DECEMBER DANCE
Book #5 in the McCullough Romance Series
by Verity Norton
©2014 by Verity Norton
Cover image by Mary Sue Roberts
Published 2014 by The Fiction Works
http://www.fictionworks.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This story is a work of fiction. Characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
THE McCULLOUGHS
Grandparents: Evan and Eleanor McCullough
Their children:
Patrick
Nan
Nigel
Emily
The McCullough Families and Cousins:
Nan McCullough Jameson, married to Grant Jameson
Their children:
Alex McCullough Jameson, engaged to Cassie Callahan
Anne McCullough Jameson
Allie McCullough Jameson
Aidan McCullough Jameson
Nigel McCullough, married to Ivy McCullough
Their children:
Sean McCullough, married to Sophie Weldon
Skye McCullough, engaged to Nick Callen
Sloan McCullough
Patrick McCullough, married to Lana McCullough
Their children:
Matt McCullough, married to Arielle Bradford
Megan McCullough
Morgan McCullough
Mairi McCullough
Emily McCullough Burnett, married to Palmer Burnett
Their children:
Kelly McCullough Burnett
Kieran McCullough Burnett
Kayleigh McCullough Burnett
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
About the Author
Chapter 1
He stared through the lens of his camera, the lens of his Nikon that knew its subject intimately. If only he could say the same for himself.
She was magnificent. Spirit in motion. He could never take his eyes off her, even when he wasn’t watching her through the camera lens. And, he had noticed, during the seven months since he’d first photographed her, his heart rate always increased when he saw her. He didn’t need a blood pressure test to tell him that.
The fact that she was alone in her studio dancing and had not noticed him standing there in the viewing room told him just how passionate about dance she was. She never noticed him. Of course, most of the time, he’d been taking pictures from the theater floor while she was on stage in San Francisco or out on tour, and cameras were a part of performing. But watching her in the middle of her studio as she choreographed a dance for her students was far more intrusive. And risky.
He did not want her to see him, but he hadn’t been able to resist taking just a few more shots before he introduced himself and told him her intentions, at least some of them. Once that happened everything would change.
Gently he pushed open the door, watching her as he backed away, still unable to take his eyes off her. She truly was poetry in motion. A cliché perhaps, but never had words been more accurate than when they were describing Anne Jameson. She was beauty and power. Technique and raw emotion. Pure joy.
He’d been watching her on and off for months now, taking shots of her dancing professionally, others of her teaching her students at the local studio—all while she was completely unaware of the camera. He’d even caught her dancing with her friends at an inn outside of Winslow.
Just once more, he had told himself. He had wanted to observe her once more before introducing himself. Once they met, there would be no turning back. Things would change. She would change, perhaps even becoming inhibited in front of his invasive camera. It was akin to taking a relationship to the next level. The only problem was, the lady didn’t know they were in a relationship.
“You’re a professional photographer?” Palmer Burnett asked the young man who sat across the pub table from him. Faded jeans, corduroy jacket, disheveled dusty brown hair that looked as if he’d been running his hands through it. And deep brown eyes that would most likely melt the hearts of his daughters as well as his nieces.
“I am.”
“How did you know about the studio upstairs?”
“I overheard the bartender talking about it.”
“Why don’t you just rent a room at the local B & B for a couple days?”
“I plan to be here for a while.”
“How long does it take to shoot some pictures of the river?” Palmer asked.
Christopher Newell hesitated. Damn. Canden Valley was a tiny village and if he told the owner of the pub his real reason for being here, everyone in the village would know by the end of the day, including Anne McCullough Jameson. But he had lived with mendacity for too long. “The river isn’t my main subject.”
Palmer’s head tilted to the side in amusement. Then an understanding smile curved the corners of his mouth. “What exactly are you photographing? Or should I say whom?”
Chris liked the owner of The Village Pub. After observing the way he joked around with his employees, it was hard not to. He had never heard a harsh word from the man, even after one of his bartenders had knocked over six full wine glasses in one sweep and broken every one of them. He was the kind of man he would have liked to have for a father. Hell, he wished his own father had even an ounce of the man’s warmth and kindness.
Chris met Palmer’s eyes straight on. “Is my renting the apartment above the pub contingent on your approval of my photo shoot?”
Palmer shook his head. “Not at all, lad. I’m just curious is all. However, I do normally keep the apartment available for employees.”
“I understand,” Chris said. “Do you know of any other rentals available in the village?”
“You really don’t want to tell me whom you’re photographing.”
