by Toni Blake
Dahlia replied gently but certainly. “You’re not reading it wrong.”
She drew her gaze from the couple up the way to her friend. “You think something is happening there? That I’ve waited too long?”
Dahlia sighed, then looped her arm through Suzanne’s as she handed back her drink. “Maybe, maybe not. Maybe there’s a big, unexpected land negotiation going on. Time will tell. For now, don’t be discouraged, my dear. He’s had his cap set for you since he landed on this rock. Now let’s find Pierre and watch them light the tree.”
* * *
BECK HAD TRUDGED on from Suzanne and Dahlia feeling like a jerk. Maybe he should have stopped. But all things considered, that would have made him feel like a jerk, too. Given that Suzanne might want to go out to dinner with him sometime in the spring, and that he’d slept with Lila a few nights ago, having hot chocolate with Suzanne would have felt pretty smarmy. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place. He suddenly theorized that whoever had first coined that phrase had probably been a guy caught between an honest attraction to two very different women.
And hell—maybe walking away from hot chocolate with the one who liked him in order to pursue the one who didn’t made no sense. But all he could do was follow his gut, and his gut had led him marching up to the feisty lady with tousled hair, currently peering up at the island Christmas tree with the wonder of a child.
“Don’t suppose you decided you’re sorry you threw me out into the snow,” he said by way of greeting.
She turned matter-of-fact hazel eyes on him. “Don’t suppose you decided not to destroy the woods behind the inn.”
He shook his head shortly. “No.”
“Me neither.”
The problem here, already, were those eyes of hers. Peering down into them instantly re-ignited an intense attraction. He might have blamed it on the Baileys, but the culprit was something much worse: chemistry. That pull that grabs at your chest—and other parts, too—making you just want more. All things considered, it was extremely inconvenient. But that didn’t make it go away.
“Look, Lila,” he said, deciding to just keep it real, “I don’t want to be enemies. I actually want the opposite—I like you. I like how we connected.”
He watched as she drew in her breath, pursed her lips. Trying not to feel. He could see that. “I like my trees,” she countered.
But he was going to keep on with reality here. “There’s more to life than trees.”
In response, she turned back to the big Christmas tree they stood next to, towering at least twenty feet above them, all decked out in simple colored balls of red, blue, purple, and gold. “Trees are pretty amazing,” she said. “Spring trees, with flowers and fragrance. Summer trees making things scenic and shady. Fall trees, adding color to the world. Christmas trees, bringing light and warmth to the holiday.”
Oh boy, she was waxing poetic. And maybe he should just agree with her. But a continuing sense of reality and justice wouldn’t quite let him. “This tree had to be cut down, you know,” he pointed out. “Just like the one in your living room. I still don’t get how you can say you like Christmas trees if you’re all about saving trees’ lives?”
She spun to face him. “As we already discussed, it’s two different things. Christmas trees are raised on farms, for the purpose of being Christmas trees.”
He merely shrugged. “Some. But not all. A tree this big...” He glanced up toward the star at the top. “Maybe it came from a tree farm, but more likely it was cut down in the woods somewhere on the island.”
“Well, I’m sure all its friends weren’t mowed down along with it,” she snapped. “And at least it’s going out in a blaze of glory, with purpose, bringing joy to the residents of Summer Island.”
Lila knew she was just rambling combatively now, but he was forcing her to, antagonizing her. The truth was, this whole situation made it so she wasn’t sure how she felt about Christmas trees anymore. But while she hadn’t put one up in her apartment in Chicago this year, she was suddenly grateful, in light of everything, that she owned a lovely artificial one that didn’t cost a perfectly healthy tree its life every winter.
“I wish you could see the woods behind the inn in spring.” She spoke more softly now. “Mixed into the pines, there are pink crabapples and white dogwoods. And purple redbuds. Meg and I called them purplies when we were kids,” she recalled with a smile. “It’s beautiful. And I just can’t face never getting to see that again.”
