The Heavenly Bites Novella Collection

by Christine S. Feldman

  “I don’t know, maybe. Somebody had a field day with it, though.”

  Trish turned to look at him. His eyes flashed with anger as his gaze traveled over ugly splashes of bright orange and blue that ruined a castle Kelsey had spent over an hour painstakingly creating. “Was it that Dana girl?”

  He shrugged, his jaw taut. “Her parents swear it wasn’t. Who knows? Could have just been random. Sometimes punks just stumble onto something beautiful and decide to wreck it for no reason.”

  It wasn’t the first time someone had tampered with a window she’d painted, but experience made it no less aggravating. And the disappointment she felt at the sight of the vandalism was not so much on her own behalf anyway as it was for the little girl who had worked so happily on it with her. “Is Kelsey okay?”

  “She’s crying in her room. Won’t come out.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  He closed his eyes, and Trish sensed the helplessness he was feeling. “You can try.”

  Trish felt a fleeting impulse to lay a hand on his shoulder or give it a comforting squeeze, but she lost her nerve, so instead she turned to go inside.

  She made her way down the hallway to a closed door that had to be Kelsey’s, judging by the assortment of stickers and stencils decorating it. Knocking, Trish called out softly, “Kelsey? It’s Trish. Can I come in?”

  There was no answer, and even when she pressed her ear to the door, all she heard was the creak of a mattress as if someone on it had rolled over to face the other way or possibly hide her head under a pillow.

  Now what? Trish wondered, keenly feeling her lack of experience with children. She put a hand on the doorknob to tentatively test it and was not surprised to find it locked. “Kelsey?” she tried again. “Kiddo, we can fix it, I promise. It’ll be even prettier than before. You’ll see.”

  Still nothing.

  Trish took a step back and stared at the closed door, at a loss. She wondered now if this was anything like what her parents must have felt on days when she came home complaining about Ian’s treatment of her. She suspected Kelsey’s unhappiness ran much deeper than her own ever had, though. And try as she might, she couldn’t think of any magical words of wisdom to make everything all better.

  She could paint, though, and fix the damage that was done. A drop in the bucket maybe, but one she could add nevertheless. Turning, she left the way she had come.

  Outside, Ian had already collected a bucket of water and some rags. He wrung out the first rag just as Trish reappeared on the porch. “Are there any parts we can save?” he asked flatly with a nod toward the ruined winter scene.

  “Better to just wipe the slate clean on this one. I’ve got some stuff in the car that might work better to get that off.”

  “Were you able to get her to talk?”

  Trish shook her head.

  Ian slapped the wet rag against the window and began scrubbing with a vehemence that Trish suspected he would have liked to have applied elsewhere.

  “Listen,” she said briskly. “Can you clean this up on your own while I get started on the other window? Then I can redo this one when I’m finished.”

  He paused to look at her. “As in—redo it today?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a lot of painting for one day, isn’t it?”

  “Guess I’d better get started then.” And Trish went to retrieve her supplies from her car. She felt his eyes on her the whole way and realized she didn’t mind.

  * * *

  For the first hour or two, Trish saw no sign of movement behind the curtains in Kelsey’s window. She worked with deliberate loudness—clinking paint jars together, wiping parts of the window clean with squeaky scrubbing—but nothing seemed to whet Kelsey’s curiosity enough to make the girl peek outside. Undeterred, Trish painted on, glancing frequently at her reference point, namely the image she had printed out from her computer at home and brought with her. She’d managed to smudge paint on its edges, but nothing messy enough to spoil the main picture.

  Not bad, she told herself, eyeing her half-finished handiwork. She’d used different paints on this one, colors that would look like stained glass when the sun shone on them, and it was going to be a thing of beauty by the time she was through with it.

  She hoped.

  Progress was slow, though. It would go faster if she had a small helper at her side. She watched the curtains hopefully and then sighed when they still didn’t even so much as flutter.

  “That’s a griffin.”