“I’m just lousy at tending bar and waiting tables.”
“Not a requirement. And since all my employees are currently living elsewhere, the studio is available. Or will be in a couple days.”
“Does that mean I can—?”
“It means you can tell me more about yourself.” Palmer immediately thought of Nick Callen, the award-winning journalist who had applied for a bartending job so he could work side by side with and win the heart of one Skye McCullough, one of Palmer’s many nieces. “You’re not an award-winning photographer, are you?”
“As a matter of fact—”
“So, now are you going to tell me the name of the young lady with whom you’re smitten?”
“That obvious?”
“That obvious.”
“Is this conversation confidential?”
Palmer glanced over at Skye who was within hearing distance. “It will be as soon as my bartender returns to the bar and is out of earshot.”
Good
thing, Chris thought, considering that she was a friend of Anne’s. As soon as she had returned to the bar, Chris said, “She doesn’t know it yet, but I’m here to do a photo shoot of your local dancer, Anne Jameson. Do you know her?”
Palmer coughed and cleared his throat. “Anne? You’re hoping to win the heart of my niece?”
“Shit.” He might as well throw his Nikon back in his car and head home to the Bay Area. He’d thought his plan was foolproof. He’d studied the focus of his camera lens enough that he knew he could not simply introduce himself and ask her out on a date. She might agree to go out with him, but then he was setting himself up for ultimate rejection. Even if she did date him for a while, right before she left for her next dance tour, she would toss him aside as she had all the other men in her life. Knowing that, he’d determined that their relationship had to be different. They needed to become photographer and subject first. They needed a strong enough friendship that their relationship could develop into something more.
Palmer studied the young man for a long moment of amusement, then decided to put him out of his misery. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. But tell me this. Is it really a photo shoot you’re after or the subject of it?”
Chris’s smile was cautious. “Both.”
Palmer returned the smile and nodded. “Okay then. Tell me more.”
“I’m planning to do a magazine essay and photo spread, featuring Anne.” And hopefully it would develop into the book on dance that he had begun to draft.
“And you haven’t told her this because . . . ?”
“Next on the agenda. As soon as I meet her.”
“And if she says no?”
“She’s already said yes.”
Palmer’s forehead wrinkled. “I thought you hadn’t met her yet.”
“I haven’t. She told her agent she’d do a photo shoot. She just doesn’t know me yet.”
“So, why my niece? Why Anne?” Palmer knew she was an excellent dancer, but she was a great deal more than that. He wondered if her secret admirer recognized that.
“To me she epitomizes what dance really is—not just technique and movement but a means to express your deepest self.”
Palmer reached inside his pocket and pulled out a key ring. He circled a small key until it was released and handed it to Chris. “Here you are, lad.”
Chris accepted the key and pocketed it before the man could change his mind. “Why?”
“You seem to understand who Anne really is and her passion for dance.”
“I’d like to think so.”
“Check back here before you move in. Cassie, my most recent tenant, has moved her things out of the apartment, but wants a couple days to clean it.”
“Is she one of your employees?”
“Family friend, and newly engaged to Anne’s brother Alex.”
Something Chris would have known if he hadn’t just returned to Canden Valley after his initial visit. But while Anne was off on tour he’d been covering a friend’s wedding as well as a series of photo shoots to illustrate a colleague’s article and a couple photo essays of his own. The rest of the time he had been working on his other book, the one featuring the coastline and the inhabitants of the small town of Winslow, only a short drive from Canden Valley where he was staying with his sister.
Palmer stood up and patted him on the back. “Good luck, lad.”
Chris caught the skeptical tone in his voice. “Will I need it?”
Palmer rubbed his chin and chuckled. “Oh, yeah.”
“Any advice?”
“Patience. And you might want to get to know Nick Callen really well.”
“Your other bartender?”
“Yep. If anyone knows how to win over a stubborn female, it’s Nick. And just a word of caution. You do know that if you do anything to hurt one of the McCullough cousins, you’ll be answering to all fourteen of them.”
Chris knew enough to recognize the truth of that statement. He just hadn’t realized there were fourteen of them. He fingered the key in his pocket and thanked Palmer Burnett.
Just as he left the pub, his cell phone vibrated. Pressing it to his ear, he answered, “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself. Have you met your lady love yet?” Joe, his best friend, and, until a couple minutes ago, the only person he’d told about Anne.
“Soon.”
Joe groaned. “I love you, man, but I have to tell you, you’re pathetic.”
