by Viv Royce
“Work is a big part of my life right now. I have so many orders to deliver. And the forecast for the next few days is really bad with lots of snow.” Her expression turned worried as she glanced out her window as if to see if the skies were already unleashing a new load.
“Ah, but the tree farm has a snowmobile. If you want, I can help you with the deliveries. Faster, safer. You’ll have some free time and could spend that with Casey. Personally, I don’t know anyone I’d rather be with, but then I am her father.”
Emma laughed again. It drove the hint of reserve from her features and opened them up like clouds breaking open under his plane and revealing a dazzling panorama.
She exhaled as if coming to a decision. “How could I say no?”
“That’s a deal then. By the way, I’m Grant.” He reached out his hand to her across the counter.
“Emma.” She put her hand in his and shook with surprising strength. “Welcome to my shop. I was making some salted caramel chocolate in the back. Want to try some?”
His mouth watered, and he nodded. “Would love to.”
“I’ll get it.” She walked away quickly. She reminded him of a robin or a wren, a quick busy bird going about her business. Knowing exactly what she wanted. This space had been a real estate office before, he recalled, looking rather dark and uninviting. But her choice to paint the ceiling white created a sense of space. Clever.
She came back and handed him a large chunk of chocolate. He lifted it to his face and inhaled the amazing scent before even attempting a taste.
She smiled. “A real connoisseur.”
He held the piece up as if toasting her. “To your shop. Must have been a big move, going to a new town and starting a business. Leaving behind what you used to know.”
“I wasn’t that attached to anything.” It sounded rather vague and a bit evasive.
He studied her features closer as she rearranged something on the counter. Had heartache brought her here? A failed relationship? A loss?
The chocolate melted on his tongue in a combination of creaminess, caramel and a subtle hint of salt. “Perfect,” he said. “Don’t change a thing about it.”
“It’s so nice to have an opinion beforehand. You could become my taster.”
“I didn’t want to suggest it, myself.”
He couldn’t wait to see his daughter enjoying the Christmas season, ending their stay here on a high note, full of confidence they were ready to move into their new life together. That last step, finding trust again, that he could be a good dad and that Casey could make friends, build bonds with new people, adjust. It seemed closer than ever. With help from Emma, could everything fall into place?
Chapter Four
“Right. All set to go.” Slightly breathless, Emma grabbed the two boxes with decorated chocolates off the counter and hurried into the shop front.
Grant turned to her. He wore a leather jacket with a shearling collar and dark jeans tucked into ankle boots. He grinned at her. “Ready to go?”
“Sure.” Nerves fluttered in her stomach about the snowmobile. She had never ridden on one, but the offer of getting her deliveries around safely had been too good to resist. Who knows, it might even be fun.
“Let me hold those for you while you close up shop.” Grant reached out to take the boxes from her hands. His warm skin brushed hers, and her breath caught. She struggled to find her key and lock the door. Just nerves about this whole thing.
“Done? This way.” Grant went ahead of her with the boxes, at an easy pace as if he didn’t mind the snow cluttering the pavement, frozen into deceptive icy heaps that could send her feet out from underneath her in a heartbeat.
“There we are.” Grant halted beside something looking like a big motorcycle on skis. It had a box on the back to store things in. Grant clicked it open and placed the chocolates inside. “I normally use this for tools,” he explained. “But I cleaned it before I came. Want to see if it meets with your approval?”
She inspected the inside. “Looks fairly clean to me.”
“Fairly? Only just fairly, huh?” His brown eyes twinkled.
Say something funny.
Or just something.
Anything.
But her head was blank like the untouched snow on the roofs. Conversations in the store were usually practical, not needing rapid-fire witty retorts. He was right, you work too much.
“You have to wear a helmet. These things can go pretty fast and you want to be safe.” He held out a red helmet dotted with white spots. “It’s my sister Fay’s.”
Emma accepted the helmet and examined it doubtfully. “Do I take off my woolen hat then?”
