I almost don't recognize her. The sharp, cold breeze picks up strands of glossy hair with far more red than I remember, and she has her face nearly covered with a black scarf wrapped around it. But when she turns to come down the sidewalk, her intensely green eyes lock on me. There's no mistaking who she is.
“Scarlett,” I say before I even think it all the way through.
She pauses and looks at me with an understandably confused expression. Easing the scarf down away from her mouth and lips, she takes a slow step toward me. Recognition sparks in those incredible eyes and a slight tint of color comes to her cheeks.
“Oh,” she says. “Hi.”
“Hello,” I smile. “It's a lovely day, isn't it?”
What the hell did I just say?
Scarlett shakes her head. “Not really, actually. It's colder than sipping liquid nitrogen through a straw made out of a popsicle.”
“I've never had that particular experience, personally, so I'll take your word for it,” I chuckle.
She nods slowly.
“How do you know my name?” she asks.
I can't stop tracing her face with my eyes. She is even more spectacular than I remember. When I first saw her, I thought her hair was dark because of the dim light and the clouds over the moon. But in the daylight, I see the rich mahogany color and more vibrant strands weaving through it. Her milky skin looks almost translucent, a bold contrast to the red on her lips. The attraction is instant and powerful, but there's an awkwardness in our interaction. I suppose there aren't a lot of people who meet because one was running for her life. There isn't a lot of context available for how to reconnect after that.
We'll just have to feel this one out for ourselves. I'm more than up to the task.
“My friend Beck told me,” I explain. “I asked him about you.”
Her eyelashes lower, then she looks back at me.
“You did?” she asks.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay after everything. It seemed like you were pretty shaken up that night. Are you? Okay?”
Scarlett's full lips turn up into a smile.
“I'm good,” she nods. “You know, I never got to thank you for helping me that night. I turned around to talk to you, but you were gone.”
I shake my head to dismiss the regret.
“You were with your friends. You seemed fine. I was just glad to see you weren't alone anymore,” I say.
“Well, thank you. I really do appreciate you being there for me. That was... quite a night.”
“Of course. I'm glad I could help.” The wind picks up, and Scarlett shivers. I know I can't keep her out here on the sidewalk much longer, but I don't want to let her go yet. “What are you doing right now?”
“Picking up a few things for a house I'm selling.”
“You're moving?” I ask. It comes out a little more panicked than I’d have liked. Get yourself together, Gavin.
“No, not selling it for me. For a client. I'm a real estate agent,” she tells me.
“That's right. Beck mentioned that. So, you're showing a house this afternoon?”
“Yes. I'm actually meeting my best friend there pretty soon. She helps me stage the houses. I try to make the houses feel as comfortable and real as possible when prospective buyers come to see it.” She pauses just for an instant. “But tonight, I'm thinking about going to the escape room in town. They did a special Valentine's Day overlay, and it sounds like fun, so I thought I'd check it out. Would you want to come with me?”
I shake my head.
“No, thanks. Valentine's Day isn't exactly my thing,” I say.
The smile fades from Scarlett's face.
“Oh,” she says. “Um. Alright. I should really get going. It was nice to see you again.”
She maneuvers around me and rushes down the sidewalk. She is several yards away before what just happened hit me.
“You are a fucking idiot,” I mutter to myself as I walk into the shop. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Letting out a self-loathing exhale, I search the shop for something that goes well with bourbon and failure.
Chapter Twelve
Scarlett
Shit. I forgot my chocolate chips.
And flour.
And butter.
And brown sugar.
Essentially everything that goes into a cookie is not in my hand right now. All I've got going for me is an oven and a nice new baking sheet sitting in the sink, trying to soak its price tag off. That is a touch too much weeknight soccer mom realness for me. I take out my phone and dial Sylvia.
"Damn, Scarlett. I am almost there. Don't I get like a five-minute cushion?"
I lean against the counter on my elbows and prop my forehead in my hand.
"No, this one's my fault. I need you to do me a favor. I forgot all the cookie stuff," I tell her.
"Where, at the office? I’m right by there, I can swing by and get it," she says. "Where's the bag?"
"At the store. Along with all the ingredients."
The line is silent for a few seconds.
"What?"
"I forgot to buy the stuff for the cookies," I tell her. "I'm already at the house. Can you get them?"
"The last time I talked to you, you were getting ready to go to the gourmet shop for that cheese you like and then were going to the grocery store for the cookie stuff."
"Cheese accomplished. The plan fell apart after that," I tell her.
"What happened between the cheese and the grocery store that derailed you that much?" Sylvia asks.
I groan.
"Oh, there's a story, isn't there? You go get the towels in the dryer. I've got the cookies."
The call ends, and I grab the laundry basket full of towels I brought with me. Tossing them into the dryer with far too many dryer sheets will fill the laundry room with the smell of fresh laundry. When the potential buyers open the door, they won't just get gleaming appliances and a cute window overlooking the backyard complete with white lace curtains. They'll breathe in the smell of clean towels. It's an instant memory that will make an often-overlooked room in the house relevant and meaningful. I don't do it in every house I sell, but sometimes it's just the detail that pushes a buyer over the edge. I've even had buyers tell me the first thing they did when they moved in was wash laundry. They didn't even know why.