At this, however, he merely arched one dark, accusing brow in her direction. “Come up here a lot in the spring, do you?”
“No,” she answered shortly. Darn him. “But I remember it fondly. And my grandmother would turn over in her grave if she knew what you were planning to do to that hillside.”
At this, he simply sighed, the gesture giving away for the first time that maybe deep down he knew he was the bad guy here. “Wouldn’t be the first person I’ve made turn over in their grave.”
She opened her eyes wider, curious. “Oh?”
Then he shook his head, looked away. “Sorry. Just thinking about my dad.”
“You made your dad turn over in his grave?” She raised her eyebrows.
“Long story.” Another headshake.
And God knew she didn’t want to care—but damn it all, she did. She drew in a breath, let it back out, and offered up slowly, “You could tell me—if you want.”
He returned his gaze to hers. “I thought we were enemies.”
She blew out a breath, then admitted the ugly truth. “It’s hard, because I like you. Even if I threw you out into the snow.”
“Likewise,” he said, his expression as stalwart as she suspected her own to be. But then it relaxed—making him look more like the guy who’d put up a Christmas tree in her parlor. “How about, for tonight,” he said kindly, “we quit talking about trees and just drink some hot chocolate and enjoy the evening?”
He’d made a similar suggestion right before they’d had sex. Don’t agree. Don’t soften. Don’t let him get you where he wants you. Or next thing you know, you’ll be telling him it’s okay to tear down the trees. “All right,” she heard herself say anyway. Because she did like him. And having an enjoyable night sounded nice. She could use a nice, simple night with a pleasant companion.
Then she remembered—with maybe just a hint of embarrassment—that she had indeed thrown him out into the snow. “I guess you made it home okay. In the snow and all.”
“I’m a big boy. I can handle a little snow.” Despite herself, she still liked the simple strength that emanated from him. Well, at least when it was about something other than the development behind the inn.
A thought which reminded her, once more, not to be too nice. “You’re still not wearing your stupid hat.”
“Well, you said it was stupid.”
“Is that why you’re not wearing it?” she asked with a slight tilt of her head.
“Actually,” he confessed, “I loaned it to a snowman.”
Full of surprises, this one. “You made a snowman?”
“I helped my neighbor,” he said. “A little kid named Cade.”
Aw crap, he was kind to children, too? What was next? Did he volunteer at homeless shelters? Give food to the poor? He kept making it harder and harder to dislike him.
“And as luck would have it,” he said, letting out a good-hearted laugh, “here comes the little guy now.”
Lila glanced down to see a small child running toward them in the snow. “Hey Becker! You’re here! You came!”
“Told you I would.”
“Becker?” she asked softly, eyebrows raised.
“Code name,” he told her smoothly.
In spite of herself, a light trill of laughter escaped her.
Then Beck introduced them. “Cade, this is Lila. Lila, my buddy, Cade.”
/> “Is she your wife?” Cade asked.
And Lila’s spine went ramrod straight. “No,” she said. Then raised her eyes to Beck, mind suddenly racing right past the horrific suggestion to weird, bad, panic-inducing thoughts. “Please tell me you don’t have a wife.”
“No,” he replied just as quickly as she had, looking offended.
Okay, whew. And of course he didn’t—or he wouldn’t have been pursuing Suzanne. Another thought that stung.
“Used to,” he added, just as casually.
“Oh.” Oh boy. She hadn’t seen that coming. Though the man was probably close to forty, so it wasn’t crazy or anything. Just new information to take in.
“That’s a story for another time,” he said to her.
“All right.” She nodded. Still trying to digest it all. He wasn’t married, thank God. Though why had she suddenly worried about that for no good reason? She supposed she just didn’t want any more unpleasant surprises in her life. Or for anyone to get hurt here. At least beyond Meg and the trees. But he had been married. How long ago? Why did it end? Were there children? Was the ex still in the picture?
“Then is she your girlfriend?” Cade asked.