  Trish turned to see Ian standing a few feet behind her. “Oh, good, you can tell what it is. I was afraid it might turn out looking like a weird bird-dog-lion hybrid thing with a bad case of mange.”

  He came closer, his eyes never leaving the window. “I thought you said you didn’t know anything about griffins.”

  “I do now, thanks to the internet.” She held up the paint-smudged printout. “See?”

  Ian turned his attention to her. “You researched it?”

  “Well…” Trish shrugged. “She did put in a special request, right? Let me tell you, there are a lot of griffins online. They’re kind of cool, actually, so it was hard to pick just one, but—” She realized he was staring at her, and she grew self-conscious. “What? Doesn’t it look okay?”

  “Yes,” he said softly. “She’ll love it.”

  “Hope so. Is the front window all cleaned off?”

  He nodded, his eyes still on her. Despite the frosty temperature of the air, Trish began to feel warm under his gaze. Funny how warmth like that could send shivers down her spine.

  There was a flicker of movement at the edge of one of the curtains then that caught Trish’s attention, and a small brown eye looked warily out. It widened, and then both curtains were yanked open as Kelsey caught sight of the half-finished griffin just as a stray sunbeam cut through the clouds to light it up. She stared, open-mouthed, and then abruptly turned and disappeared from the window.

  Trish blinked. “Is that a good sign or a bad one?” she asked Ian.

  “I think it was good,” Ian answered with a growing smile, and then he nodded toward the front of the house as the sound of a slamming door cut through the wintery air.

  A few seconds later, Kelsey darted around the corner of the house. She hadn’t bothered to grab a coat before she came outside, but she didn’t seem to notice the cold as she looked intently at the window. “Needs some more feathers,” she said finally.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. I was thinking it might need a longer tail, too.”

  Kelsey shook her head, her eyes never leaving the painted figure. “No, you did a good job on the tail.”

  “Yeah? Thanks. It’s not finished yet, but—” Then Trish gasped and nearly lost her balance as Kelsey abruptly threw her arms around Trish’s waist. Recovering, Trish hesitated a moment and then let instinct take over as her arms wrapped around the girl’s shoulders to return the hug.

  “Thanks,” Kelsey mumbled against Trish’s side, the word muffled by Trish’s coat.

  “Sure thing, kiddo,” Trish returned softly, surprised at the unexpected jolt of emotion she felt. Clearing her throat, she released Kelsey and bent down to look her in the eye. “I could use some help finishing it, though, especially if we’re going to get the front window repainted before it gets dark.”

  Kelsey’s eyes dimmed. “But what if it just gets ruined again?”

  “Then we’ll paint it again.”

  “But—”

  “No one’s going to ruin it this time,” Ian told his daughter, and there was a hard edge beneath the words that made Trish believe him, although she wondered how he planned to keep that promise.

  Kelsey looked back and forth between her father and Trish, and then the rigidity in her small frame finally relaxed. “Okay.” She started to reach for a paintbrush with a gleam in her eye.

  “Jacket first,” her father said, nodding toward the house.

  “But—”

  “And a hat
.”

  Grumbling under her breath but with her eyes still shining, Kelsey hurried toward the house to comply.

  “Impressive grip,” Trish observed, putting her hand on her waist where Kelsey had hugged her. “What are you feeding that kid, anyway?”

  Ian didn’t answer her but only watched her with a sort of wonder in his expression. Or maybe it was something else? She couldn’t tell. But it was doing funny things to her insides.

  “Well,” she said, with an awkward nod toward the window. “Guess I’d better get to work on those missing feathers.”

  “Not yet.”

  She did a double take. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You haven’t taken a break since you got here. Come inside and have some coffee first to warm you up.”

  “But—”

  “Coffee,” he repeated in a tone that brooked no argument, and he gently took the paintbrush from her hand and set it down.

  And a bemused Trish let him wrap his fingers around hers and lead her inside.