“No, you catch a lot of wind on a thing like this.” He reached out and pulled her hat deeper over her ears. “There, now put the helmet on over it. I don’t want you to get cold. Do you have gloves?”
Emma stared at him, just conscious of the burn in her cheek where his hand had brushed her as he pulled her cap in place.
“Gloves?” Grant repeated, hitching a brow.
“Yes, of course. In my pocket. But first let me get this thing on.” She put it on her head, feeling for the strap.
“Let me do it.” Grant reached out and secured the strap, trying to move the helmet. His palm brushed her chin, and the warmth spread into her face and chest. The helmet didn’t move, and he nodded in satisfaction. “There. Perfect.”
Aftershave with pine notes swirled around her, and Emma quickly pulled the gloves out of her left pocket and fumbled to put them on, taking her time to pull them down well over her wrists.
Grant put on his own helmet, deep black emblazoned with golden wings on each side, and motioned to the snowmobile’s broad seat. He gestured across it. “I’ll sit in front because I have to steer, you hop on behind me. You have to hold on tight.”
Emma stared at him. Hold on? To him?
I should have thought this through better. Her brain scrambled for a way out. There was none.
Grant smiled at her. “Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe. I’ll go slowly. For starters.”
Thanks, that’s very encouraging.
He swung his leg across the seat and sat down, looking over his shoulder at her. “Come on.”
She rubbed her gloved hands together. She had an uneasy feeling the entire street might be watching.
But hey, Grant probably had all kinds of passengers. Miss Evelyn for instance? Just a ride to get some chocolate delivered. Nothing personal.
Emma clambered on behind him. Her balance was off, and she almost tipped to the other side, but once her foot found the railing it should rest on, she could prevent a landing in the snow.
Grant called over his shoulder, “Grab me tightly.”
Uhm… Emma surveyed his back. Grab him by the shoulders or the waist?
She took a deep breath and reached out, putting her arms gingerly around his waist. The leather jacket creaked under her touch. The scent of it wafted in her face, mixed with the piney aftershave and the cold of the winter’s day.
“Starting…” Grant called and turned the ignition on. The snowmobile jumped forward, and Emma clutched his waist tighter. As a kid she had once made a pony ride where the animal had broken into an unexpected trot, pulling away from her older foster sister who had guided it. Emma had lived through a few terrifying minutes, clinging for dear life to the pony’s neck before an adult had caught it and lifted her off. She had acquired a healthy fear of speed.
The growl of the engine tightened her stomach, and she struggled to breathe even. Grant will be careful. He won’t let me fall off.
They glided along at a sedate pace, giving her a chance to glance at the other shops. No one paid any attention to them. An elderly lady with a poodle hurried into the welcome warmth of the bookstore. The homey feel of Heart Street wrapped itself around Emma, and she dared relax just a little bit.
…
The vicelike grip of Emma’s arms around his waist loosened a fraction. Good. This is sup
posed to be fun. He’d give her time to get used to it, starting slow, then opening the gas step by step. Her hold would guide him. Tighten meant ease off.
He breathed the cold air full of the scent of snow and winter and had to suppress the urge to shout out loud. This was freedom. Not quite soaring above the clouds, but close enough.
He shook his head to get some pesky flakes away from his face. Behind him, Emma said something.
“What?” he called to her.
“The first delivery is to Court Street. Number forty-six.”
Right. This is business. Not riding around on his motorcycle when he had been eighteen. For the fun of it, the feel of it, the sense of being all alone in the world. Everything was easy then, and under control.
Grant clenched the handlebars with a huff. His sense of control had been a lie. Oh, yes, on a bike, or in a plane, he could influence everything. Tell himself that he had planned the route, knew the safety protocols, had seen every airport before. He was the master of preparation; nothing took him by surprise. Nothing but that phone call. Telling him, while he sat on the bed in his hotel room in Tokyo, that Lily was dead. A heart attack. Gone. But that had to be a misunderstanding. Women of thirty-five didn’t just die. Not out of the blue. She had never even mentioned feeling sick.
