A Season to Love

by Nicole Deese

  He dipped his chin. “I think your everything clause has you covered on the thank-yous. You don’t have to keep saying it.” He reached for a leathery object on the countertop. A book. “Here’s some required reading material for you. And yes, there’ll be a quiz.”

  I set the mug to the side and took the worn book from his hands. The cracked leather was rough to the touch. Opening it, I gasped as I read the name on the inside cover.

  “This is Rex Porter’s journal?”

  He eyed the book appreciatively. “Yes.”

  “You had it with you?”

  A lazy shrug, as if this weren’t one of his most valued possessions. “I was planning on giving it to you at the cabin.”

  The word hit like a boulder in my gut. The cabin. “Oh, right.”

  I slumped against the doorjamb, and like a remembered nightmare, the events of yesterday replayed in my mind.

  “Your brother texted me last night after you went to bed.”

  I stared at the journal, unblinking, hoping my internal wince hadn’t been audible.

  Patrick touched my shoulder, squeezed it lightly. “I let him know you were home safe.”

  “Is that all you said?” I hadn’t wanted to ask, but I needed to. Patrick was Weston’s friend before he was mine, and it wouldn’t be the first time they’d shared information about me.

  “Willa.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek.

  “I may be a family doctor, but I’m no family therapist. And I won’t pretend to be.”

  My forefinger inched along the binding of the old travel journal once more. “Okay.”

  “Okay.” His tone was hesitant. “I’m gonna run back to my place and shower. I’ll come by later this afternoon with my car and grab my bag.”

  He leaned forward and then quickly pulled himself back.

  Maybe it was my foggy morning brain, or the short night’s sleep, or the emotional storm of the last twenty-four hours, but I could have sworn Patrick was about to . . . to what?

  Nothing. He wasn’t about to do anything.

  I spun toward the entryway and opened the door for him. “So, about this quiz . . . will it be multiple choice?”

  “Essay,” he teased.

  “Ah. Well, I better get busy, then.”

  He jogged down the front porch steps, and a blast of frigid November air swept into my house. “Oh my gosh! You’re gonna freeze. Please, just take my car.”

  His breathy laugh was a billowy white as he jogged in place. “I love to run at sunrise. Plus, we’re supposed to get snow later.”

  “Then you better watch for ice.”

  “And you better keep that fire going.”

  He raised his arm in a wave, and I closed the door and latched the chain. I let out a tension-filled sigh and then grabbed my coffee, a stack of pink Post-it Notes, and today’s special reading assignment off the counter. I snuggled into the sofa.

  If Savannah followed her normal sleep routine, I’d have an hour of kid-free reading time. Better get started now.

  For being fifty-odd years old, the travel journal, stuffed with trinkets, scribbles, and photographs, was in remarkable shape. It was the kind of treasure my mom would showcase in her antique store, the kind of artifact that should be on display in a museum.

  By noon, I’d been transported to three different continents, read about a dozen cultures, and touched coins and bus tickets, brittle leaves, and sketches of wildlife. Patrick was right. Rex Porter had lived an incredible life, and his faith was at the forefront.

  Savannah snuggled into my side, a bowl of trail mix in her lap. “Be strong and courageous,” she read.

  I kissed the top of her head and followed her finger to the messy cursive at the top of the page. “That’s right. Be strong and courageous.” Those same words had been scrawled at the top of nearly every page, written with narrowly connected strokes.

  She chomped on several peanuts. “Hmm.”

  “It’s from the Bible,” I said.

  “Oh! Like a scripture verse?”

  “Yes, like a scripture verse. It’s from Joshua.”

  “My favorite story is David and Goliath,” she said proudly.

  Naturally. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Uncle Wes says I’m brave, just like David was.”

  It hurt to swallow. “You are brave.”

  She slid off the couch. “I’m gonna get my tea set ready. You can be the hostess this time.”

  Just as predicted, the first snow flurry started around three in the afternoon. Savannah’s tea party guests—Barbies, stuffed bears, and several princess figurines—had been pushed closer to the sliding glass doors so they might better enjoy the wintry view. We’d already “served” them crackers and juice, but Savannah was convinced they needed a tiny helping of chocolate chips, too.