  Chapter Six

  “There,” Trish said hours later, making the last stroke with her paintbrush and straightening before the front window—or at least straightening as much as she could when her back ached this badly.

  Beside her in the evening’s darkness, Ian shifted the heavy-duty flashlight he’d been holding for some time now to better illuminate what she was doing. “All done?”

  “Man, I hope so, because I think my arm’s about ready to fall off.”

  Together they examined the winter fairyland scene Trish had recreated. Well, Kelsey had recreated some of it, too, but she had long since been sent inside to thaw out by the fireplace, and Trish suspected the little girl was sitting there still and happily devouring a second or even a third cupcake. She had squealed with pleasure at the sight of the fake spiders and vampire teeth, so Trish knew she’d done well with those.

  “Looks wonderful,” Ian said.

  “Let’s just hope it stays that way.”

  “It will.”

  Trish set down her paintbrush and took off her fingerless gloves—the only kind she could really wear while painting—to blow on her hands and rub them together for warmth. “You planning on camping out on your front porch with a baseball bat?”

  “More like sitting up in the living room with a big pot of strong coffee. But the bat’s tempting.” Ian put the flashlight on the front steps, tugged off his gloves, and then reached to take Trish’s hands between his own and warm them. It was a very casual movement that he didn’t seem to think twice about, but Trish stood absolutely stock-still like a deer in the headlights. “It’s ironic,” he added, apparently not noticing her budding catatonia.

  Trish reminded herself to breathe, and finally her lungs obeyed her. “Oh?” she managed, feeling the new warmth in her hands begin to spread to other places in her body the longer he massaged her fingers like that.

  “Yeah. I was a troubled punk myself as a kid. You’d think that would make me more forgiving.”

  “But…?”

  “But she’s my little girl.” He released her hands and took a step back. “Better?”

  She nodded, all the while sorry he had stopped. “So,” she added, with an attempt at lightness and a step back of her own. “You’ll be lurking as the Caffeinated Avenger then? Nice. I’ll probably be needing an IV of caffeine myself tomorrow.”

  “Can’t sleep in late?”

  “I’ve got the early shift tomorrow. Got to get up at three.”

  His eyes widened with what appeared to be genuine horror. “In the morning?”

  Trish shrugged. “Bakery, remember?” Turning, she started putting lids back on paint jars.

  Ian bent to help collect her supplies that were scattered here and there. “You shouldn’t have stayed this long. You’ll be exhausted tomorrow.”

  “I wanted to get it done.”

  He paused. “For Kelsey, you mean.”

  “Well…yeah.”

  “Trish?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you. Very much.”

  She nodded again, wondering if it was exhaustion or his proximity that made it so hard for her to talk suddenly.

  “Here,” he said, reaching for her brushes. “I’ll go rinse these for you.”

  He disappeared inside the house while Trish packed her supplies in the back seat of her car, but by the time she was done, he was already walking back to her, clean brushes in hand.

  “She’s out like a light in there,” he said wryly. “Right on the couch, and with frosting on her mouth.”

  “Busy day.”

  “I’ll bring her by your bakery to say thank you, if that’s okay.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Ian reached into his back pocket to pull something out and hand to her along with her brushes. “For you,” he said, and she saw that it was a check.

  Trish glanced at the check as she took it and did a double take. “I think this is more than we agreed on.”

  “I think you did more than we agreed on. A lot more.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Yes, I do.” They stood there in silence for a long moment, and then Ian cleared his throat. “Thanks for making her smile.”

  “My pleasure,” Trish told him, meaning it.

  “And for the cupcakes.” He grinned. “And the spiders.”

  She couldn’t help but return his smile. “Went with my instincts on that one.”

  “Good instincts.”

  “I try.”

  “Have dinner with me.”

  “I—Huh?”

  “Have dinner with me,” he repeated softly, his eyes holding hers captive.