His mind had scrambled for a way out of the abyss that opened up around him, but his body had kept falling. There hadn’t been a hold anywhere, just nothingness sucking him in, emptying him until he was part of the abyss. Dark, hollow.
Grant blinked against the sleet on his lashes, but really to block the unwanted memories of the hours spent on the edge of that bed, not knowing how he could ever stand up again. Walk. Fly back home and tell his daughter that her mommy was gone. That it was just the two of them from now on.
If he, an adult, didn’t understand it, how could she? She was just a little girl.
A little girl, whom he barely knew. Oh, yes, he had played games with her and tucked her into bed at night when he was home. Between flights, and trips with friends. He brought her presents and he sang her songs when he was there. But sitting on that bed in Tokyo a voice had screamed in his head that it had never been enough, he hadn’t been there for her, and he had done everything wrong, and now he was left, alone, to work it out with her.
Every accusation had been a punch in his gut, a blow drawing blood. No defense possible. No quick answers. No clever plans. Just one thought, welling up with the tears and burning its way across his cheeks: even if I don’t know how, even if I don’t think I can, I have to do better. For her.
Emma squeezed his shoulder. She called out, “Court Street was to the left just now.”
“I’m—taking another route.” Snap to it. Fortunately, he knew Wood Creek like the back of his hand. He could reach Court Street via Main and then back through Dougan.
“How are you doing?” he called to her.
“Fine. I kind of like this.”
He chuckled. “Just kind of?”
…
Emma held on tightly, blinking against the snow that kept on flying into her face and eyes like little needles stabbing her. The wind gushed into her neck and down her sleeves. She hunkered down behind Grant’s back and was tempted to lean her head against him and close her eyes. Focus on the delivery. Mrs. Beaver had been rather demanding when she had been in the shop. She had wanted chocolates without filling, flat so she could present them on a silver tray, fifty in total, ten of each shape. But not plain chocolate, decorated with colors so as to bring pre-Christmas cheer to the ladies knitting group she was hosting tonight.
Emma swallowed hard. What if Mrs. Beaver didn’t like what she had created? The recent customer complaint had knocked her confidence, and her heart beat fast as Grant turned the snowmobile into the drive of number forty-six. It had been freed of snow and the house itself was immaculate, with white lace curtains and small neatly cut bonsai trees in the windowsills. A wreath on the door in red and gold, everything tasteful and…perfect?
Emma took a steadying breath to silence the nerves churning inside. The chocolates are exactly what she ordered.
Yeah, that’s what you thought last time.
Grant cut the engine, and she let go of him to clamber off.
“Do you want me to deliver them?” he asked.
Maybe Mrs. Beaver won’t complain to him.
Stop it. “I’ve got it. Thanks.” Her breathing was strained as she tried to move her legs, which had grown a bit numb in the cold.
Grant said, “Do you need help?”
“I’m okay.” She managed to get her right leg across and stood leaning against the snowmobile, feeling a bit unsteady. She tried to wriggle her toes, but she could barely feel them.
Grant smiled at her and then hopped off easily. He rolled back his shoulders, his leather jacket creaking and sending another waft of aftershave her way. “Which of the boxes is it?”
“Top one.” Emma struggled with the helmet’s strap. She didn’t want to ring the bell with a helmet on, like she was a pizza delivery boy.
Grant unlocked the storage in the back and handed her the box. The golden card tied on top wished Mrs. Beaver a merry Christmas.
“I’ll hold your helmet,” Grant offered.
Emma exchanged the helmet for the box and went to the front door of the house, pressing the bell with a nervous flutter in her stomach.
After what seemed like ages, the door opened. Mrs. Beaver surveyed her with a frown. Her face was flustered, and the apron she wore covered in flour. “Oh, yes, the chocolates. Put them in the living room for me, will you? I can’t touch them now.”