They both dropped their gazes to the little boy in front of them. “No,” she said again quickly, decisively.
“Then what is she?” Cade asked Beck.
Beck turned toward her. “What are you?”
She drew in her breath, pursed her lips, making a slight face. “We’re...friends, I guess. Maybe. Sort of.” She started out looking at Beck as she spoke, but ended up dropping her glance to Cade.
Cade nodded very seriously. “My Grammy says it’s important to have friends and that Becker is a nice man. He’s really good at snowman-building, too.”
At this, “Becker” looked smug. Too smug for a man being called by the wrong name, but clearly he didn’t see it that way.
She just rolled her eyes in response. Then spoke low enough for Cade not to hear. “Clearly Cade’s Grammy doesn’t know about your tree-slaying and inn-ruining.”
“Ah ah ah,” Beck reprimanded her, shaking his finger, “you promised. No more tree talk tonight.”
“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes again. “But I think you promised hot chocolate.”
“Fair enough. We should be able to make it to the coffee shop and back before they light the tree.” He lowered his gaze to the little boy. “You and your grandfolks want to go with us, Cade?”
The little kid’s eyes lit up, same as if he’d been invited to Disneyland. “Wait and I’ll go ask!”
“He really seems to like you,” she observed aloud without planning it.
“Obviously a smart kid.”
She blew out a derisive breath. “Or deluded. Looking through snowman-colored glasses.”
He let out a laugh at that. And then—oh—looked at her like he wanted to kiss her.
And worse yet, she wanted to kiss him, too.
But she shouldn’t—not here, in front of people. Not anywhere actually. So it was a good thing Cade came running back up just then. “They’re gonna stay here, but I can go!” he reported, then held up a five-dollar bill, stretched out between two small striped mittens. “Grandpa gave me money!”
“You can keep that,” he told the kid. “Hot chocolate’s on me.” Then he looked to her and spoke more quietly. “No Baileys this time, though.”
“Definitely not,” she agreed.
“Since we’re just ‘maybe sort of friends,’” he said, the words—and his expression—clearly challenging the claim.
In response, she lowered her chin, regarding him from beneath shaded lids. But, oh boy, that was a flirtatious look if ever she cast one. It snuck right out—a natural, and ridiculously flirtatious, response. They were so not just maybe sort of friends.
“What’s Baileys?” Cade’s little voice cut through her desire to ask.
“A...grown-up drink,” Beck told him.
“Can I try some?”
“No,” Beck said. “It makes you do crazy things. Now let’s go or we’ll miss the tree-lighting.”
* * *
SUZANNE STOOD IN the shadows, next to Dahlia and Mr. Desjardins, but feeling rather alone as the Summer Island Christmas tree burst festively into light. At the same time, other, smaller trees in Lakeview Park lit up, too, their branches draped with tiny white bulbs that contrasted with the colored ones on the much larger evergreen in the street. Everyone oohed and ahhed at the spectacular sight as the choir broke into “O Christmas Tree.”
When the crowd began to disperse a few minutes later, Dahlia said to Suzanne, “The Pink Pelican’s open tonight, serving dinner and drinks ’til ten. Join Pierre and me in knocking back a few? I think maybe you need it.”
Suzanne forced a smile. Normally, she didn’t mind playing third wheel with couples—since normally she chose not to be part of a couple herself. But suddenly she feared hanging out with Dahlia and her charming French lover would leave her even more lonesome. “Thanks, but I’m tired and ready to head home.”
“Maybe it’s nothing,” Dahlia said. Despite the vagueness, they both knew what she was talking about. “He has to be nice to Lila—he’s trying to preserve his friendship with Meg. Maybe that’s all it is.”
Maybe. But she’d watched Beck from a distance. He’d never come back. And in fact, “He spent the whole evening with her.”
Dahlia shrugged, smiled in her wise way. “The whole evening was an hour. And besides, whatever the nature of their relationship is, Lila will be gone before Christmas. You’ll be here long after, and so will he.”