“Thanks. That does a lot for my self-confidence.”
But what Joe found pathetic, Chris believed was wise. His friend didn’t know the woman. Timing was everything. As was finding the right rhythm.
“You’ve had what, seven months to introduce yourself? Just tell her you’re one of the famous Marin County Newells, and she’ll snap you up in a heartbeat.”
Not Anne. “She’s different. Besides which, I’d prefer that she not know who I am. If anything, it would turn her off.”
“So win her over with your good looks and charm. I haven’t met a woman yet who didn’t bypass me and head for you—although I don’t know why.”
“I’m looking for a real relationship here.”
“Okay, but you do realize that if you wait much longer, she’s going to hook up with some jerk who’s not so chicken-assed afraid of her.”
Said with the eloquence of a scholar. But he had a point. “Soon.”
“I’m not holding my breath.”
“Seriously.” He told his friend about renting the room over the pub and his conversation with her uncle.
“You’re sure he won’t rat you out?”
“He said he wouldn’t.”
“Yeah, okay, but what about her friend who saw you taking pictures of her last summer? You know, the one with the gold curls or whatever?”
“Yeah, that could be a problem. But I’ve been in town for a few days now, and I haven’t seen her around.” A lucky break, he figured. He’d thought for sure she had noticed him and would tell the dancer she had a secret admirer, but as far as he could tell, the woman wasn’t a local.
Things were definitely moving in the right direction. He was moving in the right direction. Now all he needed was to actually open his mouth and speak to the woman who clearly had the power to break his heart.
Chapter 2
She twirled around as the snowflakes drifted slowly toward the oak trees. Snow in Canden Valley. Her favorite thing in the world. It had only happened twice before in her lifetime. She wasn’t about to pass up the chance to celebrate, and celebration to Anne McCullough Jameson meant one thing. Dance.
“Anne! What are you doing?”
She stopped twirling for a moment and looked up at her mother who stood on the porch of the Victorian farmhouse. “What do you think I’m doing?”
Nan Jameson laughed at her daughter. “Silly me,” she mumbled. “Well, when you’re finished twirling, come in the house for some hot chocolate.”
“I’ll be too busy leaping and skipping.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re no longer six years old.”
Anne grinned at her mother. “Yes, but I can still dance as if I am. I think I just came up with the perfect change for the sugar plum choreography.”
Nan watched her daughter for a moment, then ran into the house to retrieve her video camera. How many feet of film had she taken over the years of her dancing daughter? Yes, she had filled tapes of Alex, her oldest, riding horses. And she had boxes of footage of the twins who had come much later than Alex and Anne, building forts and castles and creating secret gardens—secret from everyone but their mother—but the footage she had taken over the years of her dancer daughter far surpassed what she’d taken of her other children. Even under the threat of torture, she would not confess that fact to anyone.
“Ohhh, Mom!”
Nan turned off the camera as her daughter leaped up the stairs toward her.
“You don’t have to record everything I do!”
“Oh, yes I do
, at least when you’re dancing. I have rights, you know. Especially since you’re still living here.”
Anne groaned. She didn’t need to be reminded that she was twenty-six and back living at her parents’ home.
Nan slung her arm over her daughter’s shoulder and escorted her inside to the warmth of their very large but cozy farmhouse. “It only makes sense that you live here. You’re gone half the year on tour anyway. Why rent a place?”
“It’s more like three or four months out of the year.”
“Yes, but if you moved out, you’d have to do your own cooking.”
Anne smiled. “I could still stop by for dinner every night.”
“And breakfast and lunch?”
“Good point.” Her dad always seemed to have breakfast prepared no matter how early she got up. Even on Sunday morning before she headed out to teach her crack-of-dawn yoga class.
“So, enough of that. Let’s talk turkey.”
“Turkey?” Anne stepped out of her boots, slipped off her coat and hung it up by the front door, then followed her mother into the country kitchen where she knew homemade hot chocolate was waiting. Maybe her Aunt Ivy had stopped by with cookies or freshly-baked pumpkin muffins. Judging from the scents wafting her way, she was right on all counts.
“Turkey as in Christmas,” Nan said. “Have you finished your shopping?”
“Mom, there are three more weeks until Christmas.”
“In other words, you haven’t started.”
Anne took a sip of the divine chocolate liquid and broke off a piece of pumpkin muffin to pop into her mouth. “Hey, I’ve started. I’ve ordered a necklace from Skye for Allie. She’ll love it, especially if her Cousin Skye made it.”
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