“Looks intact to me,” she said needlessly as they both stared at the two nails that had held up the heavy painting. Both protruded from the wall and were angled slightly upright. When Ben tried to jiggle each of them, neither were loose.
“All right, then,” he said in a quiet voice.
Callie didn’t have anything else to add. There was no way the painting had just fallen from the wall.
Her heart was thudding hard and she wasn’t certain whether it was because she’d been standing so close to Ben, or because of the creepy things happening.
She stepped back and tucked her phone away. And, just in time, she stopped herself from running a hand through her hair, remembering how wild it would look if she pushed off her hat.
Not that it mattered.
Other than that one time she and Ben had kissed—thanks to the mistletoe she was still absolutely not looking at—nothing else had ever happened between them…at least in that way.
They’d been friends, sure, and they’d spent a lot of time together with their group of nerdy compatriots, but that was it. Other than a few spicy conversations about whether Legolas and Eowyn would have made a good couple, and why on earth Firefly had been cancelled—complete with whether Mal and Inara ever got together—everything had been definite “friend zone.”
“Well,” Ben said after a minute. “Are you done here?”
“I should check out the balcony,” she said, suddenly feeling the chill despite her heavy coat. “After all, that’s where the magic” —she gave an awkward chuckle— “is going to happen. But you don’t have to stay. I promise to lock up when I’m done.”
“It’s getting dark pretty quick,” he replied. “Probably best if I stick around, just in case.”
She gave him a little frowny sort of look. “I’m not afraid of the dark.”
“It’s dangerous to be poking around in the dark in an unfamiliar place. Especially one that hasn’t been used for decades,” he said mildly.
“I thought you had a caretaker,” she said, walking with firm, confident steps to the balcony’s door. “Though it really doesn’t look like he does much caretaking.”
“She does just fine,” Ben replied again in that same easy voice. “But her responsibility is really only to make sure the clock and bells—and the New Year’s Eve light-up ball, too—work. Since the rest of the building is unusable.”
“Which is something I plan to change,” Callie said breezily and she turned the knob.
To her surprise and pleasure, the door opened easily and she pushed it wide. The generous expanse of the balcony lay before her, and she stepped out into the wintry air.
A few inches of snow covered the wooden-slatted floor and ornate wrought iron railing. The roofless balcony jutted out in a half-moon shape from one side of the triangular Tremaine Tower building, with the twelve-foot wide clock face only a few feet above. The clock had three sides, and the bell’s cupola was in a peaked-roofed top just above it. The silvery glittering ball that exploded with light every New Year’s Eve sat on the very pointed tip of the cupola.
Callie walked to the railing and stood there, looking out over the quaint village of Wicks Hollow. She was only twenty feet above the ground, which was why this was a usable location for a wedding—the guests would be below, and a small reception would take place inside the building afterward.
The small town of Wicks Hollow was relatively quiet in December, although tourists did come in from Chicago, Detroit, or Grand Rapids for “holiday shopping” weekends. Many of the local shops offered unique and artisan items, and the town was always dressed to the nines, so to speak, in holiday decor starting the week before Thanksgiving. The tourists stayed in Victorian homes turned into bed-and-breakfasts decorated with fresh greenery, candles, and acres of ribbons and garlands.
Orbra’s Tea House also did a healthy business during December for (mostly) ladies who wanted “Holiday Tea” with their friends, sisters, daughters, mothers and so on.
But it was late in the afternoon—just after five—and already the sun had mostly disappeared behind the Lake Michigan horizon. Callie could make out the lake’s black water rippling just beyond the westernmost row of houses, shops, and trees. The small marina was closed for the season, but since the trees had dropped their leaves, she could see the broad and deep expanse of the lake, and the Stony Cape Lighthouse just to the north. The sky was dark blue and the lake was inky, with the horizon being only a blush of pale blue in the wake of the setting sun.
