Sissy especially admired the night sky when it was still illuminated by a fading sunset, streaked with frothy pink and crimson. More than once she’d wished aloud that she could duplicate on canvas the gorgeous colors and the black silhouettes of towering pine trees cast against deep indigo and starlight.
Ben, entranced by the melodious caress of her voice, wished that she’d admire the sky a little less and him a little more. He also yearned for her to talk about herself. He was curious about her aunt Mabel. Ben knew Sissy had never met the woman. But why? His folks kept in touch with relatives. It was bewildering that Sissy had grown up without ever meeting her mom’s sister. And why would a middle-aged woman who surely hadn’t expected to kick the bucket in her forties have already made out a will and left all her worldly possessions to a niece she didn’t know?
Another thing that really bugged Ben was that Sissy rarely mentioned her parents or referred to any siblings. He knew that her mom was dead, so he assumed that her father was possibly gone as well. But that didn’t explain her silence about both of them. He toyed with the idea that she’d disliked her folks, but that didn’t gel for him because Sissy wore her mother’s mood ring. It was clearly a possession she treasured.
One evening as he nearly moaned over the taste of Sissy’s fabulous pot roast, which even Christopher Doyle ate instead of his usual order when it was available, he said, “This has to be a family recipe. My mom’s is fabulous, but this is extraordinary.”
Sissy’s cheeks went pink. “Well, it’s a family recipe, I suppose. When I first came here, I found it in Aunt Mabel’s recipe box.”
“Ah.” Mild disappointment settled over Ben. “Well, it’s amazing.”
She leaned closer to whisper, “The secret is simple. I poke slits in the roast and stick in slices of garlic along with dribbles of concentrated onion juice before I roll it in flour and brown it. That’s what makes the flavor pop.”
Ben took heart that she’d gotten near enough as she spoke for him to feel her breath on his cheek. It smelled faintly of butterscotch, making him wonder if she’d been savoring a piece of candy. Gazing at her lips, he wished he could steal a quick taste of her mouth—just a quick, not-so-casual tongue dive into those moist pink depths.
Collecting his wayward thoughts, he said, “I’ll bet your mom left you some great recipes, too, huh?”
She drew away and gave him a sharp look. “My mom’s specialty was making meals on the cheap. I grew up eating canned chili soup, undiluted, mixed into noodles.” Her tone was crisp, clearly indicating that the subject was closed.
Watching her walk away, Ben was left with the impression that she’d regretted telling him that as soon as she finished the sentence. Why was she so secretive about her parents? Ben talked about his own; they were an integral part of his life and came up in casual conversation.
He decided knowing more about her parents didn’t matter. It was Sissy he cared about, and though it might have been wishful thinking on his part, she seemed more relaxed in his company than she had been since their picnic at the falls. She also praised his work, not effusively, but with sincerity.
Each day Ben accomplished more on the backyard project. Now that the wing was framed in, he’d be finished soon. After that, he’d still need to build roosts, nesting boxes, and dust-bath bins, but he could finish those in short order. He tried to console himself with the thought that Sissy would still owe him four meals a day for another two weeks after the whole project was finished, but he would miss working with her out back. It was during those times that she was more likely to let down her guard and reveal things about herself.
On the evening that Ben completed the job, frustration warred with regret. He’d gotten exactly nowhere with her. Thinking hard, he bought himself two more days of working with Sissy by suggesting that she needed a leakproof storage shed, similar to Marilyn’s, where she could keep chicken supplies.
“Won’t a shed be costly to build? How much do I already owe you for building supplies?”
Ben had lost track of all the expenditures, and he had thrown away the receipts. He didn’t want Sissy to pay for everything. Though she might never know it, the coop and run were mostly his gift to her. “Oh, I, um—well, last count, you were in for about three hundred.”
“That’s all?” She took in her chicken compound. “How much of this stuff was leftover material from your place that you wanted out of your way?”
“A lot of it. But I also got a heap of stuff at ReStore.” Ben didn’t like lying to her, but he’d be even less happy about making her cough up three grand. His savings account was still in great shape, and hers wouldn’t be after a drain like that. “Oh,” he added, snapping his fingers. “I forgot the gravel delivery. You owe me for that, so you’re in for about three fifty.”
“And a shed will cost about—?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Ben pretended to be mentally calculating the expenses. “If we go with a dirt floor, not that much. Maybe five hundred? Roofing material is costly, but I’ve got a pile of corrugated metal out at my place that I’d like to get rid of. Using it here will save me hauling it to the dump.”
“A shed would be really nice. And I can afford that much more. How long do you think it’ll take you?”
“Two days, max. No wiring for electricity, no insulation or interior walls.”
She nodded. “So, giving you two days of free meals for every eight hours you work, I’ll owe you four more days of free food.”
On Ben’s side, that meant four more days in her company. “It’s a deal.”
She smiled, held out her hand, and they shook on it.
* * *
The next morning when Ben arrived earlier than usual at Sissy’s with materials to erect her shed, he couldn’t tell who loved the new coop and run more, the chickens or their owner. Sissy was inside the structure when he got out of the truck, and while he was unloading supplies she toured the interior of the shelter at least three times, yelling through the walls to Ben that a family of three could live in there. When she emerged into the run, she spun in a circle, holding her arms wide. Thin early sunlight glinted in her hair, making him catch his breath.
