A Season to Love

by Nicole Deese

  I yanked open the second drawer of my dresser and rummaged through panties, bras, and wool socks until . . . a black tank top. How it had survived the Great Winterization of my wardrobe two months ago, I had no idea—but I certainly wasn’t about to complain about the oversight. It was either wearing this tank top or serving hot brownies in the snow.

  As I tugged it over my head, the thin, ribbed fabric was a cool kiss against my smoldering skin. Not that I was thinking about kisses. Because I wasn’t. I was thinking about brownies. Only brownies.

  Hair off my neck, arms exposed, I stepped back into the hall. I quieted my steps when I heard my daughter discussing the finer points of art with Patrick.

  She’d claimed the stool next to him, a coloring book spread wide on the bar and a pink crayon in her hand. Apparently she was teaching him her award-winning technique.

  “You need the orange now,” she bossed.

  “Ah, got it.” He selected a crayon from the box. “Now what?”

  “Now trace the outside lines, like this. You try.” She slid the book to him and he obeyed.

  I tiptoed behind them, peering over his right shoulder, watching him color the way she’d instructed.

  “I’d give you an A.”

  Patrick swung his head around and then blinked. His orange crayon snapped in two. “You changed.” A statement. Not a question.

  I tried to shrug off the observation, as if it were perfectly normal to wear summer attire during a snowstorm. I couldn’t exactly tell him the truth, that his presence made global warming feel trite.

  “My mommy’s a teacher again, but she only has one student. Alex.” Savannah practically sang the announcement.

  “Not a teacher, a tutor—”

  “Yeah? I may have heard about that.” Patrick steamrolled my comment, his eyes pinning me against the back counter. “I bet she’s a great teacher.”

  “Tutor,” I corrected again.

  “Yep. She is. Alex told me so.” Savannah outlined the hair of her favorite Disney princess in bright purple. Channeling her inner Alex, it would seem.

  Patrick’s confident smile could melt through bone. “The best teachers are kind, patient, understanding—oh, and they’re usually really great at baking brownies, too.”

  A blush crept up my neck and filled in my cheeks like the shading of a crayon on a blank page. “You don’t even know if they’re good yet.”

  “They will be.”

  Savannah closed her coloring book and picked up the crayons scattered on the countertop. Patrick reached for the box, but before he could shove the bottom half of the orange into the sleeve, she snatched it away.

  “Mommy says you can’t put broken crayons back into the box.”

  “Well . . . it’s a good thing I like orange, then.”

  “Yep.” Savannah collected the rest of her art supplies and then twisted off the stool to strut down the hallway toward her room.

  Patrick held up his sad-looking piece of pumpkin-colored wax. “So, what should I do with this, O Great Rule Maker?”

  I shook my head. “Stop.”

  He pushed back from the breakfast bar and came into the kitchen. “Perhaps Miss Organization has a special banishing place for these unfortunate misfit crayons?” He pulled open a drawer at the farthest end of the cabinet. “Nope. Not in there.”

  I laughed in earnest as he reached for the next one. “Not here, either. Although your arrangement of Tupperware lids is the neatest I’ve seen.”

  He worked his way down the row of cabinetry, getting closer and closer to the corner near the sink—where I happened to be standing. I threw a yellow dishrag at his head.

  Too bad his reflexes were superhuman.

  He tossed it back onto the counter with a smirk. “A teacher with some spunk. My favorite kind.”

  Arching an eyebrow, I scraped the inside of the batter bowl with a red rubber spatula and cocked it back. “Don’t take another step closer or—”

  “I wouldn’t make threats you don’t intend to keep.”

  “Good thing spunk and follow-through are a team.” But before I could catapult the batter, Patrick’s fingers hooked around my wrist.

  He squeezed just enough to loosen my grip, just enough to secure his hold, just enough to prove that I was no longer the one in control.