Holiday lights in combinations of green and red and blue and white decorated the lampposts throughout the town—green and red on Pamela Boulevard, and blue and white on Faith Avenue. Massive urns spilling with holly, spruce, and fake poinsettias dotted each corner, and wreaths adorned every streetlamp.
In the center of town, just beyond a small park from Tremaine Tower, grew a thirty-foot pine tree that was kept trimmed into a perfect elongated triangle shape. It had been decorated with white and green glittering lights, stars, and reams upon reams of silver and gold garlands. A sparkling three-dimensional star sat on the top branch. Streaks of tinsel and glitter lights arched from each tip of the star, bouncing and dancing in the breeze.
Below, tourists and villagers walked along the streets carrying shopping bags, pushing strollers, managing leashed dogs, and holding hands with loved ones. The little flurry of snowflakes made it look like the consummate festive winter scene.
Callie sighed. This was going to be the perfect place for a wintry, outdoor wedding. She understood why Brenda and Barclay—and the others who’d tragically followed—had chosen the venue originally.
Cursed. They were all cursed. What makes you think anything will be different now?
Her breath came out in quick, foggy little puffs—less substantial than those inside the building—and she knew the tip of her nose had turned bright red from the nip in the air.
What if she was wrong? What if her idea backfired and ended up being a public relations nightmare instead of a brilliant marketing move?
She started a little when Ben came up from behind and moved to stand next to her at the railing, resting his elbows on top as he leaned forward. “Nice view,” he said.
“It’s like a miniature of the balcony at Buckingham Palace—you know, where all the royal couples stand after their weddings and kiss for the throngs of people below.” There she was, babbling again.
“And like the pope’s balcony at St. Peter’s Square. But, as you say, smaller.”
She smiled, and the shape of her breath-puff changed. “That’s right. You get it. It’s just a shame so many unfortunate things happened here.”
Ben made a noise like he was about to say something then changed his mind. “Well, have you seen enough?”
“I guess so,” she replied, wondering why he insisted on staying here with her. She was perfectly capable of checking out a wedding venue all by herself. After all, that was her job.
He stepped back from the rail but seemed to be waiting for her to precede him off the balcony and into the room. Callie decided to acquiesce. He was right—it was getting too dark for her to be bumbling around in an unfamiliar building. And she’d missed lunch because an appointment with a potential new client back in Grand Rapids had gone long, and then she drove down here to pick up the key for the building.
“I’m heading to Uncle Trib’s restaurant,” she heard herself say as Ben opened the door to the landing and gestured her through. “I’d love to buy you a drink and, you know, maybe catch up on things? I’d love to hear your thoughts on Tom Holland’s Spiderman.”
“Oh, thanks a lot, but I’d better not. Not tonight. I’ve got some stuff to do,” he said hurriedly. “End of year is coming sooner than you think. Thanks anyway, Callie.”
It was a good thing it was dark in the stairwell so Ben couldn’t see the high, hot flags of color she knew burned on her cheeks. Well, that was pretty blunt and final and she should have just kept her mouth shut.
&
nbsp; At the bottom of the steps she sailed out of the building, then turned and waited for Ben to exit so she could lock up. She was glad to have something to focus on instead of having to look at him. “All right, thanks a lot for stopping by,” she said, taking her time with the lock.
“It was really nice to see you again, Callie,” he said as she finished turning the key. “I—uh—hope your wedding goes well. Merry Christmas.”
And then he walked off across the square, shoulders hunched against the sudden, stiff breeze.
Two
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Ben called himself that and worse as he stalked away from Callie, striding across the snow-covered green toward the downtown area.
He should have known she was taken, that some guy had snatched her up and was going to—as they say—put a ring on it.
But when he’d heard Callie Quigley wanted to look at the old Tremaine Tower building, that she was going to be back in town for a project there, he carefully manipulated things so he could be the one to be there when she did.
He hoped like hell that the fact he’d carried a torch for her for eighteen years—hell, more than eighteen years, because it had started when they were six when he first caught sight of her bright copper pigtails—hadn’t shone like a beacon from his face. Especially once he realized she was back in town not just to visit, but to get married.