Real estate sleight of hand.
It feels much more mysterious and fun when I don't feel like I just got bounced off a wall. I'm in the upstairs bathroom, lathering my way through a bar of soap when the door opens and closes downstairs.
"I'm up here," I call down.
Sylvia doesn't respond, so I continue rubbing the soap under the stream of water from the tub faucet. A few moments pass, and she still hasn't come upstairs.
"Sylvia?" I call. "Can you preheat the oven for me?"
Silence. I spend another few seconds with the soap, then set it in a plastic box I'll take downstairs with me. The clean, comforting scent of the soap floating around in the bathroom is all I need. No one wants to look at a house and find a half-used bar of soap sitting in the shower. That's where the line is drawn between making the house seem like a home and tipping over into creepy territory. Rinsing my hands, I turn off the water. Downstairs, I hear the door close again.
"Scarlett?" Sylvia shouts. "You here?"
My heart thuds in time with her footsteps coming up the steps. She smiles as the door opens, and she peeks her head in.
"It smells like a clean baby in here," she raises her eyebrows. "Has anyone ever told you you're astoundingly good at your job?"
"Once or twice," I tell her, trying to sound casual, but my voice going thin.
"What's wrong?"
"Did you just come in?" I ask.
She nods.
"I called up here to you. Didn't you hear me? I'm sorry it took longer than I thought. Apparently, the grocery store has finally decided to put the store back in order from the holiday baking displays, but I forgot
where the chocolate chips live."
"It's fine; it's just…" I look toward the door and the top ledge of the steps visible just beyond. "I thought I heard the door open a few minutes before you got here."
"The door to the house?" she asks.
"Yeah. I was up here doing the soap, and I could have sworn I heard the door open and shut. I thought it was you and called down, but you didn't answer. You know what; I'm not going to get all wrapped up in that. The faucet was on; the water was running. I must have just misheard. Come on, let's go get the cookies started. The showing is soon."
We go down into the kitchen, and I take my mixing bowl out of the tote sitting on the corner of the counter. Sylvia unpacks the grocery bags, and I start grabbing ingredients. I've made these cookies so many times I don't even need to look at a recipe. That's a good thing at times like this when I need to get them in the oven fast. It's not such a good thing on Christmas Eve when Santa gets an entire batch next to his glass of eggnog, and I'm the only one in the house who can help him with them.
"Are you going to tell me what happened, or do I need to try to read the chocolate chips tealeaf style?" Sylvia asks.
My recipe technically doesn't call for an entire bag of chocolate chips. Not looking at the recipe removes all blame from tipping the bag over and emptying every last chip into the dough.
"The man is back," I say.
"What man?" Sylvia asks. She reaches over to pluck a chip off the top of the dough. Her eyes snap up to my face as she sets it between her lips. "That man? The man? Your masked rescuer?"
"That would be the one. I came out of the shop from getting the cheese, and there he was. It took me a second to even recognize him because I was so surprised to see him. That and he didn't have a mask on."
"Probably a good choice. So?" She looks giddy enough to explode. "What did you say? What did he say?"
I use a cookie scoop to portion the dough and slip the baking sheet into the preheated oven.
"Well, we did the small talk thing for a little bit, and he admitted he asked Beck Jenkins about me. That's how he knew my name."
"Yeah?" Sylvia says, her voice starting to creep up.
"I thanked him for helping me that night and told him I appreciate it."
"Yeah?"
"Then he asked what I was doing, and I told him I was coming here, but then I was going to the escape room and asked if he wanted to come."
"Yeah?" Sylvia repeats, but the word sounds like it might be mostly squeal.
"And he said no, thanks."
Her face drops instantly.
"Oh."
"Exactly my reaction." I make an exasperated sound. "I thought there was something there. He seemed happy to see me. I mean, he wasn't exactly exuberant about it, but he's the one who called my name. If he didn't want to talk to me, he could have just shuffled on by and I might not have even recognized him. It just felt like there was something there. But then... no."
"He just said 'no, thanks'?"
"'No, thanks. Valentine's Day isn't really my thing'," I recount for her, in my best impression of his low voice. But now, just thinking of that voice, still gives me shivers. In a good way.
"That is seriously weak. What does that even mean? It's not like you asked him to strap on a diaper and start popping arrows in people. You asked him to go to an escape room that just happens to be Valentine's Day-themed."
"What does that even mean, anyway? I haven't thought about that until now. How do you make an escape room Valentine's Day-themed?" I ask.
"You have to discover the key to their heart and escape from loneliness forever," she muses whimsically.
"I'm going to forgive that only because you are high on clean baby smell and chocolate chips," I chuckle.
Sylvia laughs.
"I don't know. Love poems? Truffle fillings laced with invisible ink? A 1929 garage set complete with machine guns?" My eyes slice over at her, and she winces. "Too soon for the massacre jokes?"
"Definitely too soon. It was just really confusing. And embarrassing. I really thought... never mind. You know what? It doesn't matter. The mystery of him was better anyway. Now I know and can stop thinking about him," I say.
