A Season to Love

by Nicole Deese

  I let it go.

  The kite flew free, gliding and snaking and twisting in the air. I trotted ahead, pulling it with me, Savannah on my heels.

  And for one euphoric moment, everything was perfect. The sky, the sun, the wind. All of it melding and blending together into a reverent harmony that made my heart sprout wings of its own. I smiled back at Patrick.

  Then the line grew slack and the kite took a suicide plunge back toward earth.

  In a frenzy I coiled the excess string over and over onto the spool. It was a frantic fight of tugs and pulls to keep the kite from falling. To keep me from failing.

  I felt Patrick’s chest press against my back and his hand slide down the length of my arm until he reached the spool in mine. With a quick rescue maneuver—a single flick of his wrist—the kite soared free once again.

  He handed the reins off to Savannah, but he didn’t take a step back.

  And I didn’t take a step forward.

  We simply stood together in the middle of the park and watched my daughter fly my rescued life lesson into the sky.

  I tipped my head to the side, his body so close that I could almost feel his chest expand. “I thought you weren’t allowed to help me?”

  “I never said that.”

  “But you—”

  “Timing, Willa. Another one of Rex’s proverbs. ‘Know when to press in and when to let go.’”

  A shiver traveled down my spine. Not from the wind, but from his words.

  There was only one thing I knew about life’s timing.

  It was impossible to predict.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alex collapsed into the rolling chair at the front desk, the way she had every afternoon since Sydney enrolled her at Lenox High School two weeks ago. Her hair a shocking shade of eggplant purple, she pulled a leg underneath her and chomped on a piece of gum she’d taken from my purse.

  “I saw the calendar on your fridge last night,” she announced as I updated member profiles. “And you can’t leave.”

  “I’m only gone for a weekend, Alex. You won’t even miss me.” Although I knew that probably wasn’t true. The drama between Sydney and Alex had taken a much-needed intermission now that Alex was in school, but she’d been at my house almost every night, going over her syllabus and checking her assignments with me before turning them in to the teacher the following day. In a strange twist of irony, Savannah and I had become Alex’s social life.

  “I thought you were like . . . a homebody or something. Where are you even going for this vacation?” Her air quotes around the word vacation were not nearly as comical as she thought they were.

  I clicked out of payment scheduling. “Your flattery is overwhelming.”

  Her boots thudded against the cement floor. “Wait a minute . . . is Dr. Hottie involved in this mini vacay? Or is it the other guy—the vet with the nice teeth? Now those two . . . they make your life interesting.”

  “Alex.” The word hummed from my lips with exasperation.

  “What?”

  What Alex deemed interesting could have given me an ulcer. Or five. This annual family weekend at my parents’ cabin was needed. Not only because Davis had dropped by unannounced more times in the last two weeks than in the last two years, but also because Patrick and I hadn’t gone a single day without communicating in some form or another. Something was shifting . . . something I could neither explain nor deny. Yet it lingered between us. In every text, in every conversation, in every bravery lesson I conquered.

  This weekend was a pause. A breather. A detox for my heart and my head. “It’s a family trip. My parents have a rental cabin a couple hours from here. We’ve gone there the first weekend of November every year since I was twelve—well, with the exception of last year.”

  Last year we were well into the second phase of Savannah’s treatments.

  Alex scooted closer to me, smashing herself against my side to peek over my shoulder at the membership profile screen. Some days working with Alex was like trying to fold a pile of clean laundry next to a toddler. “So do you ski?”

  “No.”

  “Snowboard?”

  “No.”

  “Inner-tube, sled, toboggan?”

  “No.”

  She grunted in satisfaction. “I didn’t think so.”

  I swiveled the chair around and gave her my undivided attention. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Just proving myself right. I have a gift for typing people.”

  “You typed me?”

  Cold air rushed in from the front doors.

  “Do you two even work?”

  Alex jumped to her feet and rushed to fist-bump my brother—her new favorite teacher. “What’s up, Mr. Wes?”

  “What’s up with you, Barney?”