On New Year’s Eve.
In the very same place they’d done what he’d wanted to do since he was old enough to realize girls weren’t gross. Especially Callie Quigley.
Ugh.
Ben scrubbed his face with a hand, feeling the rough bristles of the beard he’d recently decided to grow, even though CPAs didn’t wear beards. Probably made him look like a creeper.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
And then she’d invited him for a drink, for Pete’s sake.
That would have just been torture, sitting across from her soon-to-be-married self—or, worse, next to her if they sat at the bar—and trying to keep from looking at her. To keep from looking at her or brushing against her, to keep his gaze from getting caught by those bright, enthusiastic eyes, or getting trapped in one of their friendly debates about superhero movies and watching her get all passionate and worked up.
At least she’d been wearing a big bulky coat that hid all those bodacious curves he assumed—hoped—she still had.
Not that it mattered if she still was as round and soft and luscious as he remembered.
Her eyes had been really blue tonight. Had they always been that blue? Had her mouth always looked so full and pink and luscious?
Yes. Oh, yes, it had, and he had the memory—the experience—to prove it, as the damned mistletoe that still hung there in the clock tower room had reminded him.
He’d seen the stupid plastic sphere of greenery with its formerly pearl-colored balls almost the moment he stepped into the room. He couldn’t believe it was still hanging there from sixteen years ago. Horrified, he’d yanked his attention away immediately and hoped Callie wouldn’t, one, notice it herself, and, two, notice him looking at it.
And then that weird thing happened with the painting falling down, and he’d practically thrown himself at her…for what reason? To protect her? From what?
Argh. Doofus.
And when they were crowding up next to each other to examine the wall, he’d been close enough to smell her hair or whatever perfume she’d been wearing. The deliciousness of the scent went straight to his hormones. And elsewhere.
Thank God he’d popped a couple mints before he walked over from the office.
He stomped along until he found himself back on Pamela Ave…and he walked right by Trib’s, which was already crowded even though it was just after five. He didn’t even glance inside to see whether he spotted Callie and her bright hair.
And there was no way he was going to go in there any time in the near future, even though he was Trib’s accountant and the guy always comped him a beer or two—and last April, a whole five-course meal with the best steak he’d ever had after Ben had finished the restaurant’s taxes and they weren’t nearly as painful as Trib had feared.
No, this was a night for The Roost, Ben decided on the spot—instead of going back to the office like he probably should. And it was Tuesday, so that meant Dec and Baxter—and maybe even Jake, if he wasn’t on call—would be there for Trivia Night.
The scrawny, dingy bar was the diviest dive in the county with the longest beer list (draft and bottle) and the best burgers and other bar food. They even made great omelettes. And because it was Trivia Night, Ben—the self-proclaimed Trivia King—would be distracted from thinking about Callie Quigley sitting her delicious self at Trib’s only a half a block away and around the corner.
It was early yet, though, so when he pushed open the door of The Roost and saw Baxter was already sitting at the bar, Ben smiled with relief. And the smile widened when he saw that his friend had a cardboard box filled with brown bottles on the counter in front of him.
Yes. That meant Baxter had brought in some samples of his latest brews.
Excellent consolation prize, my man, Ben told himself. Far better than going back to the office and crunching more numbers—though that was what he loved to do. It was a lot easier than talking to people. Especially bright, sunny, interesting people like Callie.
Though the two of them never had a problem finding something to talk about. He particularly liked it when they got into debates about which was better, Star Wars or Star Trek (Star Wars, obviously—which they both agreed on but he liked to play devil’s advocate just to wind her up), or whether the seventh season of Buffy actually sucked as much as everyone said it did—except for the last episode.
He particularly liked to rile Callie up about why she was on Team Edward instead of Team Jacob when it was completely obvious to him—even though he’d never read Twilight—that Edward was a creepy stalker who would turn off any normal woman. And the guy glittered? Really?
