A Kiss in Winter

by Susan Crandall

  “For giving me this moment. I haven’t sat on these steps for six years. I used to spend a lot of time out here, thinking.”

  “It is a good place to think,” he said. He’d gravitated to this spot many a night when sleep eluded him. He never thought about why these hard steps drew him more than the comfort of the rockers on the front porch. But as he sat beside Caroline, it became clear. It was the wide expanse of sky, the way you could feel you were floating unconfined among the stars… the sense of freedom and attachment both at once.

  She started to take her hand away from his leg, but he captured it in his own. They continued to sit in silence and darkness for a long while.

  She watched the sky.

  He watched her.

  It had been quiet so long, that when she spoke with her gaze fixed in the distance, it startled him. “I really am sorry I took my mood out on you.” She patted their entwined hands, letting her hand come to rest atop them. Then she turned her gray eyes to him. They shone like silver in the darkness. “Sometimes this parent-but-not-parent thing gets to me. It wasn’t nice of me to drag it out here with me. If I couldn’t let it go, I should have stayed home.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  With a ghost of a smile, she said, “Me too.”

  Mick’s gaze moved to her lips. They were parted slightly and he heard her breath moving softly past them. He slowly dipped his head closer. This was one of the few perfect moments in life, distractions gone, intentions shining like crystal, nothing in the air but promise.

  The kiss was as gentle as the new-fallen night. His lips brushed hers and she welcomed them. He lingered there, tasting, testing for a long moment, her hand held tenderly in his.

  It felt right, this kiss, with this woman, in this place.

  And he didn’t deserve it.

  A familiar stabbing cramp shot through his neck and shoulders; punishment for forgetting, even momentarily, his sins. He got up and said, “Come on. We’ll eat before you instruct me on the secret ways of the house.”

  Looking up at him almost shyly, she said, “I should go home and deal with my sister. I sort of ran away.” She stood and braced her hands on her back.

  “But I worked so hard,” he said pleadingly as he stood and opened the back door. “I turned on the oven and everything.”

  She hesitated just long enough to make him think she was going to blow him off. Then she gave him a crooked smile. “Guess I don’t need you mad at me, too.” She stepped into his kitchen.

  He reached around her and turned on the light.

  She breathed in deeply. “Smells good.”

  “Only the finest frozen lasagna for my guests.”

  She had the grace to laugh sweetly.

  He set his notepad on the counter and went to the sink to wash his hands.

  “You need to change your calendar,” she said.

  He glanced up. She stood with her arms crossed looking at the Kentucky Blue calendar hanging on his refrigerator. He hadn’t changed from the August picture of the Ferris wheel against the night sky.

  “I like that one. We sorta saw it together.”

  With a half-smile she said, “I guess we sorta did.” She moved to wash her hands, too. “I suppose I thought you’d be partial to February; the one of the barn.”

  “I might be, after tonight.”

  Keeping her gaze focused on her sudsy hands, a blush rose in Caroline’s cheeks. “Did you see in the paper that the Ferris wheel had a problem later that night?”

  “Don’t read the paper.” He dried his hands. “What happened?”

  “The operator said it was sabotage—sounded a little melodramatic to me. My sister Macie was on it at the time and had to be rescued by the fire department.”

  “No kidding?” He handed her the towel. Sabotage didn’t sound so far-out to him; he knew for a fact people did crazy things for no apparent reason. “Was she okay?”

  “Yeah. Home late, but fine. She was stuck up there with a boy—I’m afraid she liked it. She’s always been so level-headed, but now…”

  He laughed. “Ahh, I see. How old is she?”

  “Seventeen.” She was twisting her necklace around her finger. He’d noticed it before; a gold heart that he selfishly hoped wasn’t from a lover.

  He gave a grunt that was supposed to sound noncommittal.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That grumble wasn’t nothing.”

  “Well, seventeen… sitting with boys in the dark isn’t so out of the ordinary. Besides, it’s pretty hard to have sex in a Ferris wheel seat.”