  I felt the familiar vibration of a text in my back pocket as I reached into the pantry.

  Was this my first pop quiz on Rex’s journal? I slipped the phone out.

  Not Patrick or a pop quiz.

  DAVIS: Don’t know when you get back into town, we left church a while ago. Headed to the clinic now. Have a new litter of puppies if you want to join us. Tell Savannah Prince Pickles says hi.

  I sighed and leaned against the counter, biting the inside of my cheek. He’d boarded Prince Pickles during our weekend at the mountain—just one of the many ways he continued to show kindness to us.

  I glanced out the window again. The accumulation of snow was minimal, and it would be better to pick up Savannah’s fur ball sooner rather than later. Plus, she would absolutely flip over a litter of puppies. Her animal obsession was almost as intense as her obsession for all things glitter.

  I texted him back.

  ME: We can be there in twenty minutes?

  DAVIS: Look forward to seeing you.

  Valley View Veterinary Clinic was an A-frame building with cedar siding and hunter-green trim. The prime location had cost Davis a small fortune, sitting just two blocks from downtown Lenox, but it had also made him the most visible vet clinic in the area, and therefore the most popular. Everyone knew Dr. Davis Carter. And there wasn’t a person around who didn’t sing his praises.

  Ignoring the CLOSED ON SUNDAY sign out front, Savannah pushed open the glass door as bells chimed our entrance.

  The waiting room was dim and empty except for Brandon, and Savannah spotted her friend immediately. “Hey, Brandon! You got puppies here?”

  “Yep, sure do!” Minus the freckles, Brandon was a mirror image of his father—cropped dark hair, happy eyes, and a generous smile. “Hi, Ms. Hart.”

  “Hi, Brandon.” I gave him a quick hug.

  “I’m supposed to take you to the back. Dad had to clean up a mess.”

  It was likely Davis had to clean up many messes on the weekends. He was here more than he was anywhere else. That was the price of having your name on the front door.

  The high-gloss linoleum floors were a smart choice, considering the paws that walked them daily. Everything we passed—whether it be equipment or exam rooms—was pristine and polished. Although cleanliness was a top priority, they hadn’t been quite as effective at eliminating the odors that went along with pet management. My nose crinkled as we neared the boarding area and a waft of “wet dog” stung my nostrils.

  Brandon pulled open the painted green door to reveal a large rectangular room, one I’d been inside several times—usually to pick up and drop off Prince Pickles for a trip to Portland. Eventually, when the back-and-forth of it all had become too much, we’d decided to stay in the family apartment connected to the hospital and Prince Pickles had made a short-term home here. I couldn’t thank Davis enough for that.

  The room was bordered with doggie kennels, some larger than others, painted like boxes of crayons; the door to each was trimmed in primary colors. A few dozen whimsical paw prints had been stamped onto the concrete floor. The whole area resembled a child’s play land rather than a pet’s paradise, but per
haps it was that extra attention to detail that kept it full.

  Davis dried his hands near a deep stainless steel sink and craned his neck to smile at me. And when he did, I couldn’t help but notice his perfect teeth—the one feature that Alex knew him by, not quite caring enough to learn his name. The vet with the nice teeth.

  I stifled a giggle at the memory.

  Davis pulled me in for a hug and then held me out at arm’s length to scan my face. “You doing okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” Maybe not exactly the truth, but close enough.

  I turned my attention to our kids, who were squealing over puppy licks. “They’re really cute.”

  His gaze trailed my face. “You look tired.”

  Apparently, he wasn’t quite ready to discuss the puppies. Despite his manners and good intentions, Davis was difficult to divert once his mind had been set. “Doesn’t your family usually stay on the mountain for the whole weekend? Doesn’t seem worth the trip for less than that.”

  “They stayed. I just decided to come back early. Had some things to do.” I tried to hide the tensing of my shoulders with a simple shrug, yet with Davis’s palm still pressed to my upper back, there was no way he hadn’t noticed.

