K-I-S-S-I-N-G

by Dana Pratola

  Frustrated, Cal pressed his back to the tree and slid down to sit in the grass. The wet grass, he soon realized. But he felt like dirt, so this was where he belonged.

  “Caleb?”

  His head snapped up to find Winsome walking toward him across the open space. Just what he needed. He watched her move cautiously, though more effortlessly than she had at their first meeting last Sunday. It was almost easy to block out the cast peeking from the sleeve of her sweatshirt and just see a carefree girl coming out to join him on a crisp, bright March morning.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, when she was close enough.

  But the shock of white sling was a grim reminder of her injury.

  “Yup. Fine. Why?”

  She eyed him dubiously. “Isn’t the ground wet?”

  “Yup.” And now so were his jeans.

  She stood in front of him another few seconds before moistening her lips.

  “Oh, okay. I saw you from the window and you looked a little…disheartened. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  She wanted to make sure he was okay. And disheartened? Who said that?

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, probably sounding a little more brusque than he’d meant to.

  “Okay.” Winsome turned to go.

  “Wait, don’t leave.”

  She stopped and turned, looking down at him with curious eyes. He noticed the change in them, no longer swallowed by such sinister bruising, or shadowed by misery. They’d held fear when he’d first arrived, but they were clear now and he could see how dark and rich, almost black as espresso.

  Now that he had her here, what did he do with her? He tried a smile, but the look she returned was one of leery bewilderment. He couldn’t really blame her. They were alone out here, no neighbors within shouting distance. Though they’d been alone inside the house. Her puzzlement was probably due to his sudden change of tone.

  The dampness was getting to him now, but he’d rather deal with the discomfort than make her nervous by getting up, so he feigned nonchalance and stayed put.

  “I was…checking out your trees. They’re great for this project,” he said, looking up into the network of branches. “Soon you’ll have your own place.”

  “But it’s still your land, your treehouse. Not that I mind,” she added, quickly. “I just want you to know that I understand that and I’m not trying to take away part of your heritage or anything.”

  “You’re not,” he said.

  “It’s only a year, right?” she said, with a nervous smile. “It’ll go fast.”

  “Winsome—”

  “I’m sorry, this is just such an awkward situation.”

  “You can stay as long as you want if you rent it after the first year,” he said.

  Whoa, where had that come from? He’d thought long and hard about wanting her off his property ASAP, now he was talking about a rental agreement a year in the future. But he wouldn’t recant.

  “If everything goes well, and you rent, you’ll be like every other renter in the world with an annoying, hard-to-get-along-with landlord.”

  “Oh, you’re not,” she returned.

  He snorted at the absurdity of the lie. She shrugged delicately and looked up into the tree. After a long pause, she licked her lips and returned her gaze to his face.

  “I wondered if maybe you were out here missing your aunt, and might want to talk,” she said, picking at the nails of her restricted hand.

  He didn’t really. But it just occurred to him that she might. She was close enough to Aunt Ruth to have her mentioned in the will, so she must be grieving. Talking about that was better than letting her know what he’d really been thinking just a couple minutes ago.

  “Yeah, I do miss her,” he said. “We were close.”

  She quirked her lips. Possibly thinking, “if you were so close, why haven’t we met?” But probably not. That regret was his issue alone to bear.

  Winsome rubbed her right hand over her left shoulder, obviously trying to fight back the chill.

  “Let’s go inside and warm up,” Cal said. She started to protest, probably to lie and tell him she was fine, but he stood. “I need to get out of these anyway,” he told her, looking down at his jeans.

  Half way to the house, Winsome turned and started walking backward, looking at the stand of trees as she kept pace with Cal.

  “It really is a pretty spot. So many trees. I can smell the pines sometimes all the way to the house,” she said looking around, before facing forward. “Have you been here your whole life?”

  Cal cast his gaze off to the distance, where blue mountains held up the even bluer sky. “Most of it. I spent some time in the south, but couldn’t get used to only one season.”

  “No snow, right? You like snow?” she asked, amazed.

  “Not particularly.”

  “I dread the winter,” she said. “The snow gets dirty, and it’s hard to get around. I just hate feeling trapped in the house. I mean, I’m a homebody really, anyway, but I do like to get out as much as I can, in nature. And it’s cold. Don’t even get me started on the cold.”

  She inhaled deeply through her nose, smiling as she let it out. Cal’s heart gave a peculiar flutter, so he turned away. She was so much more alive than he’d seen her last week. Maybe chattering helped her compensate for the lack of talk on his end, he didn’t know, but he liked her to tell him things. He liked her voice.

  “It’s different out here,” she said, wistfully. “Like a dream, where the landscape’s draped in glittering white and everything’s pretty and perfect.”

  A hint of that sadness had crept back into her lilting voice, and he knew for sure he couldn’t look at her then. Instead, he kept walking and looked at the mountains, remembering them snow-capped, envisioning the land the way she described it. It really was an amazing place.

  “Except in dreams there’s no cold, not really,” she said, her tone suddenly buoyant again. “Ruth told me you were the best snowman builder she’d ever seen. Says—said—you would spend hours making one snowman until you got it just right. Building’s in your blood.”

  He didn’t like that she knew that. It was so incredibly personal, and she just said it like it was nothing. It shouldn’t bother him, and he didn’t know why, but it did.

  “My aunt told you a lot about me?”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Winsome scrape her teeth over her bottom lip, but she didn’t reply.

  They reached the house and he held the door open, waiting for her to enter. As she passed, he caught a whiff of her fresh-scented hair. He recognized the shampoo as one his aunt kept stocked in the guest bathroom. Something in a light purple bottle. It smelled different on Winsome. Better.

  “Tea? Coffee?” Winsome asked, going to the stove.