“That’s a good point,” Suzanne replied dryly, “if I want to be someone’s second choice.”
It surprised her when her older friend just laughed. “You’re thinking too much, worrying too hard. It’s Christmas. Come have a drink with us. I hear the Pelican has some new holiday cocktails. There’s something called a Grinch nog, which I think is spiked eggnog dyed green. And reindeer punch—which I’m told involves rum.”
Suzanne took all that in, along with Dahlia’s sensible, practical tone. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was nothing.
And either way, she hadn’t come to this island to chase a man. She’d come here to live a contented life on her own. Maybe she just needed to get her head on straight and get back to that. It was the holiday season—she should enjoy a holly jolly couple of hours out with friends.
“All right,” she conceded.
At this, Mr. Desjardins chimed in to say, “Very good. I will have ze company of two lovely ladies zis evening. I am a lucky man.”
And Suzanne admitted to them both, “A Grinch nog might just hit the spot right now.”
Or two. Or five.
Since apparently lying to herself no longer worked. Despite the inner pep talk, she didn’t feel sensible, or contented, or merry. It was too late—her heart had left the gate and there was no going back.
CHAPTER TWELVE
TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, the Summer Island morning broke bright but cold. Despite beams of winter sun, the narrow stretch of Lake Michigan that separated the state’s Upper and Lower Peninsulas teemed with jagged, angry-looking chunks of ice. It grew thicker closer to shore, the chunks and plates pushing against and piling up on one another to create what the locals called “shove ice.” Lila thought it seemed early in the season for that—but she also knew that in winter, there was no normal and conditions changed constantly.
Standing on the front porch, even one of Meg’s thick cardigan sweaters wrapped around her wasn’t enough to ward off the biting cold. She stood there for a while anyway, though, somehow needing to soak in the quiet winter soul of the island, or maybe it was the soul of her grandmother she sought strength from just now—or maybe the two were one.
Despite the blessedly deep sleep she’d experienced the night
she’d had sex with Beck, her sleepless nights had since returned. Though last night had been a little better. She’d gone to bed thinking about the time spent with Beck at the tree-lighting. Normally these days, no matter what she lay down thinking about, her mind ultimately returned to Simon Alexis and her ex-best friend, Whitney, and sometimes now also bulldozers and empty hillsides and letting Meg down, all of it keeping her tossing and turning all night—but last night she’d fallen asleep in an almost-reasonable amount of time. She’d awakened with the sun, and gratitude for sleep had been enough to lead her outside, thinking she should appreciate the morning.
She’d now made winter hats for Meg, Seth, her mom, her dad, Suzanne, and Dahlia. More than one for Meg actually—in different colors and weights of yarn. She’d made a couple for herself, too, but had quickly realized that making them for other people was somehow more gratifying.
Funny, she’d once been so proud to have a good enough job to afford to buy her family nice gifts—but most anything she’d ever bought them now paled in meaning next to the simple knitted hats laid out in a neat row on the back of the sofa. She wasn’t even sure anyone would like them, or that they would fit. But she would enjoy giving them, and knew in her heart that at the very least, her family would appreciate the thought and effort she’d put into them. It had been a long time since she’d given handmade gifts—probably since her childhood.
In addition to the e-wrap and u-wrap stitches, she’d just added another to her repertoire—the figure eight stitch created a loose, pretty sort of stitch with worsted weight yarn, and in bulky yarn it resulted in a neat, stylized one.
I wonder if I can knit Meg enough hats to eventually make up for the loss of the trees. A silly thought, but probably why she suffered the compulsion to make more and more of them for her sister.
Unable to take the cold any longer, she ducked back inside and headed for the kitchen to fill Miss Kitty’s food and water bowls and brew herself a cup of hot tea. Turning on the faucet, a glance out the window drew her eyes up the hill toward the bulldozer. Where...something was different. It was covered up—with a tarp or something. Seemed like a good sign.