  The pressure of his hip against the curve of my waist restricted my next breath. The earthy scent of firewood that clung to his sweater mingled with the sugary sweetness of the batter that dripped onto my knuckles.

  A rogue curl draped over his right temple, threatened to block my view of the half-moon scar shadowed by his hairline. In the dim light, it looked nearly silver, a shimmery sort of iridescence that should be saved for ethereal beings . . . but then again.

  The pulse point at my wrist ticked harder beneath the pressure of his grip. The warning look in his eyes was like a lit fuse at the end of a firework. He wouldn’t be the one to pull back. And neither would I.

  With the slightest tilt of his chin, he leaned forward and licked the end of the spatula.

  My knees liquefied.

  Strong and solid, his free hand snaked around to the small of my back and kept me from sliding down the cabinets.

  His chocolaty exhale sucked the air from my lungs, but I no longer cared about oxygen. I cared only about his lips—how they’d taste. How they’d feel. How they’d move against mine.

  A silent plea and then his mouth dipped—

  The splat of the spatula smacking against the tile floor was the gunshot that broke our trance.

  Patrick jerked back and my arm fell to my side, weightless and numb.

  The thump in my chest, the heat in my face, the boom, boom, boom in my ears . . . it was all too much.

  I spun around and braced myself against the hard edge of the sink. I flipped on the water and began to pump soap into the batter bowl like I was fueling a gasoline tank.

  “Hey, Mommy—” The pattering of little feet halted. “Whoa . . . there’s a big mess on the floor.” She continued without missing a beat, “When are the brownies gonna be done?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Patrick picked up the forgotten spatula from the floor.

  “In a minute.” The voice that came out could have been from an animated film—mousy, strained, not fit for real life.

  Patrick slid the wicked utensil into the sudsy water as I submerged my hands, wishing I could submerge my head.

  He’s leaving. He’s leaving. He’s leaving.

  I needed to brand those words on my forehead. Sear them onto my heart. Patrick was only real for a few more weeks. And then he would be gone. No more snowmobiling, or ballroom dancing, or kite flying in the park. And there would certainly be no more batter licking.

  “I can’t reach the puzzles in my closet.”

  As I grabbed for the towel on the counter, Patrick touched my arm.

  “I’ll get them down for her.”

  I nodded, too afraid to leave my post. Too afraid to face him. Too afraid to think about what tomorrow or the day after or the day after that might bring. I’d asked for his help. I’d invited him into the most vulnerable pockets of my life.

  And yet I couldn’t even control the most basic of instincts. I couldn’t control the wandering of my heart.

  Patrick walked back into the kitchen just as the buzzer for the brownies went off.

  I set the hot pan atop the stove. “Cooling just takes a few minutes.”

  The brownies, that is. Not my heart. That would take much, much longer.

  “You know, maybe I should take one for the road. We can discuss the journal tomorrow.” He was yards away from me now, standing on the opposite side of the kitchen. Still he felt too close. I wondered if he felt the same? “Can you find someone to watch Savannah for you tomorrow, after work?”

  I thought for a moment—Monday. My parents would be home in the morning, our routine back to normal. At least for the most part. “I think so.”

  “Okay
. I cleared my schedule to be off by four. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Where are we—”

  “Part of the lesson is the surprise.”

  “I hate surprises.”

  “I know.”

  Despite myself, the corner of my mouth twitched. “Fine.”

  I cut his brownie and handed it to him on a folded paper towel.

  He glanced toward the fireplace as I followed him to the entryway, as if checking to make sure it was stoked enough for the night. It was.

  I opened the door for him and shuddered at the cold blast of air. “’Night.”

  He hesitated, a shadow draping his face as he looked back at me. No, not a shadow. A frown. The first one I’d ever seen him wear.

  I hoped it would be the last.

  “Dress warmly tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll be outside.”

  Without another word I shut the door and pressed my forehead to the frame.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Considering that the sky had dumped three inches of snow the night before, today seemed uncharacteristically temperate. Birds chirped from nearby treetops and clouds stretched like thinning wisps of cotton. Squinting, I shielded my eyes from the reflection of sun on the slush.