  “You came back on your own?”

  “Oh, uh . . . yes.” Sort of, if you don’t count the charming man driving my car. That was the thing about lies. Like mice, they multiplied quickly.

  Savannah held up a golden retriever puppy and called me over. Facing the panting puppy was far easier than facing the crinkle of a disapproving brow. I’d seen that look too many times this weekend.

  “He’s adorable.” I scooped the puppy into my arms and it licked my hand over and over. “Aww.”

  “Can we take it home, Mommy?”

  I laughed at the optimism in her voice. Prince Pickles would never stand for another dog in our house, not even one as cute as this. “Have you even said hello to your dog?”

  “Oopsie.” She padded to the end of the room, knelt, and stuck her hand through the slats of Prince Pickles’s gated door. Her little off-white dog with fur like the soiled end of a mop nuzzled her fingers. “Hi, boy. Don’t worry . . . I could never forget you.”

  I watched as my healthy daughter murmured soft words to her devoted canine.

  Davis slung an arm around my shoulders. “I ordered pizza—your favorite, with extra pineapple. Thought we could all eat together in the lounge.” The one place that was pet—and pet odor—free.

  The tiny puppy in my arms whimpered and I nuzzled him against my face, let him swipe his wet nose across my cheek. “Oh, that sounds yummy. Thank you.”

  He rubbed the side of my arm and nodded toward our children. “It’s good to see them playing together again.”

  “Brandon’s a great kid,” I said.

  “So is Savannah. She takes after her mom.”

  Davis wasn’t a flirt—not in the classic sense of the word. He’d always stayed true to his faith and to his heart. Maybe that was why spending time with him didn’t come as easily for me anymore. Because when I was with him, I didn’t feel I was being true to mine.

  He dropped his arm suddenly and slapped his thigh. “Hey, did you get my text last week—about the bazaar?”

  The bazaar. “Oh! The Christmas bazaar? Sorry, I totally forgot to respond, it must have been a crazy day at work. What was it you needed help with?”

  As the main sponsor of the annual Lenox Christmas Bazaar, Davis was in charge of organizing the volunteer staff for Santa’s Village.

  “I need you to be my wife.”

  The puppy nearly slipped out of my hold. “What?”

  He laughed freely. “Sorry, but I’ve been waiting to use that line all week.” He bumped my shoulder with his. “Actually, I just need you to play my Mrs. Claus for the day.”

  “Uh . . .” I’d imagined helping kids with crafts or handing out cookies at the entrance. Not playing his make-believe spouse.

  “Willa, come on. I’ll take care of everything. All you need to do is wear the costume and show up.”

  I thought of my new anti-fear motto, the one Patrick had inspired: Say yes before thinking of all the reasons to say no. “Okay, fine. I’ll do it.”

  “Great.” His near-perfect smile brightened his entire countenance—a man as attractive on the outside as he was on the inside. “I knew I could count on you.” He checked his cell phone for the time. “I should probably go check for the pizza guy. Wanna help the kids wash up?”

  “Sure thing.”

  He started for the door and then turned back. “Hey, Willa?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think you’ll be the prettiest Mrs. Claus this town has ever had.”

  He winked before pushing out the door, and I waited for a flip or a flutter or a spark . . . But instead, I felt a not-so-gentle nudge. From my head to my heart.

  Davis could offer me a future. Love. Commitment. Family. While the man who invaded my thoughts, the man on his way back to my house this afternoon, the man who gave me all the feels . . . could promise me nothing more than today.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A black sedan sat in my driveway, no driver in sight.

  When I parked to the side of it, Savannah, in the backseat with Prince Pickles, perked up. “Isn’t that Dr. Patrick’s car?”

  An electric current traveled up my spine. “Yes.”

  I opened her door and Prince Pickles jumped from her lap and hopped through the freshly fallen snow like a jackrabbit. I waved them onto the front porch, glancing around the property for Patrick.

  As Savannah turned the knob to go inside, Patrick rounded the corner between my parents’ house and mine, an armful of dry firewood from the woodshed cradled to his chest.