Callie’s cheeks would get all flushed and her eyes would spark and the words would tumble from her soft pink mouth at the speed of light as she explained why her point of view was the right one.
He loved it when she did that.
No, they never had a lack of things to discuss or talk about. It was the getting beyond the talking that had been his problem. Ugh.
“You’re knocking off pretty early on a Tuesday for a man who owns his own business,” said Baxter when he saw Ben.
“I caught a whiff of fresh brews in the air, and it lured me in,” Ben replied with a pointed look at the unlabeled brown bottles on the bar.
“Well, since your office is across the street, I guess I’ll buy that,” Baxter said. “I was going to text you anyway because I’ve got something I want you to try.”
“Lay it on me,” Ben said, sliding onto a stool next to him. “Hi Kendy,” he said to the bartender and manager. She had been his baby-sitter when he was ten.
“Hey, Ben. I promise I’ll get you those end of year projections tomorrow,” she said with a grimace. “You know how much I love doing that kind of stuff. Not.” She placed an empty pilsner glass on the counter in front of him. “You’re going to like Bax’s latest.”
“It’s a maple sugar stout with coffee overtones,” said Baxter, popping the top of one of the brown bottles. “A Baxter’s Beatnik Brews original.”
Besides being a freelance journalist who wrote for several publications in the area, Baxter James was the brewmaster and owner of what was locally known as B-Cubed.
“Just so long as it doesn’t have wintergreen in it,” Ben said with a shudder. “That was a big mistake.”
“I’ll say,” Kendra said under her breath. “Couldn’t give that shit away, and I bought two full kegs of it.”
“Hey, now, come on,” said Baxter, playing hurt. “A brewmaster can’t come up with a winner every time. And I was trying to make it very, you know, Up North in Michigan.”
“Oh, man,
that’s good,” Ben said after his first sip. Then he went back in for a second, larger taste (he’d learned from experience not to take a big slug of any “test” B-Cubed beers). “Oh, that’s really good, Baxter.” He looked at Kendra. “I need something to eat with this…maybe some nachos? Heavy on the chili and jalapeños. Extra sour cream.”
“You got it,” she said. “Bax? You want anything?”
“Make it two. I think you’re right,” said the brewmaster. “Nachos and maple sugar stout—a match made in heaven. Hey, Dec. You made it!”
Ben turned to see Declan Zyler1, a blacksmith who’d recently moved back to Wicks Hollow in order to raise his teenaged daughter when her mother moved out east. Apparently, Dec hadn’t even known he had a kid until the daughter called him out of the blue about two years ago.
“I heard there was free beer,” Dec said, slapping Ben on the back as he slid onto the next stool. “Good to see you, Ben. So glad the Trivia King is here—I hope you’re going to stick around. Oh, hey, I promise I’ll get those end of year numbers to you tomorrow, all right? Sorry about the delay. I hate doing that sort of stuff.”
Ben nodded. “No worries. I can’t believe Steph let you out of the house.”
They all laughed because Stephanie, Declan’s daughter, was now sixteen and had her driver’s license. Which meant she was never home—at least according to Declan. And her new-found freedom was, according to Declan, the cause of a lot of silvery gray popping up in his dark auburn hair.
“She and Leslie went up to Grand Rapids for a concert. Barry Manilow of all things. Hey, what are we drinking?” Declan picked up one of the unlabeled bottles and gave Baxter a hopeful look.
“Yeah, give it a try.”
“So Trib says Callie’s in town,” said Kendra, giving Ben a knowing look as she set an empty plate and napkin-wrapped flatware in front of him.
Crap. Trust Kendra to remember his crush on Callie from all those years ago. She’d even helped him make a Valentine’s Day card for Callie when he was in fifth grade and it wasn’t cool for guys to like girls. He’d given it to her anonymously, of course, and he didn’t think she ever knew who it came from.
Sinister Lang Syne: A Short Holiday Novel (Wicks Hollow) Page 2