“Seriously, I’ve lived in dinky houses with yards a third this size! It’s amazing. These are the luckiest chickens in the world now!”
Although he worked as slowly as possible without actually stopping, it seemed to Ben that the shed went up faster than the speed of light. As he hung the door that last evening, he felt glum. He consoled himself with the thought that he could still look forward to nearly two and a half weeks of free meals at the Cauldron, but he also accepted that he’d enjoy less time in Sissy’s company. Inside the café, she tended to avoid him. Sometimes he felt sure she invented tasks in order not to chat with him. She had the talent for discouraging men down to a fine art that smacked of long practice.
* * *
Sissy thanked God that Ben would no longer be working behind her café. Granted, she’d still have to see him four times a day for over two weeks when he came in to eat, but once that was over, her part of their bargain would be fulfilled. She could barely wait. Being around Ben put her totally off balance and filled her head with silly fantasies. Hooking up with a guy was not in her game plan, especially with a man like Ben.
The night the shed was completed, he came in for dinner just as her last evening customer departed. She couldn’t help but wonder if he’d timed his entrance to catch her alone. She recalled seeing him without a shirt. As the image flashed through her mind, her mouth went dry and her stomach clenched. A lot of men would kill to possess a sculpted torso like that, and an equal number of women would go to almost any lengths to run their hands over it. Sissy told herself she was not one of them, but she knew she was lying to herself. Even worse, she knew she was putting herself in a perilous situation by trying to believe it. No way around it, she had a bad case of the hots f
or Ben Sterling, and sooner or later, the temptation would be too much for her to resist. The sooner she got rid of him, the better.
As she served him his order, a bacon cheeseburger with a jumbo order of seasoned fries, he asked, “So, how are things going with your ghost?”
Sissy wasn’t about to admit that there had been countless incidents that made her skin crawl. “My ghost? It’s been pretty calm around here on that front.”
His amber gaze rested on her face so long that she struggled not to squirm. Whenever Ben studied her, she felt as if he looked too deep and saw too much. “Well, I’m glad. Some mornings, you still have shadows under your eyes. I thought maybe you were losing sleep.”
Sissy caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth to stop herself from spilling the truth. She no longer questioned whether or not she had a ghost; she felt certain she did. Her only consolation was that no harm had been inflicted on her.
“Oops!” she cried. “It’s time to take my quiche out of the oven!”
In truth, she had no quiche baking, but from where Ben sat, the wall below the pass-through window blocked his view. She grabbed oven mitts and pretended to remove a delicate dish from one of the racks.
“Boy, it sure smells good. Can you spare some for me?”
Sissy sent him a suspicious look through the opening. Did he know she hadn’t made quiche? He couldn’t possibly smell it. Thinking fast, she said, “I’m sorry. I like to let it sit before I cut it. Nothing worse than quiche that goes flat in the center.”
Ben’s dimple flashed. “That’s fine. I wouldn’t want it to fall.”
He knows. Sissy took refuge in the walk-in cooler. He knew she was making up reasons not to talk with him. Now what was she going to do? Her face burned with embarrassment even as the rest of her body grew chilled from the frigid temperature. She hugged herself, hoping he’d take the hint and leave if she stayed in there long enough. Soon, not even her cheeks felt hot.
After glancing at her new watch, a gift from Ma Thomas when she had them on sale in her shop, Sissy waited a full ten minutes. The walk-in was so well insulated that she could hear nothing through its thick walls. Ben had surely left by now. She finally opened the door and stepped out, only to find him loading the mountains of dinner plates on the kitchen counter into one of the dishwashers.
“There you are,” he said with a lady-killer grin that she felt certain he practiced in front of a mirror. “I was about to come looking for you. It has to be colder than a witch’s tit in there.”
Sissy wanted him out of her kitchen, but short of bodily removing him, she couldn’t think how to accomplish that. “How cold is a witch’s tit? Are you speaking from personal experience?”
“No personal encounters. I try to avoid witches.” He bent to place another plate in the rack. “But it stands to reason, doesn’t it? A witch flies around on a broom on the last night of October. Here in Mystic Creek, parents wear double layers to take their kids trick-or-treating. How cold do you think her tits might get?”
Hiding the shivers that tried to vibrate her body, Sissy rubbed her arms. “Pretty cold.” She watched him reach for another stack of plates. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Helping you out.” He paused to study her face. “You’ve got shadows under your eyes again. If I speed things up for you in the kitchen, maybe you’ll get a little more rest tonight. If your ghost keeps quiet, that is.”
“I told you my ghost hasn’t done anything lately.”
He settled a twinkling gaze on her. “But I can tell when you’re lying. Has anyone ever mentioned that you’re lousy at it? There’s a little spot right on the tip of your nose that turns bright red every single time.”
What a wonderful compliment. He made her sound like Rudolph’s twin. Sissy couldn’t think what to say. She resisted the urge to cup her hand over her nose, though. That was something.
