A Season to Love

by Nicole Deese

  My blood pressure was climbing, skipping by multiples of ten. “I don’t have a boyfriend, Alex.”

  She furrowed her eyebrows. “You don’t? Weird.”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “I have no clue who this note is from—or what it’s supposed to mean.”

  She tucked a stray piece of bright-blue hair behind her ear. “I guess you’ll find out at six, then. Think of it as a mystery.”

  If there was one thing I disliked more than a surprise, it was a mystery.

  Chapter Eleven

  As the clock struck six, the refreshment tables looked like a fast-food restaurant at lunch hour. Parents and faculty swarmed around the finger foods, but I was less interested in bean dip and mixed nuts than I was in the entrance doors. In the last twenty minutes, I had greeted no fewer than one hundred Lenox residents, pointed to the beverage table, and instructed each patron on how to sign in with the auction manager before being seated.

  Sipping on a full glass of watered-down strawberry lemonade, I searched the far corner of the room again.

  “I’m afraid I have a bad habit of running late.”

  I spun around, clutching my drink. “Patrick.” His name sailed from my lips without thought.

  That smile, and then, “I hoped I’d find you here. I left a message for you with a girl at the center, but she seemed . . . interesting.” That one word could replace a paragraph of adjectives for Alex.

  “Yes, well, it was an interesting sort of day.” I met his eyes and wondered if there was a name for that shade of blue. If there wasn’t, there should be.

  “Maybe we should compare notes.” He pointed toward the stage. “After we find our seats.”

  The tingling sensation at the back of my neck was slowly subsiding. Maybe he’d forgotten about our little deal. Maybe this was his way of letting me off the hook so I didn’t have to back out. Maybe—

  He pulled a small piece of white paper from the breast pocket of his dress shirt. “Your first Rex Lesson.”

  Trying to conjure up a reason to reject whatever was written on that piece of paper, I set my slippery plastic cup on the edge of the refreshment table. Unfortunately, it didn’t stay there.

  Patrick grabbed my shoulders and pushed me to the side. Pink liquid splattered to the ground, spotting our shoes with sugary food coloring. I grappled for a stack of napkins and immediately bent to wipe the mess from Patrick’s leather shoes.

  He bent down, too.

  The blush creeping up my neck was likely ten shades darker than the liquid I smeared with these useless recycled napkins.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, making another swipe at his shoe with a clean napkin. He stilled my hand, plucked the wet wad from my fingers, and pitched it into the trash can. Naturally, he made a basket.

  “Willa, this is the least toxic substance I’ve had splashed on these shoes today. It’s fine, really.”

  Pulling me up by the arm, he smiled, and something inside me smiled back.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The twenty-second annual auction is about to begin.”

  “Shall we?” Eyebrow raised, he motioned for me to join him.

  The note, still pinched between his forefinger and thumb, was like the silent tick of a bomb as we passed row after row of chairs.

  He stopped at the end of an aisle and waited for me to take the seat beside him. The inside seat. I released a deep breath, felt for a peppermint in my pocket, and inched my way past him—all while debating how I might go about asking him to switch places. How might I explain my I-have-to-sit-on-the-aisle neurosis? I could have avoided this entire evening if a certain new employee had taken a proper phone message.

  I sat and popped the peppermint in my mouth, which dulled my anxiety but not the weight of Patrick’s stare.

  “Willa, dear?” That crackly voice could only belong to one person.

  Mrs. Carter—Davis Carter’s grandmother—waddled toward me, cane in hand.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Carter,” I said, pushing the mint to the side of my cheek.

  The woman was a full foot shorter than me, but what she lacked in height she made up for in volume. Hair like fluffed black cotton and lips a year-round shade of CoverGirl coral, Dolores Carter was the queen of Lenox town gossip.

  She craned her neck to scope out exhibit A.

  He offered her his hand. “Hello. I’m Patrick McCade. I don’t believe we’ve met. Mrs. Carter, is it?”