  She huffed. “I never said I thought they had sex.”

  “You don’t approve of her being with a boy at all?”

  “She hasn’t had a lot of experience, and this boy is, well, worldly. I’ve always worried that Macie needs more self-confidence—and a boy like this can take advantage of her.”

  “And you think seventeen is too young to begin to learn how to handle advances from the opposite sex?”

  “You’re making me sound like a—a—I don’t know what.” Her arms crossed over her stomach. “You don’t know this boy.”

  “Ahh.” It slipped out when he’d intended to swallow it.

  “Stop with the grunts and the ahhhs, Mr. Psychoanalyst. For all I know, this kid was the one who broke the thing in the first place. He talked the operator into running the ride one more time after he’d shut it down. If it was intentional, I mean, who else would have done it?”

  He raised his hands in surrender. “You’re absolutely right.” Why did he have to do that? Why did his mind automatically shift into analytical mode when teenagers were mentioned? He didn’t even know these kids. Maybe this girl was on the ragged edge. Maybe this boy was trouble. Mick sure as hell didn’t have any business expressing an opinion in any case.

  Caroline looked vindicated.

  But seventeen-year-olds riding on a Ferris wheel at the county fair, how rotten could they be?

  Enough.

  He moved to the oven and put the subject out of his mind. “This should be ready. There’s a bottle of wine over on the table if you want to open it.”

  She moved across the room and picked the bottle up off the old oak table. “Ummm, nice—a real cork and everything.”

  “Hey, I’m cooking-impaired, not cheap.”

  He heard the cork give a soft pop as he lifted the disposable tray of lasagna from the oven. “This doesn’t look half-bad, if I do say so myself.”

  She came up beside him and looked around his shoulder. “Well, when you buy the best…”

  He liked the feel of her pressed against his arm as she sniffed the dish and pronounced it edible.

  She moved back to the table, leaving his arm feeling unnaturally cool. “Shall I pour?”

  “Sure. And careful with the Pizza Express cups.”

  She shook her head as she lifted one of the plastic tumblers. “How old did you say you are?”

  “Kimberly got custody of all the glassware. I left with what I came with—college cups.”

  “Ah, the ex-girlfriend.”

  “How about you? Anyone special in your life, ex or present?” He busied his hands with dishing up the lasagna, allowing only brief glances at her as he waited for the answer.

  She fingered the wine bottle before she picked it up. “Nope,” she said, popping the p. “Been too busy.”

  “Wise move. Kimberly and I were both too busy; that’s why we ended up together… and, I guess, why we lasted so long—we were too busy to break up.”

  Caroline poured the wine into the plastic cups, stepped close, and handed one to him. “No regrets?”

  He reached for the cup, taking his time to remove it from her grasp. “What was it you said earlier about longing for the road not taken? If it hadn’t been for Kimberly not wanting certain things, I might not know how much I do want them.”

  Caroline picked up her cup and lifted a brow. “Such as?”

 
“Simple things. Surrounding myself with the smell of old books, the crackle of old photo album pages, antiques, the distinct aroma of a newly plowed field, a handful of children.”

  “You’re sounding more like a farmer all the time.”

  He lifted his cup in a toast. “To the endless renewal of the earth, the predictable uncertainty of the growing season, to freshly turned soil beneath our shoes.”

  She was looking at him as if she were trying to see something beneath his skin. After a moment, she tipped the rim of her cup against his. “Well said.”

  As he held her gaze and sipped his wine, he realized he had spoken his heart. After years of trying to fit where he didn’t belong, he was finally home.

  He nearly looked over his shoulder, so strong was the specter of flip side to that homecoming. He was on the dark road; he had no right to enjoy the light.

  Caroline watched Mick drink really good wine from really pathetic barware. The more time she spent with him, the more she liked him. Silly college cups. His ability to turn her mood 180 degrees so subtly that she didn’t resist it. Gentle kisses on the back step. The look in his eyes when he proclaimed his attachment to a photograph she’d taken because they’d looked at a similar scene together. And now she saw clearly he had the heart of a man who loved the land.