“So,” he went on, “if you’re lying, it follows that your ghost is still wreaking havoc and making you lose sleep, thus the circles under your eyes. And, since I don’t have anything better to do, I may as well help you knock this out so you can go to bed and get a full eight.”
“I have breakfast prep to do as well. You can’t help with that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it involves food preparation, and you don’t cook.”
“Where’d you get the idea I don’t cook?” He lifted a bowl from the sudsy water in the sink and scratched his nose with the side of his wrist, leaving a cluster of bubbles over the cleft of his upper lip. He looked so cute that she almost smiled. “I’m actually a great cook.”
“So why do you eat out all the time?”
“Because cooking for one leaves me with heaps of leftovers, and I get tired of the same thing, day after day. I grew up in a big family, and I can’t master the art of making small amounts.” He winked at her. “Don’t worry. Just show me what to do, and we’ll have the breakfast prep finished before you can holler, ‘Howdy.’”
Sissy didn’t need a crystal ball to see that he wasn’t going to leave on his own steam. Short of ordering him off the premises, she was stuck with him, and he’d been so good about the coop and shed that she couldn’t bring herself to be that rude.
“I don’t appreciate being called a liar.”
He winced. “You’re right. It’s an insult. I’m sorry. Let me rephrase that and say that you avoid telling me the truth.”
She sighed and grabbed two fresh chef coats. “If you’re going to handle food, you have to wear a sterile garment over your street clothes. Health regulations.”
The chef coat barely fit him. But he managed to squeeze into it and tie the sash. The sleeves were tight around his muscular arms and shoulders.
As Sissy began working in tandem with him to finish the cleanup, she thought of Finn shivering on her porch. “While you’re being Mr. Helpful, your poor dog is outside freezing.” She set her coverall aside. “I’m going to get him.”
Wrist-deep in dishwater, he called, “What about the health regulations?”
“Screw the regulations. I’m not leaving him out there. His fur isn’t thick enough yet to protect him, and he’s my friend.”
“And I’m not?”
Sissy kept walking, pretending she hadn’t heard him. Tonight he seemed determined to be pushy for the first time since she’d met him. And even if she had come to think of him as a friend—which she had, in a way—she would not, even under threat of death, admit that to him.
Later, when the breakfast prep was done, Ben jotted his cell phone number on a tablet by her cash register. “For just in case.”
“For just in case of what?” Sissy didn’t want his cell number. It felt all wrong.
“Well, if anything weird happens tonight, you’ll know how to get in touch with me. My home number is in the book, but if you’re upset, you may call my dad or one of my brothers by mistake.” He gave her a thoughtful study. “It’s only my cell number, Sissy. Why does my writing it down upset you?”
Because he was referring to a ghost he didn’t believe existed, and it felt too personal. It was another step forward in a relationship with him that she didn’t want to have. She’d never had an actual relationship, but what she had experienced was the role-playing boys or men would resort to in order to get in her pants, an ugly term, but boiled down, only ugly defined it. Hey, Sissy, you’re too small to carry so many books. Let me carry them for you. Paybacks always followed favors. And later, believing a football star, the son of the town mayor, really and truly liked her? That had been a mistake she would never forget.
Well, she wasn’t that naive girl anymore. She wasn’t the daughter of the town drunk now. She’d left all that behind her. She’d worked until she nearly dropped in her tracks to become somebody. Ben might have two college degrees, but his education had been handed to him. She’d had to scrabble
her way up from poverty and educate herself. Now she could take a recipe for four and calculate, without writing it all down, how to make that recipe to feed forty. And her increase in patrons was visible proof that she’d done it right. In her own way, she had acquired an education, too, and become a successful businesswoman.
Deep down, she wanted to trust Ben. She even wished they could be friends. He was, without question, the nicest guy she’d ever met. Or at least he seemed to be. But was she seeing the real Ben? She loved this town. She couldn’t gamble with the respect and position she’d worked so hard to have there. If she fell for Ben and he dumped her, she’d look like an idiot.
Tears burned at the backs of her eyes. Tears she would never let him see.
“Sissy?” He said her name softly. “What is it, honey? I can see you’re upset. Can you tell me about it? Maybe talking will help.”
He had no right to call her honey, and a master’s degree in how to avoid men and sticky entanglements might help her, but nothing Ben said ever would. The males of her species were driven by testosterone, not emotion, and when it came to the life she’d built for herself there, she couldn’t be an idiot and trust him. Granted, he wasn’t after a quick, hard attack in the bushes or a car to get what he wanted. He wanted to play house for a while, pretending they had something special, and then end it, making her look like the stupid tramp her father had always deemed her to be. “I’m fine, Ben. Thanks for leaving your number. I’ll probably never need it, but thank you for being so thoughtful.” Try as she would, she couldn’t make her tone gracious.
Evidently he got the message, because the soft look went out of his eyes. He circled the bar to fetch his Stetson. As he settled it on his head, he said, “It was fun helping tonight. Thanks for not giving me the boot.” He snapped his fingers to awaken a snoozing Finnegan. “Come on, pal. Let’s make tracks so Sissy can hit the sack.”
Mulberry Moon Page 11