  “Yes. A pleasure.” She eyed him, her smile as phony as her pleasantries. “I doubt there’s a soul left in Lenox who doesn’t know who you are—Dr. Ivar’s traveling son.”

  Her eyes skimmed the length of him again before squeezing past us to her seat—just two chairs down from mine.

  “My grandson says you’re a difficult gal to get hold of these days.”

  As much as I wanted to avoid this conversation, I was even more certain I didn’t want to invite Patrick into it. I twisted in my seat to block him from view. “It’s been a busy few months.”

  She reached over and patted my knee. “Sure, sure. He told me you took a job at that fancy gym on the east side of town.”

  This conversation was the definition of “small town.” Every decision, every job change, every intimate detail of a person’s life was like a publicly traded commodity.

  “Yes, working and mothering are two full-time jobs.” I smiled in hopes she would take my subtle hint and drop the subject.

  Instead she leaned in closer, flicking her gaze at Patrick before adding, “And making new friends, it would seem.”

  Another reason I avoided the inside seat: meddling women determined to matchmake their sons, or in this case, their grandsons.

  “Davis tells me Savannah’s in class with Brandon this year. I was thrilled to think of those two little sweethearts playing tag together on the playground. I’m sure your mother told you, but Savannah’s been on our prayer chain since her diagnosis. I doubt there was a group in Lenox happier to hear about her clear scans. I’ll never forget the day Davis called us after talking to your mother.” She patted me again. “Maybe now you can finally move on.”

  I stiffened, my gut clenching. Move on . . . it was difficult to find two words in the English language that repelled me more. A young widow was a magnet for well-intentioned advice. Yet nothing about that phrase felt constructive. Or compassionate.

  Patrick cleared his throat beside me. “We should probably discuss the auction items.” He nodded to Mrs. Carter, then handed me the program.

  I didn’t miss the way Mrs. Carter narrowed her eyes, or the way she tilted her head to listen for my response.

  “Oh, right.” I opened the itemized ballot, and the piece of white scrap paper was pressed into the fold.

  Place a bet you know you can win. It makes the bets you lose a lot less defeating.

  Patrick kept his voice low. “See? Painless. I told you we’d start easy.”

  I glanced up at him. He wanted me to bid? But I hadn’t registered as a bidder. I was a refreshment table volunteer.

  Moving his Rex quote aside, I skimmed the list printed in the program, searching for something as small as a pack of gum, or maybe a pair of Nan’s knitted mittens. Something I had a chance at being able to afford.

  He plucked the program from my hand and set it on the floor. “Relax. A bid you can’t lose means I’m paying. You just get to decide what we’re bidding on.”

  This was insane. Did he hear himself?

  As quietly as I could without alerting the grandmother who had scooted one chair closer, I said, “I can’t do that.” High-pressure events weren’t my forte. No matter how insignificant the risk.

  “You can. This is the only thing you need.” He dropped a red paddle into my lap. “Just remember, it’s for the kids.”

  He winked and turned his gaze back to the stage.

  I nudged his elbow. He ignored me.

  I knocked my knee against his. He ignored me.

  I opened
my mouth to protest, but Patrick simply shook his head.

  I was pinned between two seemingly impossible options: I either gave in to Patrick and spent his money, or I risked making a scene by refusing to participate in this strange game—which of course would allow Mrs. Carter to go back to the gossiping geese she called the town’s prayer chain.

  Out of the two choices, I’d choose Patrick’s challenge any day of the week.

  I gripped the paddle and straightened my back.

  Patrick’s low chuckle was like a gentle tickle to the back of my neck. Slightly irritating, yet still managing to make me smile.

  “Tonight’s first item up for bid—a year of lawn care by Willie and Sons,” the auctioneer said into the microphone.

  Patrick glanced at me and I shook my head, whispering, “Willie isn’t the most reliable—especially after his bar-hopping weekends.” I scrunched my nose and Patrick laughed.

  “This is like insider trading.”