She stepped back to let Emma pass, directed her into the living room area and pointed at a low wooden table. A golden retriever came to sniff at Emma’s boots, but Mrs. Beaver ordered him curtly to go back to his place. He glanced up at her with disbelief in his friendly face, but another command sent him trudging back to the corner where his basket stood.
Emma placed the box carefully on the table. She expected her to lift the lid and inspect the order, say something about how it had turned out, but she gestured to the front door. “I have tons left to do for the meeting tonight. Goodbye.”
“Aren’t you going to see if they are what…” Emma stammered.
“If I don’t like them, I’ll return them. If I like them, I’ll pay my bill.” Mrs. Beaver sounded final. “I heard that you gave a refund to someone else because the delivery was unsatisfactory. I’ll pay when I’m satisfied.”
Say you can’t accept that, and you want her to look right now.
“I, uh…” Mrs. Beaver’s flashing eyes made the words die on her tongue. “Yes, of course. I wish you a very merry Christmas.”
Mrs. Beaver harrumphed as if she wanted to say bah humbug. She shepherded Emma out the front door and shut it behind her with a bang.
Emma cringed under the sound and walked back to the snowmobile with her shoulders pulled up. After the warmth inside, the air felt even colder and the wind breathing up her neck pushed goose bumps out on her arms. You have to stand up for yourself. If you don’t make money, you’ll go bankrupt.
“What’s wrong?” Grant asked. “Didn’t she like them? She closed the door on you like she was throwing you into the street.”
That’s exactly how I feel. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she forced a smile. “She’s baking for the meeting tonight for which she also ordered the chocolates. She was just in a terrible rush, didn’t have the time to pay me, either. But that will come, I’m sure. In a small town people are good for their word.”
Grant looked her over and shook his head. “Taking people on their word is good and fine, but you have a right to your money. She got her chocolates so you should have been paid.”
“Yes, and then I’ll have to refund when she doesn’t like them. Now she didn’t even want to check to see if she did like them, and then later she will complain that they weren’t what she ordered.” The words burst out in a furious rush. Emma bit h
er lip and looked down. Running the store alone, she never had a chance to complain about anything to anyone and let off steam.
The other shopkeepers were friendly enough, asking her how she was doing, but she didn’t dare mention rude customers to them, for fear they would think her ungrateful or gossipy.
Grant leaned over. His eyes were concerned, searching her expression. “Don’t you have some business rules that apply when people have a complaint? Fine print. It’s amazing what you can do with it.”
Emma had to smile in spite of her dejection. “I was told at the business seminar that I need some general terms and conditions, but…it’s such a hassle to put it all together and I don’t know if I could enforce them. How? Turn to an attorney? Or enforce payment via a third person? I can’t see myself do it. I want to make friends here around town, not alienate people.”
Grant sighed. “This sounds very familiar. My parents have had the tree farm here for all of their lives. That is, my dad grew up on it and then he went to college and met my mom and they came back together to take over when my grandparents retired. They know what it’s like to run a business in a town where you know everyone.
“My mom is the worst. She’s always giving people things for free. Because she knows they’re on a tight budget, or it’s for a good cause. Which is fine, but the tree farm supplies our income. Not just for my parents but also for my sister Fay and her husband. The same thing applies to you. You have to live off the chocolates, pay your rent, your bills.”
“I do have some savings,” Emma countered weakly.
Grant shook his head. “You sound like my mom. I’ve never had any luck with her, either.” He said it in a light tone, but his eyes were serious.
Emma touched his arm a moment. “I do appreciate your advice. It’s just that…I want people to like my shop. To love my creations.”
To like me. To embrace me and welcome me here.
She averted her eyes. “I’m just bad at taking criticism.”
“That goes for most of us.” His voice sounded nearer as if he had leaned closer to her. “Don’t change because of criticism, Emma. Your chocolates are something special. Anybody telling you anything different probably never had great chocolate like yours.”