much as Jackson wanted an up close look-see at the car, he knew better than to interrupt the two lovers.

  As happy as Jackson was for his twin—and he was—a peculiar loneliness spread through his chest and compressed his heart. Wyatt would always be a huge part of his life, but everything was changing and changing fast.

  Since his memories began, his life and times had revolved around the garage. One day had blurred into the next with nothing of great significance standing out until the day his pop collapsed. Jackson had pumped his chest while Wyatt had blown his own breath into their pop’s lungs, but he’d still died.

  Jackson glanced over at the spot in the first bay. Since that day, chaos had stalked him. He didn’t like chaos. Maybe no one was comfortable with chaos and change, but Wyatt seemed to roll with it easier than Jackson did.

  He trudged up the stairs to the loft. Wyatt was moving his stuff little by little to Sutton’s house. Ford was still MIA, and the bookie was breathing down their necks for the money or else. Jackson wasn’t sure what the or else consisted of, but probably not a fruitcake.

  Snowflakes drifted from the gray sky, swirling in cross winds. A childlike wonder pushed away the encroaching worries and vast solitude. What was Willa doing? Was she sitting outside her trailer with River watching the snow fall over the fallow field?

  A more practical thought followed. It was literally below freezing outside and Jackson didn’t recall seeing anything more than a space heater in her trailer. How did she keep warm? Maybe she didn’t. The thought of Willa alone and shivering left his insides flayed and raw.

  He glanced over at the present he’d bought her. A hand-sewn quilt from the Quilting Bee. It had been mocking him for days, but the opportunity to give it to her without looking weird hadn’t presented itself. And probably never would.

  Her secrets still hung between them, but damned if he could sleep while she suffered. Her pride and independence wouldn’t keep her warm through the coldest nights Louisiana had seen in a decade. He considered taking the quilt to her, but decided to bring her to the quilt.

  With the decision made, he pulled onto the parish road two minutes later, the back end of his Mustang fishtailing as the melting snow slicked the roads. Her car was parked next to the trailer, white dusting the roof and hood.

  He knocked on the door and heard a bark from inside. Willa cracked the door open, the layers of clothes making her appear a foot bigger all the way around. A hoodie was drawn tight so a framed oval of her face was all that was visible.

  “What are you doing here?” The fact there was no anger, only surprise, in her voice counted as a win.

  “Checking on you.”

  “I’m fine.” She cast her gaze over his head. “Oh my goodness, it’s snowing.”

  “Yep, and it’s cold. Supposed to get down into the teens tonight.”

  An anxious look flashed before she forced a tight smile. “River and I will have to cuddle up then.”

  “You can’t stay here. Come back to my place. Please.”

  Nothing about her softened. “I told you once already I don’t need saving.”

  An anger usually reserved for the racetrack welled up inside of him like a geyser he was unable to cap. “I’m not trying to save you; I’m trying to help you.” His voice roughened and rose until he ended on a near shout. “That’s what you do when you care about someone, dammit.”

  Her eyes went wide and her lips parted. “What do you mean?”

  He was as shocked as she was that he’d said it aloud. But the truthfulness organized the mess in his chest into something manageable, and he plowed forward. “I mean that’s why I fixed your clutch. And helped with River. And why I’m here. I’m not great with talking about”—he ran a hand through his hair, damp from snow—“my feelings.”

  “What do you want from me, Jackson?”

  Were those tears in her eyes? His hands twitched. He wanted to draw her close and hold her until she smiled her crooked, teasing little smile.

  He considered the loaded question. If he asked for everything swirling around in his head, she would slam the door in his face. “I want to sit in a warm room, watch it snow, and share a beer. I want you to grab a few things and stay at my place tonight. You can have my room, and I’ll take the couch or Wyatt’s bed. That’s it.”

  She stared at him for a long time, her breath puffing white between them. With a sharp exhale, she asked with a warning in her voice, “Just for tonight?”

  “For as long as you need.”

  She stared at him for a long moment before nodding and shutting the door. Relief had him blowing out a breath that turned white in the air. He stomped his feet. He’d left so fast, he hadn’t grabbed a jacket.