  He halted. “You’re home.” Shimmering flecks of ice clung to the thicket of his hair.

  “So are you, it seems—” A laugh slipped through my lips. “I mean, at my home. You’re at my home.” My cheeks flushed. Stop talking. Stop talking now.

  Patrick’s face broke into an ethereal grin.

  When he shifted the load in his arms, I raced up the five porch steps and held the door open for him to enter.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “I’m pretty sure I should be the one thanking you.” Again. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  He set the firewood in the steel bucket near the hearth, splinters and wood chips frozen to the sleeves of his dark jacket. “And you didn’t have to make me brownies.”

  I crinkled my forehead. “Brownies? But I didn’t make you . . .”

  He cocked his head in my direction, mischievousness dancing in his eyes.

  Laughter bubbled up my throat. “Ah . . . I see. Firewood for brownies? And is this payment expected tonight?”

  “I don’t mind sticking around.”

  I didn’t mind having him stick around either. “Okay, I’ll go rummage through my mom’s pantry in a minute.”

  Savannah plopped on the couch nearby, Prince Pickles glued to her hip. “Guess what we did today?” She ruffled the fur between her dog’s ears.

  Patrick swiveled and dropped to his haunches. “Um . . . let’s see. You met a mermaid?”

  “What? No.” She was lost to a fit of giggles. “Mermaids don’t come out in the winter. Everybody knows that.”

  I bit my bottom lip as Patrick tried his best to keep the chuckle from his voice. “Hmm . . . yes, I forgot about that. So, did you run to the store? Stock up on winter hibernation snacks?”

  “Nope. We saw puppies.” Eyes rounded and full of wonder, she held out her arms. “A whole basket full of them. And they were the cutest things ever. Mr. Davis said we could come back anytime and play with them.”

  Patrick stiffened, his gaze a slow-moving bullet, its accuracy rate 100 percent. My chest thudded upon impact.

  “Did he? How nice.” His level of enthusiasm hovered at zero.

  Despite my mental pleas for her to stop sharing, Savannah continued on with her puppy-dog
story time. “Yep. And he bought us pizza, too. Brandon and I love pepperoni and pineapple. It’s what we get every time.”

  Patrick’s hand roved along the back of the sofa, stopping at Rex’s journal. He tapped the cover with his fingernail. “Sounds like a winning combination.”

  The hard edge I detected in his voice made me doubt he was still speaking about pizza toppings.

  “So.” I clasped my damp palms together. “About those brownies—”

  “Brownies?” Savannah bounced on the cushion. Prince Pickles barked at the abrupt change in atmosphere. She patted his head. “Sorry, buddy, too bad you can’t have those. They’re so yummy.”

  I pointed toward my parents’ house. “I’ll just be a second next door if you don’t mind hanging out?”

  The faintest of smiles tugged at his mouth. “I don’t plan on leaving”—he paused, and my heart paused, too—“without one.”

  Per the thermometer nailed to the banister on the back porch, the temperature had dropped eight degrees since Patrick sauntered into my house with an armful of wood. Yet I was about one minute away from combustion.

  A bead of sweat rolled down the planes of my stomach. Maybe it was the blazing fire in the hearth, or maybe it was the preheated oven two steps to my right, or maybe it was the fact that Patrick had said so little during the cracking and the whisking and the pouring of brownie batter. Instead, he’d just watched me, studied me, contemplated me as if an entire conversation were going on inside his head. Chin resting on his fist, he sat at the breakfast bar across from the sink. His gaze seared through my back.

  I silenced the buzzer on the oven, slid the soupy concoction onto the middle rack, and let the door snap shut.

  “I’ll be right back.” And then I tore down the hall to my room and stripped my sweater over my head. Relief was instantaneous, like a plunge in the river on a hot summer day.

  I flapped my arms to circulate airflow and then flipped my head, twisting my hair into a topknot. After taking a quick inventory of the shirts in my closet, I sagged against the door. Sweatshirts, thermals, fleeces, jackets . . . The thought of pulling on another long-sleeve top made me queasy.