  Three people raised their paddles, bidding against one another until it was down to just one. The lawn service went for 150 dollars.

  The next two items were easy to pass up, too: an annual membership to Parker Fitness Center—I knew Patrick’s membership was paid through to the end of the year—and a family pass to the Oregon Zoo. Couldn’t really see a man who traveled the world needing six passes to the zoo.

  “Next up for grabs is a guided tour down the Rogue River.” Now this seemed like something Patrick would love. I twisted in my seat to ask him, but he refused to meet my gaze.

  “Wait—don’t you like white-water rafting? It seems so very Patrick-like.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “I said you choose, Willa. I’m not giving any hints.” He leaned back in the stiff plastic chair and crossed his ankles, his right heel resting on the corner of the blue program.

  Several paddles shot up around me.

  My mind went fuzzy as I tried to recall a single item coming up in the auction—or even the total number of items listed. What if this was the best option, the one best suited for a guy like Patrick? What if I passed it up only to be left with crocheted hats and ice scrapers? What if I spent his money on something he would never use?

  Quick decisions were my nemesis. I needed time to research, time to weigh the pros and cons, time to consider every possible option. Twice.

  Patrick’s note had distracted me from the program. A quick refresher, just one quick glance-over would be more than enough. I bent to grab the program from under Patrick’s foot. But he was faster.

  Patrick kicked it from my reach. “No cheating. Just make a decision.”

  Argh!

  It was down to just two paddles now—a bidding war between Al Rogers and J. R. Peterson. Adrenaline pumped through my veins; my legs bounced and my fingers twitched.

  I didn’t want to make a mistake. I didn’t want to choose poorly. I didn’t want—

  “Going once, going twice . . .”

  I shot my arm up, heart pounding in rhythm with my headache.

  The auctioneer acknowledged me with a nod—as did the two men.

  The bidding went higher. I raised my paddle again.

  Higher and higher the number soared and still Patrick’s stony face held strong.

  I raised my paddle again and it was this time that won Patrick his trip down the river.

  My lungs pumped air in and out as if I’d just run around the building and not simply lifted a paper paddle.

  Patrick leaned in close, his woodsy scent causing my brain fog to dissipate.

  “Good choice. That’s been on my list since I got to town. Rex would be proud.”

  I wanted to punch him and hug him all at the same time. Pride climbed in step with my hope. If I could conquer the first of Patrick’s little tests, then maybe I could conquer them all. Maybe courage really did start this small.

  I closed my eyes and breathed deep, my tension releasing through each exhale.

  Several more items came up for grabs, all of them unlikely to be desirable for a man like Patrick: custom tailoring, a family photo shoot, a dozen cupcakes from the Frosting Palace.

  None of them compared to what I’d won him.

  “. . . a stunning shot of the valley at sunset.” I sat up straighter, my ears suddenly attuned to the auctioneer’s voice. A rush of air escaped my throat as he unveiled the enlarged canvas photograph. It was Lenox, draped in the golden hue of a setting sun. I had never seen my town from this angle—a bird’s-eye view.

  People all around us murmured as the auctioneer continued. I leaned forward, straining to hear him. “One of a kind, folks. A gorgeous representation of our town.”

  Three dozen paddles flew into the air as I studied the piece. Though I hadn’t seen this exact picture before, it spoke to me . . .

  “Bid.” Patrick’s voice made me jump.

  “What? Why?” What would Patrick do with a canvas this size? “You don’t even own a wall of your own to hang it on.”

  Lip curled upward, he shook his head at my joke. “Just bid, will ya?”

  I raised my paddle.

  Ten paddles were left in play, the bidding war climbing well into the thousand-dollar range. I glanced at him again, waiting for him to pull the plug.

  Patrick bumped my shoulder. “What? Don’t start acting shy now.”

  Suddenly I understood.

  In the same way I would know my favorite author’s writing, I’d recognized my favorite photographer’s work. Dr. Ivar’s youngest son—Patrick’s brother—was the eye behind the camera lens of this picture. I was sure of it. His talent was not only on display in his father’s clinic, but in my home as well, thanks to a gift from Dr. Ivar in one of the scariest seasons of my life.