  I lagged several paces behind Patrick.

  I didn’t know what bothered me more, that what happened last night hadn’t been acknowledged, or that his idea of a “surprise adventure” was my idea of a nightmare.

  “You coming?” Arms out wide, he pivoted and tromped backward through the melting snow.

  I stopped to tuck my pants further into my boots. “Haven’t decided yet.”

  “Will this delightful mood of yours be with us for the rest of the evening?”

  I snapped my eyes to his. “Were you really expecting me to be overcome with joy when you pulled up to Cougar Mountain?”

  He seemed unfazed by my sarcasm. “You told me you were ready.”

  I planted my feet. “I also told you I despised heights.” I took a breath and tried to contain my irritation. “Can’t we just pass this lesson and move on to the next one?”

  He inched toward me and then halted in his steps. “There is no next one.” He gestured to the brown sign at the start of the trailhead. “This is it, sweetheart.”

  A rush of icy awareness prickled the skin at the base of my neck. This couldn’t be it. Climbing a mountain wasn’t the way to kill my fear. It was the way to kill me. “Wait—” I held out my hand and stared at the incline ahead. “What about the journal? What about Rex’s—”

  “There’s no point in filling the time we have left by hopping from place to place, not when this one location represents everything you need to face.”

  The time we have left. The sting of those words distracted me from the sickness in my gut. My gaze flicked again to the switchback. “How far do we have to climb?”

  “Wrong question.”

  I gritted my teeth. Savannah. Savannah. Savannah. Her name was a pulse beat, a thunderous boom inside my head. Sure, I needed to be brave for myself, too, but if it were just about me, I would turn tail and head home right now.

  “We’ll take it one step at a time. Stop looking at the peak and focus on the trail.”

  Now that sounded like Rex. I’d spent most of last night flipping through the yellowed pages, reading his scribbles, notes, and scriptures. And the more I read, the more I thought the man a saint. He truly was fearless—courage for blood.

  I swallowed the tight knot in my throat and willed my knees to unlock and bend. Patrick forged ahead, not waiting for my first step. I contemplated chucking a snowball at his back—or better yet, at the bare skin near the bottom of his hairline. But with the extra distance he’d put between us today, playing in the snow felt as lethal as asking for a piggyback ride.

  Three steps past the park sign he slowed, which likely had more to do with my snail’s pace than his need for my company.

  “Tell me about teaching,” he said.

  “What?” I glanced to my left, to the incline shrouded by trees. No open spaces. No dizzying view. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.

  “Teaching. Tell me about it.”

  “Um.” I kept my eyes down, one step and then another. The ground beneath me was soft and wet, squishing like mud through open fingers. “I only taught for a year.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  The question seemed to echo through the wooded path, filling my mind with images I’d tried to replace a thousand times: the smell of pencil shavings and paper and the sounds of happy voices and whispers in the hall. “Some days.” A half-truth. “Do you think you’ll miss working at your dad’s clinic?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him breathe a steady stream of white. It curled around us both. “Some days.”

  There was a slight incline ahead and my boots were already sodden and heavy. Maybe if I stayed tucked in the shadows, hugged against the mountain on my right, I wouldn’t feel the elevation. If I couldn’t see the drop-off, I’d never have to look down. My stomach swooped low at the thought, and then my next step snagged on a branch.

  Patrick reached out and gripped my elbow. He let go the instant I had my footing again.

  “Thanks,” I said shakily. “How . . . how are your folks doing in Scotland?”

  If I was going to survive the next ten feet, he needed to keep talking.

  “I talked to my dad this morning, actually. They’ve just secured a nice home for my grandmother. Thinking they’ll be back sometime mid-December.” He glanced at me. “A change of pace and scenery is always good for the soul.”

  “Okay, Rex.” I’d read those very words last night.