  But there had been, ever so briefly, that flicker of something dark and disturbing deep in his eyes. It was well concealed from the rest of his demeanor; neither his face nor his voice reflected it. But it was there—and this was the second time she’d seen it. She certainly knew not to ignore such a thing. Even as a young child, she’d been able to see lies in her mother’s boyfriends’ eyes long before they surfaced and began to cause trouble.

  She drew herself slightly away from him.

  He cleared his throat, then made a show of pulling out her chair for her. “Mademoiselle.”

  She took a seat, knowing she should excuse herself and go home. Instead, she ignored her good sense and said, “That’s signora—we’re eating Italian.”

  Mick took his seat across from Caroline. She sometimes reminded him of a doe at the edge of the woods, edging closer only to become skittish and withdraw.

  She should be wary. He had no right to try to draw her closer—and yet he couldn’t seem to help himself.

  As they began to eat, the wariness again ebbed and they fell back into easy conversation. It didn’t escape him that as long as they limited themselves to lighthearted wordplay, Caroline remained steady.

  This woman was so vastly different from anyone he’d ever been drawn to. She sat across from him, eating frozen lasagna off faded plastic plates with mismatched silverware, drinking wine from throwaway cups with the same grace and respect most women reserve for an expensive meal in a five-star restaurant. She understood this farm better than he could ever hope to. But there was a mystery to that wariness he saw in her, something he’d bet was rooted in her life with her first mother.

  And somewhere under that blithe façade was a woman whose intense passion electrified everything she captured in her camera lens.

  As they finished off the bottle of wine, she asked, “If you love agriculture so much, why did you go to medical school?”

  Ah, not so skittish when it came to digging into his emotional issues. “Family expectations.”

  “I guess I can identify with that.” She tilted her head as she ran her index finger along the rim of her plastic tumbler, much in the same way he’d seen people do on crystal to make it “sing.” Her finger made an elegant and mesmerizing circle; he caught himself leaning forward, listening for the high-pitched tone that would never come.

  “It seems like you’ve done a much more admirable job with yours than I have with mine,” he said, the cramp creeping back into his neck.

  Her finger stilled on the rim. With a slow half-shake of her head, she gave a ghost of a laugh. “I wouldn’t be putting any money on that.”

  “My father called me a coward and a quitter—just before he stopped talking to me altogether. Last I saw him he was ten shades of purple.” There, would she take another step out of the woods, or would she retreat again?

  “Hmmm, I’ll meet your silent treatment and raise you an angry tirade by a teenage girl.” She tossed imaginary poker chips onto the table between them.

  He made a show like he was laying his cards on the table, pleased that, although cloaked in banter, she might actually be inching toward a deeper conversation. He upped the ante. “My father was right.”

  For a moment, she pulled her mouth to one side, as if contemplating her decision. Then she laid her imaginary cards on the table. “I think I have you.”

  He settled back in his chair and crossed his arms. “How do you figure that? Mine is justified.”

  “First of all,” she said, resting her forearms on the table and leaning forward slightly, “I don’t believe that.” She leaned back, mimicking his posture by crossing her arms over her chest. “Besides, I have two… that would equal 100 percent screwup in my case. You’re only batting 500, one parent out of two—and that’s if we don’t throw in the sisters.”

  He tapped his index finger on the tabletop. “No, no. You’re not considering that mine is not only justified, but most likely permanent. Teenage tantrums are a flash in the pan. No lasting harm done. Even with two kids in a snit, I’m holding four aces and you’ve only got a pair of nines.”

  She got up and walked around the table, stopping beside him with her hand outstretched. “I think we should return to the place of contemplation so I can examine your hand more closely.”

  Leaving the dishes on the table, Mick allowed her to lead him toward the back door. “Wait,” he said, pulling her toward the counter where he snagged another bottle of wine and the corkscrew. “Let me get our glasses.”