  I held my paddle up with pride, realizing for the umpteenth time how generous this family was to our community. If Patrick’s brother had donated the sunset photograph for the auction, perhaps Patrick’s form of generosity was to see that it sold for top dollar. Because just like he’d reminded me earlier, it was for the kids.

  “That’s the biggest smile I’ve seen on your face to date,” Patrick said. “I’m storing this moment away for future reference. Want to see Willa smile? Just hand her a credit card.”

  “Very funny.” My grin did feel outrageously large, but I couldn’t help it. The McCade family was quickly becoming my favorite family of all time. “It’s a gift for your father, isn’t it?”

  Patrick winked in confirmation.

  Something close to giddiness pushed its way up my throat. “There’s a perfect spot for it in the waiting room at the clinic—just to the right of the front desk.”

  Amused, he nodded, then gestured toward the last bidder standing, Mr. Hayes, the vice president of our local credit union.

  Mr. Hayes lost.

  Patrick tipped his imaginary hat to me, and my appreciation for him grew tenfold. A son who would do something this kind, this bighearted for his father was the kind of man I wanted Savannah to marry one day.

  The auction ended with a round of applause for the school and instructions on how to pick up the night’s winnings.

  I stood and handed the paddle back to Patrick, practically tripping over his feet so I could avoid another run-in with Grandma Carter.

  “So I passed?” I asked him, not really sure what to call tonight—a lesson, a test, a bravery trial?

  “I would hope so. You just spent all my money.”

  “What? But you said—”

  He threw his head back and laughed.

  I swatted his arm. “That was so not funny.”

  “Oh, that was more than funny. Your face—” He couldn’t catch his breath.

  “You’re mean.” I smashed my lips together.

  “And you’re gullible.”

  I swung my purse over my shoulder, making sure it grazed his arm. “Gullible is pretty low on my Worst Personality Traits list.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Oh, please tell me you have this list written down somewhere—p
erhaps on a colorful Post-it Note?”

  I ticked my finger at him. “Never underestimate the power of a Post-it Note.”

  “Spoken like a true office supply junkie.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You hungry?” he asked.

  “A little.” I pointed to the very picked-over refreshments table. “Looks like there’s some bean dip left. Or maybe that’s chocolate pudding. Hard to tell.”

  “I meant for actual food. I haven’t had dinner. We could go grab something, celebrate your big win?”

  My stomach rumbled at the offer, but the clock above the exit doors made the decision easy. “I really should head home. I haven’t seen Savannah since school drop-off this morning.”

  Several beats of silence and then, “You’re a good mom.”

  Warmth blossomed in my chest. “She’s easy to love.”

  The smile in his eyes lingered as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crinkled piece of paper. “You should keep this. You earned it.” He deposited tonight’s completed challenge into my palm and pressed my fingers around it.

  I lifted my eyes from our connected hands. “Thank you, Patrick.” For teaching me that not every decision has to be charted, weighed, and pie-graphed.

  By the look on his face, he knew I was a Camp Courage convert.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You earned it.”

  Patrick’s words from the auction had flitted through my head at random since I woke up. They kept me sane while training Alex, kept me patient while Sydney stayed locked in her office, kept me calm while my chair legs sank into the soggy soccer field.

  “Hey, Mommy!” Savannah waved from the field, her cheeks as bright as the neon-pink jersey she wore.

  Weston and Georgia had taken her shopping last night. New cleats, socks, and shin guards had likely cost them a small fortune, but any attempts to pay them back would be waved off. Like they were every single time I tried.

  I twisted in the canvas seat and zipped my too-thin jacket to my chin. I didn’t know how the kids were weathering the chill this afternoon but guessed Weston’s warm-up drill had something to do with it. He tooted that whistle about every three seconds. Another few minutes of shivering and I was considering joining them for a round of jumping jacks.