"Think of it this way. Maybe he really is a superhero, and you have to be in danger for him to come to you," she offers.
I manage a brief laugh.
"Maybe. I'm still miffed. But you know, without the mask, it really did lose something."
Lie.
An acrid smell makes my nostrils twitch. Glancing at the oven, my heart jumps. I swoop down to rescue the tray of cookies, quickly opening a door to let out the smell of burned chocolate.
"You really must be distracted today," Sylvia mutters, stepping up to the oven to adjust it. "Why did you preheat it to 500 degrees?"
My stomach sinks as I realize I never actually turned it on.
"I didn't."
The high of a successful showing always puts me in a fantastic mood. This afternoon the three couples who arranged to see the house had all started talking paint colors and what favorite picture to hang on the landing by the time they saw the first floor. I might have a bidding war on my hands, and I can already see my commission ticking up.
It's enough to make me forget the sinking feeling of the overheated oven and walking through each room of the house with Sylvia, waiting for someone else to be there. It's even enough to make me rationalize it, telling myself I must have hit the buttons without even thinking. I've gone through the motions of making these cookies so many times it's muscle memory.
It didn't make a difference. The singed first batch of cookies went out to the trash, and a fresh batch had just come out of the oven when the first couple arrived. It was almost choreographed.
Sylvia is going to meet me at the escape room with Jackson and Betsy in an hour. All I need to do is get home, enjoy my evening ritual of peeling away my pantyhose, and replace my work clothes with a pair of jeans and a sweater. It shouldn't take more than a few minutes, and I'll have time to grab a snack on the way out.
I'm rushing up the sidewalk so quickly I don't notice the vase in the middle of my porch until I'm almost at the steps. I slow down to look at it. A large cut glass vase with a black ribbon tied around the top holds a dozen red roses. There's something strange about them. My fingertips touch their velvety petals, snapping back as if stung. They aren't the usual vibrant red I'd expect on Valentine's Day weekend. The tight buds are intensely saturated with color until they are almost black. I pick up the note nestled among the dark roses. It doesn't have a name. Just a single phrase.
‘Trick or Treat.’
Chapter Thirteen
Gavin
The weatherman didn’t lie. I did wake up to slightly warmer temperatures this morning.
I also wake up to snow.
Apparently, those few degrees were just enough to lull the clouds into giving up everything they were holding, and Shadow Creek has rewound a couple months to full winter wonderland. Ruby is making pancakes when I come down the stairs; baby George perched on her hip as he babbles away like he's instructing her. She smiles at me as I walk into the kitchen.
"Morning, Gavin. Did you sleep well?" she asks.
"I did, thank you. Shadow Creek seems to do that for me," I nod.
"Then maybe you should be taking more of these long weekends here. It's good for your health."
She flips the fresh pancakes from the griddle in front of her onto a plate and steps to the side to tend to bacon sizzling in a skillet. Under all the rich, hunger-inducing smells, I catch a hint of coffee.
"Have you been talking to my assistant?" I ask. "She seems to have the same ideas."
"She?" Ruby raises her eyebrows. Her voice chirps up slightly at the end in that way women do when they want to ask something, but don't want to be subtle about it.
I take the carafe from the coffee maker and pour the dark roast into one of the mugs sitting on the counter beside it.
"Mmmm-hmmmm. Marla. She's
been working with me for years. Usually I would have already called her this morning to go over the schedule for the day, but she sent me a picture of the early Valentine's Day gift she got from her partner. Stacey. I figure she's probably occupied at the moment."
"Oh," Ruby says, turning back to her bacon. "Well, what about you?"
"Stacey didn't send me an early Valentine's Day gift. I don't think she knows my size," I chuckle.
The rim of the mug covers up my smile as I take a deep sip of coffee. The smell alone is enough to wake me up, but the taste is like fireworks behind my eyes. It's a special brew from the roaster in town, and I grew very attached to it during my fall visit.
"I mean, do you have anyone special in your life?" she asks.
I shrug.
"Marla is pretty special. I'm also quite fond of my cook. But she's been with my family since I was a little boy, so I kind of have to be."
Ruby gives an exasperated sigh, and Beck laughs from the kitchen door.
"Is Gavin already giving you a hard time this early in the morning?" he asks.
"I was just asking if he has a special woman in his life," Ruby tells him.
"Marla's pretty special," he points out.
I laugh as Ruby swats him playfully.
"You are no help," she says.
Beck dips down to kiss his wife and then his baby's head.
"Gavin has a long track record of not doing relationships. This last one is the longest I remember, and from what he told me, it didn't end well," Beck comments.
"In her mind it didn't end at all," I mutter. "Eva is not the kind of woman used to taking no for an answer. Which, I guess, is a contributing factor to her cheating on me with two of her father's biggest clients."
"And the incident," Beck says.
I roll my eyes and take another deep sip of coffee.
"The incident?" Ruby asks. "What's that?"
"That's a story for another time," I tell her. "Do you think this snow is going to keep up?"
"It might for a few hours," Beck says.
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