  She tugged him toward the door. “Forget it. Shared soul cleansing requires drinking straight from the bottle.”

  After they sat on the steps, he opened the bottle and offered her the first drink. She took a ladylike sip and handed the bottle to him.

  “You’ve got the aces,” she said, “you go first.”

  “I’ve got aces, so I get to choose. You go first.”

  She drew a deep breath and blew it out quickly. “Sam was taken to jail right before he left for school. I let him spend the night there. He really hasn’t spoken to me since.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He was caught spraying graffiti on the railroad overpass just west of town.”

  Mick looked toward the barn. She must have followed his gaze, because she was quick to add, “If Sam had wanted to leave a message for Miranda Stockton, he would have done it a long time ago—and it would have looked a hell of a lot better than that.” She pointed with a jerky motion that seemed oddly defensive.

  Mick said, “She said it happened while she was on vacation last February.”

  Caroline looked at him. “And she just left it like that?” Disbelief colored her voice.

  “Hey, it was Miranda Stockton; normal reactions don’t apply. I guess she figured since you can’t see it from the road… Why do you say it would have looked better?”

  “I’ll have to show you some of Sam’s so-called work. He photographs it when he’s done… I found a box stashed in his closet with pictures of his crimes. The kid can use a spray can like the masters used a brush. It’s really amazing… and destructive and totally useless. Why does he have to do it on public property? Why can’t he find a good outlet for his talent—like canvas?”

  “Sometimes kids do that kind of thing for the rush as much as for the result. It’s the danger that gives it the edge they love. Can be addicting—the adrenaline rush.” Stop analyzing.

  “I never thought of his tagging in that way,” she said contemplatively. “That would be Sam, always looking for the edge, the speed, the thrill, the I-can’t-believe-that-didn’t-kill-me factor.” She reached for the wine bottle and took another drink, this one far less dainty than the first. �
�Anyway, I’ve raised a delinquent. He got caught. I let him sit. We moved him into his dorm acting like strangers. He never picks up when I call. It’s probably because he’s so busy at school. But it’s hard to get the air cleared…”

  “Does he call you back?”

  “Occasionally, but I’ve never been able to pick up, so he’s left voice mails.”

  “Does he know you’re not going to be available?”

  “No!” She paused. “Well, maybe once or twice.” She turned sharply and looked at him. “Are you psychoanalyzing again?”

  “Just asking logical questions.”

  “Humph. Well, that’s it for me. Now you.”

  “That’s only half of your pair.” And it’s only scratching the surface, he thought, spitting out the stark details. But it was a step in the right direction. Caroline had no idea the amount of conflict she had buried inside. Unaddressed conflict festered and ate a person from the inside out.

  “And that’s all you’re going to see until I get a peek at a couple of your aces,” she said with her nose in the air.

  Mick took a very long drink, swallowing loudly as he set the bottle on the step between them. The grinding clink of glass on concrete sent a chill that grated his bones.

  Fixing his gaze on the sky, he threw in all of his chips and said, “I quit medicine because I killed three people.”

  Macie’s muscles trembled as she ran from one pool of streetlight to another. Giant, fiery hands reached in and tried to drag her lungs up her throat, but she wasn’t going to let up; there were only three more blocks. Three blocks and she’d have done two miles. Pretty good, since she could barely run two blocks a month ago.

  If Caroline was home, Macie would have to cool down before she went in. Experience told her she’d pushed hard enough that, even though she hadn’t eaten since lunch, and then only a container of lowfat yogurt, there would be retching.

  At first, she’d hated heaving her guts up at the end of a run. But she’d gotten used to it; in fact, she actually felt better, more buoyant, when her stomach was completely empty.

  When she neared the house, she could see its windows were dark.

  She didn’t let up the pace as she flung the back door open and ran straight to the kitchen sink. Slamming her hip bones against the counter, she leaned over and gagged around her gasps for breath.