  Weston was likely the only person alive who could get away with comparing Alex’s new hair color to an overweight purple dinosaur. But then again, Weston could charm a cobra into being a house pet if he wanted to.

  “I’m just schooling your sister on her personality type.”

  “Oh?” Fully baited, he leaned his elbows on the counter. “Now this I have to hear.”

  Oh no. “Alex—”

  “I say she borders between Classic Bore and Wound Too Tight.”

  At least my brother had the dignity to refrain from howling. “I’ll take Wound Too Tight for two hundred please.”

  “Ding, ding, ding!”

  It was hard to tell who was more annoying at the moment: the seventeen-year-old or the man who shared my DNA. It was a toss-up.

  “Okay, okay.” I said, shutting the obnoxious duo down before another round could begin. “Don’t teachers have meetings today—hence the early dismissal for high school students.” I gestured to Alex. Case in point.

  “Not me.” His smile notched wider. “So I thought I’d pay a visit to my big sis.”

  I didn’t buy it. Not for a second. Not with that look in his eye. “Okay, so what’s the real reason you’re here?”

  He snatched a pen from my desk and drummed on every nearby surface. “You’ll never guess what we’re taking up to the cabin this year.”

  He was right, I couldn’t guess. The list of options was never-ending where Weston was concerned.

  “Snowmobiles,” he supplied.

  “Really? How did you get—”

  “Not me.” His pen stopped midtap but didn’t wait for me to fill in the blank. He never had the patience for guessing games. “Good ol’ Ricky.”

  “Patrick,” I corrected without thought, his name echoing through me as though I’d shouted it from a mountaintop.

  Had Weston really invited Patrick on our family vacation? The idea shouldn’t have surprised me, but another weekend spent with Patrick . . . I bit my lip.

  “What’s that look for?” Weston asked me.

  I eyed Alex, hoping she’d catch the hint to give us some privacy, but she was too busy emptying the stapler into her palm.

  Plan B. “Alex, can you manage the desk for a minute? I’m gonna grab a drink from the break room.”

  “No prob,” she said, stacking the metal pieces into a miniature skyscraper.

  I led Weston to the staff lounge. The mini kitchen held a small dining set, fridge, sink, and pantry. The deodorizer plug-in to the left of the sink wafted a continuous aroma of coconut and lemongrass.

  Weston let the door swing closed behind him.

  “Whoa . . . why does it smell like I’m caught on an island surrounded by a sea of bathroom cleaner?”

  Ignoring him, I pressed my cold palms to my warm cheeks in hopes of coaxing them back to a preflushed state. “You really invited him on our family vacation?” My voice was thin, my words strung out on a fragile thread.

  He gripped the edge of the steel countertop and pulled himself up, heels banging against the bottom cabinets. “I thought you’d be happy. You spend more time with him than anyone else . . .” His eyebrows wrinkled. “Wait, did something happen that I
should know about?”

  Stunned, I blinked. “What? No . . . of course nothing happened.”

  “Because if there’s anything I need to discuss with him—”

  “Weston. Stop.” I shook my head, my insides a tangle of anxiety. How could I even begin to explain what I didn’t understand myself. “He’s done nothing wrong. It’s just . . . he’s leaving.”

  “Not for a couple months.”

  Actually, seven and a half weeks. Not that I was counting. But it was that inevitable ticking of the clock that unclouded the fogginess in my mind.

  We were all investing too much in a man who lived to leave.

  “Have you actually thought about that—him leaving, I mean? Because it doesn’t seem like you have.” I held out my hand, ticked off my fingers one by one. “First he’s your new gym buddy, then your rock-climbing pal, then he’s a groomsman in your wedding, and now he’s invited on our family vacations? Your expectations aren’t realistic. Lenox is just one quick stop on his life map.”

  Wes studied me for several seconds. “You’ve thought a lot about this.”

  I wanted to deny it, but even if I tried, my finger ticking had already done me in.

  He slid off the counter. “You like him.”

  “As a friend.” I spaced the words out evenly, made each syllable count.