  Trish felt a sudden need for support and leaned back against her car before her knees could give out on her. “Uh…”

  “Too blunt? Sorry,” he continued ruefully. “I’m a little rusty at this, so...” He trailed off and ran his hands through his hair, looking by all appearances like he was having a very hard time finding the right words for whatever it was he was trying to say.

  Actually, Trish thought he was doing quite well, no matter how rusty he thought he might be. “You’re asking me out?”

  “I’m trying to.” Ian’s mouth curved upward. “Apparently pretty badly, though.”

  Her pulse sped up, and her grip on her paintbrushes tightened. “No, you’re doing fine.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  Was it? Apparently so, because her head nodded in response before she could quite wrap her mind around the idea of going out on a date with Ian Rafferty. Her body appeared to be running the show now, which was just as well since her mind seemed to have blown a fuse.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Okay.” At least her mouth was working again.

  Ian seemed to notice her mouth, too, because his gaze suddenly dropped to it, and Trish felt a whole new level of heat rush through her.

  What surprised her most wasn’t the possibility that he might want to kiss her. It was the realization that she wouldn’t mind so much if he did.

  Startled by her own feelings, she inadvertently loosened her hold on the brushes, and they clattered to the ground. “Oh—”

  They both bent to pick them up at the same time and nearly bumped heads. Time to make an exit, Trish decided, taking the paintbrush he held out to her and quickly turning to open her car door.

  “Seven o’clock?” he asked her as she got in the driver’s side.

  “Seven? Yeah, sure.” She suddenly pictured him reading her real name by the buzzer at her apartment building, and then she winced inwardly. She was going to have to figure out how to handle the problem of her name soon, but for now… “Why don’t you pick me up at the bakery?”

  “It’s a date.”

  A date…

  Trish pulled away from the curb with more haste than she originally intended and realized her fingers had a death grip on the steering wheel. She loosened them and stared at the road ahead, struggling to see her way in the dark a
nd the swirl of snowflakes.

  She had the distinct feeling she was in trouble, and it had nothing to do with the road conditions.

  * * *

  Someone nudged her. “Honey?”

  Waking up just enough to turn her face away from whoever was bothering her, Trish mumbled and let her head settle back down on her folded arms.

  “Trish!”

  “Huh?” Trish forced her bleary eyes open and lifted her head. “What?”

  Nadia stood over her, hands on her hips and her eyebrows raised. “You’ve been asleep at that table for almost an hour. I’d have let you sleep longer, but you were snoring, and it was starting to scare customers.”

  Blinking, Trish looked around and realized she’d fallen asleep in the middle of wiping down one of the bakery tables. “Shoot, I’m sor—hey, I don’t snore.”

  “Oh, yes, you do. And there’s another witness to prove it.” Nadia gestured behind her, and Trish saw little Mrs. Beasley standing at the counter.

  Mrs. Beasley beamed at her and waved a wrinkled hand. “You do, dear. Like a buzz saw.”

  Muttering under her breath, Trish got up and resumed cleaning the table.

  “What happened yesterday?” Nadia asked her, frowning.

  “We painted.”

  “I’ve never seen you this worn out from painting before. Just how big was his window anyway?”

  “Well, we were up kind of late finishing it.” Remembering the way the evening ended, Trish felt her cheeks grow warm.

  “Oh, my,” said Mrs. Beasley, peering at her intently through her impressive glasses. “I think she’s blushing.”

  Nadia’s eyes widened. “She is blushing. Holy cannoli, girlfriend. What exactly happened last night? And don’t you dare leave anything out.”

  “Nothing happened. But…” The heat in her face grew. “He asked if he could take me to dinner.”

  Nadia and Mrs. Beasley exchanged a look of pure delight, and for a moment Trish thought they might also do a high-five. Then Nadia looked suddenly worried. “Wait—you said yes, right? Please tell me you said yes.”

  “I said yes.”

  “That’s fantastic! So why do you look like you’re about to face a firing squad?”

  “Because I’m tired, and I’m mixed up, and he still doesn’t know who I really am.” Trish slumped back against the counter and folded her arms across her chest.