  He laughed. “That was your first pop quiz.”

  “So, I decide which words are from you and which are from the journal?”

  His smile was answer enough.

  “Good thing for you I have a photographic memory.” A lie.

  “Good thing for me I do, too.”

  Of course he did.

  I rolled my eyes, careful to keep my balance on the uneven terrain. “Your professors probably loved you.”

  “Winning the affection of my professors was fairly low on my list of priorities back then. My focus was wholly on not killing my patients.”

  “That’s encouraging.”

  A giant boulder blocked the path, and for the briefest of moments I was certain I’d just passed the test. My face must have shone with delight as I whirled my attention from the rock to Patrick.

  “This is it? I finished?”

  For some reason he didn’t seem dazzled by this show of bravery. “You finished the prehike, yes. But that”—he stepped to the side to reveal my erroneous conclusion—“is the trail to the top.”

  My legs, my head, my stomach. Everything felt woozy.

  The passage on the other side of the boulder was open and rocky and utterly exposed. Even with layers of dripping snow, the contrast in terrain was stark: steep and narrow and curved. The tightening in my chest and the tingling in the tips of my fingers were nothing compared to the trembling of my legs. I could no sooner walk a tightrope than step foot on that trail.

  “I can’t—”

  “We’re not going farther today.”

  Relief covered me like heat from a flame, yet Patrick made no attempt to turn around. If anything, his stance looked more solid than it had seconds ago.

  My breath came out in quick white puffs. “Is this a trick? Some kind of reverse psychology technique? Like by you not encouraging me to go farther, I’ll magically realize that I’ve held the power inside me to conquer my fear of heights all along?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched and then he said, “Yep. That’s it exactly. You just blew my whole plan. Guess I should stop taking those Disney movies so literally.”

  I looked beyond him again and focused on the ledge. I could see myself there, grappling for the loose rocks, slipping off the pathway, dangling from the cliffside.

  My world tilted on i
tself.

  The boulder in front of us was twice my height and ten times my width. A safe haven. I reached for it, pressed my back to the uneven surface, closed my eyes. Count with me. I could hear Patrick’s words in my head, yet I couldn’t tell if they were real or remembered. I pulled in breath to fill my belly and then exhaled through my nose.

  “I went to the Philippines after a typhoon hit.”

  I lolled my head to the side, and he was there next to me, staring out at the pine trees, his face irritatingly peaceful.

  “It was my first time on a disaster relief team. And when we got there, our supplies and inflatable hospital seemed vastly insignificant compared to the need. We’d work until we couldn’t see straight, overwhelmed and exhausted by the lines of people that never seemed to decrease.”

  I studied the slow rise and fall of his chest.

  “I would go to bed each night with a pounding headache, doubting my abilities as well as my calling.”

  “To aid in disaster relief?” I couldn’t picture Patrick ever second-guessing himself.

  He held my gaze for less than a second before focusing again on the branches overhead. “To work in health care. To go abroad.” He blew out a long breath. “All of it.”

  Cold seeped through my skin and into my bones, but I craved Patrick’s voice more than warmth.

  “I was there for over a month before I realized the source of my doubt.” He rolled onto his shoulder, his breath like a feather against my cheek. “Everything in my life up until that point had a tangible end. A goal. Passing a test, graduating from med school, getting a fellowship. But it wasn’t until I was dropped into the middle of a crisis that I was forced to deal with the chaos in here.” He touched his temple. “I couldn’t just push past the hardship or clock out at the end of a workday. I woke up in the chaos and I went to bed in it, too. My only choice was to pray for a way to make peace with it. And for me, that meant redefining what it meant to succeed. And what it meant to fail.”

  “Fail?” The word squeezed from my chest. It was hard to believe that word existed anywhere in his mind. “You risked your life going there, working for people you didn’t even know. That’s nothing short of heroic.”

  “Heroes aren’t made on the field. They’re made in the mind.”