  “Hmm.”

  “I’m not one of your students. I don’t get crushes . . . so you can stop with that gloating smirk. This isn’t about me.”

  “Right.” His bright eyes reminded me of when he was hard at work in his shop, inspired by a new concept or design. “It’s about him.”

  This wasn’t going well. “Stop thinking whatever it is you’re thinking right now. There is only friendship between he and I—not that there even is a he and I.” I shook my head. “Or a him and me. Whichever. Whatever. This entire conversation is pointless . . .”

  “You do hear yourself rambling, right?”

  Time for a conversation U-turn. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for him to come out this weekend.”

  As if with an invisible paintbrush, Weston drew a circle around my head with his pointer finger. “Well, then I suggest you figure out how to deal with whatever girl drama is happening in that head of yours. Because he’s coming on Saturday. And he’s bringing snowmobiles.”

  Weston regained his full smile and pulled open the door to the lobby. “Hope you can handle him for one night.”

  Hot on his heels, I wasn’t about to let my baby brother have the last word. “There will be no handling of him at all.”

  Alex’s head shot up at the front desk. “Wait—who’s she handling?”

  Weston strode toward the exit and lifted his hand in a two-second wave. The Thursday step class poured out from the upstairs studio, washing him out to sea with the crowd.

  I stood frozen, my lungs failing to expand.

  “Hmm. Maybe I typed you too soon,” said the familiar female voice at my back. “I think your excitement meter’s about to kick up a few notches.”

  Alex’s observation skills were hit-the-nail-on-the-head accurate.

  Chapter Twenty

  My mother’s infamous traveling mantra, “It’s always better to be overprepared than underpacked,” was a mentality I’d adopted long ago.

  “You’re kidding with this, right?” Weston asked, popping my trunk and scanning my luggage.

  “Weston, leave your sister alone,” my mom called from the porch of our three-bedroom log cabin. “She’s just prepared.”

  “For what? A winter apocalypse?” He shook his head and grabbed my duffle bag and Savannah’s suitcase. “You do realize we’re only here for three days.”

  “Weston,” my mom scolded again. “Knock it off.”

  Smashing his lips together, he rolled his eyes in my direction and then hiked up the snowy front porch steps with my bags. Georgia was already inside, dusting off the vintage board games from the hall closet. She was dead set on starting up a family game tournament this weekend. As if she and Weston needed more competition. Whatever new rivalry had begun on their drive up the mountain, I was thankful that Savannah and I had missed it. Two hours of listening to those two try to one-up each other was two hours too long.

  My dad rose from his well-worn spot on the elk-printed couch and hugged me. “We could have brought you up with us—I wasn’t thrilled when Mom told me you and Savannah were driving alone.”

  Even though I’d driven in the snow and ice my entire adult life, my father still worried over me like a teenager with a shiny new license. “No, Daddy. I wanted you and Mom to be able to stay an extra night or two. Besides, I followed behind Wes and Georgia the whole way up.” I kissed his cheek, his graying mustache tickling my chin.

  My father’s expressive eyes always said more than his words. “I just worry about you.” But those words could have gone without saying. I knew them well—had heard them countless times.

  I rubbed the shoulder of my dad’s fuzzy flannel shirt and told him I was just fine and that he could relax. Even after he sat down, I could still feel the concern of his gaze trailing after me.

  Savannah sat at the large oak kitchen table with my mom, eating a slice of banana bread that Nan had sent over with Georgia. “Mommy, this is almost like yours. Except squishier.”

  Her remark surprised me. “You remember my banana bread?” Gosh, how long had it been since I’d baked a loaf for her?

  “Your mommy makes very good treats, doesn’t she?” my mom said.

  Mouth stuffed full, Savannah talked around her massive bite. “Yep.” She swallowed. “Dr. Patrick asked her to make brownies, but she still hasn’t yet.”

  My mom’s gaze flitted up to mine. “Dr. Patrick? Weston’s friend who’s joining us tomorrow?” There was a hint of strain to the way she asked it. “I didn’t know you two knew each other all that well.”