  Not five minutes later, she stepped out, holding a toiletry case and two plastic grocery bags, one with books and the other with clothes. River brushed past her to snuffle around his legs and notch her head in his hand for a pet.

  She took a step toward her car, but he grabbed her. He couldn’t even feel her arm under the bulk of her layers. “Roads were already a little slick and your tires are balder than a baby’s butt.”

  Her lips twitched. “You okay with massive amounts of dog hair in the Mustang?”

  “I’m capable of vacuuming.” Before Willa and River, he would have never let an animal into his car.

  Once they were on the road, he pointed to the bag on her lap. “Are you expecting to be so bored you need to read?”

  “Library books. In the event of a natural disaster, I don’t want to leave them in the trailer. Several got ruined when the tornado rolled through a while back.”

  “Doesn’t the library have an act-of-God forgiveness policy?”

  “Marigold cut me a break.” She shifted to look out the window.

  So many questions fought to escape, but he forced an even tone. “Marigold is a sweetheart. How’s Dave? I stopped by last week but he was too sick to talk.”

  “You went to see him?” She turned back to him.

  “Why are you surprised? Dave helped us convert the loft.”

  “Yeah, Marigold told me that. I guess I don’t picture you having many friends. You’re always alone.”

  “Seriously? Kettle meet pot.”

  The sound of her laugh filled the car. It did nothing to heat the interior, but a place inside of him warmed, and he smiled.

  “We’re a good match then.” Her laughter trailed into silence. Her expression was frozen into what he guessed was horror.

  But the slip of her tongue bolstered his confidence. “We are. That’s why we work so well together.”

  Her relief was palpable, and she relaxed into the seat, clutching the books to her chest. They arrived at the loft, and he ushered her and River up the stairs ahead of him, discreetly upping the thermostat so she would be more comfortable.

  While she set the bag of books on the coffee table, he did a walk-through of his bedroom. Unlike Wyatt, he kept things tidy by habit. The bathroom wasn’t a disaster either. He set out a clean towel and washcloth. When he returned, she stood at the picture window, still wearing all her layers, but she’d pushed off the hoodie. Her hair stuck out like the spring growth from a bush.

  She was chaos incarnate with her secretive, messy past and equally unconventional present. Chaos was unpredictable and scary and to be avoided. So why didn’t he want to run like hell? He stepped closer.

  “I can’t remember
the last time it snowed here,” he said softly, afraid to spook her. “Too bad it’ll melt tomorrow.”

  “Then we’d better enjoy it while it lasts, huh?” The smile she aimed in his direction was wistful.

  A clarity had risen from the seismic shifts of recent events and put him on alert. Was she referring to the weather or them?

  “Did you see snow as a kid?” It was a first volley to try to hammer past her formidable defenses.

  She chafed her arms even though the room was warm and she had on enough clothes to insulate an arctic explorer. “A few times. Enough to build a tiny snowman once.”

  That meant farther north, but not too far. He doubted the years had chipped away her accent. Mississippi? Arkansas? Maybe even north Louisiana.

  “What were your parents like?”

  An internal debate seemed to be taking place. Finally, she said, “My mom died right after I was born. An aneurysm. It was just me and my dad.” She cast him a glance through her lashes. “He owned a garage.”

  “Just like us.” The similarities between their childhoods were startling, yet somewhere along the way their paths had diverged, leaving Willa alone.

  “Mr. Hobart reminded me of my dad so much. Your pop was a real special guy.”

  “Is your dad dead?”

  She shook her head, but didn’t speak.

  “Is he looking for you?”

  “I don’t think so. Not anymore.” Her voice cracked, and like a whip flaying his heart open, he bled for her.

  No longer caring about the implications or whether or not it was a good idea, he stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her. She tensed before her weight fell against his chest, her head resting against his shoulder.

  “It wasn’t his fault. None of it was his fault. He’s a good man.” She trembled.

  “I have a hard time believing whatever happened was all your fault either.” He would bet she’d long ago atoned for whatever sins she’d committed when she was young.

  “I don’t know anymore.” Her voice was small and forlorn, but her words lit hope inside of him. He was close to earning her secrets. “I could really use a hot shower. I’m still cold and probably smell like a wet dog.”