  “Oh, well—”

  “We do lots with him.” Savannah nodded. “He fixed up my bloody knee and showed Mommy how to fly a kite. Oh, and he taught her a cool trick with a yo-yo, too.”

  My mother’s curious expression was downplayed in Savannah’s presence, yet there was only so much she could hide on her open face. Unlike me, she hadn’t mastered the onion layers of protection and pretenses. She hadn’t needed to.

  I backed away from the table, thankful Savannah had moved onto a new story about school, and pointed down the hall. “I’m gonna help Georgia sort out the games.”

  “Hey,” Georgia said, sitting cross-legged at the end of the hallway, closet door propped open. She held up a 1960s edition of Monopoly. “Can you believe this one has all the pieces to it?”

  I stifled a groan not because I disliked the board game, but because I doubted Weston and Georgia could survive a round of Monopoly this weekend—the way they played it anyway. Their brand of cutthroat competitiveness didn’t work so well in a tight space with several houseguests. “Oh, wow, yeah. What other options have you found?” I sat, leaning against the door that led to the pink room—which for the weekend would house Georgia, Savannah, and me.

  “Um, all of these ones here.” She pointed to the pile to the right of her: Candy Land, Sorry!, Twister, Clue. “Your mom has some awesome games. Look at this one!” She picked up a washed-out box and handed it to me.

  “Mystery Date.” I rubbed my hand over the old dusty rectangular box with a woman in a pink dress pictured on the front. “My mom’s told me about this game.”

  I lifted the lid and Georgia peered over my shoulder.

  “Look at that giant door.”

  In the center of the pastel-colored game board was a large white door, plastic hinges, and blue doorknob. “Meet your secret admirer?” I read off the side of the box lid.

  She picked up the pile of cards and the game pieces—cutouts of women in 1960s attire. “I guess they have to open the door to see who they’ll date.” She thumbed through them. “There’s a formal dance date, a beach date, a bowling date, a skiing date, oh .
. . and the dud.”

  We laughed.

  The door to Weston’s room pulled open to reveal my brother clad in snow pants, ski boots, and a thick padded jacket. Apparently he was ready to go up to the mountain. “Are you still sitting there looking at games?” He reached his hand down for Georgia and, when she was standing next to him, kissed her square on the mouth.

  She peered down at me. “I guess I know who my mystery date is.” She patted him on the chest. “Give me five minutes to dig out my gear and then we’ll go.”

  She practically danced into our room and closed the door.

  Weston spied the game next to me. “Mystery Date?”

  I shrugged and sorted the pieces. “It’s just a silly old game.”

  He snatched the cards from my hand and held them out of my reach. “These are your choices?” He laughed. “I think this game should have an edition where the brother chooses the contestants.”

  “That would never sell.” I collected the other pieces and put them back into the box and then reached out my hand to retrieve the cards.

  He pulled them back. “But don’t you want to know who I’d choose for you?”

  “I already know who you’d choose for me. The dud. Hardy har har,” I deadpanned.

  “Nope. But it’s nice to know what you think of me.” He flicked the cards down on top of my head, one by one, keeping the last card in his palm. “It’s this guy.” He turned it toward me. “Because I’ve never seen you smile the way you did the night you came dancing with us.”

  The ballroom dance guy. Weston handed me the card.

  Georgia opened her door. “I’m ready, Mr. Ski Date.”

  Weston took her in, his gaze sticking on her bottom half. “Mm-hmm . . . snow pants never looked hotter.”

  “Okay, you two.” I shooed them. “Go cool off in the snow.”

  Hand in hand, they walked to the end of the hall. Weston peeked over his shoulder at me. “You sure you don’t want to come out? We can take you up on the starter hill.”

  “No, thanks. I’m good here,” I said without even considering the alternative.

  The front door closed a minute later.

  I stared at the vintage card in my hand. The charming figure drawn on the front had a smile that belonged on a toothpaste commercial and arms held in the traditional closed-hold ballroom dance position. My stomach swooped.