  “You sit down, I’ll get it,” Cal said. “Go ahead, tell me what my aunt said,” he prompted, with a lighter tone as he turned the kettle on. Winsome seemed like a tea girl.

  She shrugged. “Just chatting, you know.”

  When he stared at her silently, she squirmed in her chair.

  “She said you’re a sensitive, creative person. Loyal and determined….”

  She lowered her eyes, ending her words there. He chuckled.

  “I’m willing to bet she told you plenty more than that, but I won’t press the matter.”

  She lifted her brows, silently agreeing. “When we first met…. I have to say, I didn’t see the man Ruth described,” she said, with a cautious smile.

  “I was…less than sensitive.”

  “You were an asshole.”

  He laughed, as she had earlier. He’d been called an asshole before, but never with such respectful candor. She probably believed she was telling him for his own good, not insulting him.

  “That was beautiful,” he said, returning to the table to sit across from her.

  “What was?”

  “You’re insult. Just beautiful.”

  Her eyes caught his and his smile
faded. He couldn’t explain why it was becoming so easy to talk to her, or this connection he seemed to be forging with her. Forging, hell, he’d had it right from the start, and he wasn’t sure, but he believed she felt it, too. Though he had no intention of finding out for sure. That would be just the kind of thing Aunt Ruth would want, and he refused to indulge any more of her whims.

  CHAPTER 5

  So, insulting him was beautiful? Dante wouldn’t think so. If she’d said that to him, he would’ve sent her sailing across the room with a backhand across the face. But she didn’t hear any hidden animosity, veiled threat, or latent resentment in Caleb’s voice, or see any barely perceptible twitches that preceded a punch. She didn’t even know the man, but she felt safe, and couldn’t prevent a smile, which she tried to mask under the guise of rubbing her nose.

  “What?” Caleb asked.

  “Nothing. You’re an interesting man, that’s all.”

  She hoped he would let it go. He did.

  “What else did Aunt Ruth tell you about me?”

  “Well, the first time I met her, she offered you as a weapon.”

  “A weapon?”

  “To murder Dante,” she said.

  “Too bad she didn’t follow through on that. Had I known about him sooner, this,” he wagged a finger at her cast, “would never have happened.”

  He was completely serious, and part of her reveled in it. She would gladly stand by while someone gave Dante exactly what he had coming to him.

  “So, how did you meet my aunt?” Caleb asked.

  The kettle whistled, and Winsome automatically got up to fix the tea, ignoring Caleb’s attempt to get to the stove ahead of her.

  “That’s actually tied to your question about my job,” she said. “I was working in a shop that sells maternity and baby clothes.”

  “Veranda?” Caleb asked.

  She was surprised he’d know the name, but it was right in town. “Yes. Ruth was in there looking for a gift for someone and I came in late, with a black eye.” She shrugged, like it was simply the norm. “My boss took me in the back room, right then, and fired me. Ruth heard the whole awful thing…my boss scolding me, saying it looked bad to customers to see a woman all beat up, and wasn’t I ashamed to let him do that to me, and what kind of example was that for young mothers and children?”

  Winsome had agreed. Her boss thought the same way she had, that to stay with Dante, she must have it coming, so it was her fault.

  “She said all that to your face?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So everyone could hear?”

  “Didn’t even ask how I was or if I needed anything….” she paused. “But Ruth asked.” She sucked in a gasp, shocked to find a sob upon her all at once.

  Caleb got up and nudged her back to her chair, taking over the tea prep duties.

  “It’s okay, breathe,” he said, then muttered under his breath, “Agnes Bittleman, nasty bitch. No wonder she wasn’t at the funeral. Cataract surgery, my ass.”

  Winsome dashed a tear across her cheek with her fingertips and reached for a napkin from the holder on the table to blow her nose. No easy feat with one hand.

  Caleb set the cups in front of them and took his seat. “So?”

  “Ruth was my champion.” She giggled, wiping her eyes. “She really was. She told Mrs. Bittleman off so that the whole neighborhood heard. Called her a horrid woman with not enough compassion and too much mouth, or tongue, something like that.” Her smile returned with the memory. “Then she forced me outside and into her car and drove me here.” The five-minute trip had taken about thirty, she remembered fondly. “Sat me down right here, in fact, and talked to me for hours. She wanted me to stay, but I was too afraid.”

  This was where it got tricky, trying to justify why she went back when she’d been out of the apartment, free. But Caleb didn’t ask, just sat back and sipped his tea, looking her over.

  “You don’t seem too excited about your treehouse,” he said, after several long moments.

  “I’m not.” She shook her head, erasing that statement and the confusion at the change of subject. “I mean, I would be, if it would really work.”

  “Why wouldn’t it work? Do you doubt my capability?” he joked.

  “No, not at all. I don’t mean the construction; I mean….” Well, she’d been honest this far. “I know Ruth had great things in mind for me, big plans, but I can’t start my own business. I tried to tell her that, but—”

  “Why not?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it. His direct tone assured her that he was not simply going to accept whatever excuse she’d formulate. He legitimately wanted to know what was holding her back. Was fear a legitimate answer?

  “I…I can’t do something like that. I don’t have it in me.”

  “People start businesses all the time,” he said. “I’m going to.”

  She sighed. “That’s great for you.” She flung her hand out toward him. “You’re confident and determined, a different personality type than me. Completely.” When he started to speak, she shook her head. “It was never my idea. Ruth said I should because she loved my work, but she only saw one. Her main goal was to get me back out on my own, so I wouldn’t have to depend on Dante for anything, but I don’t have what it takes. I know nothing about business.” She made an O with her fingers. “Zero. And I’m no good with people.”

  Caleb raised a brow.

  “What?” she asked him.

  “I just can’t believe what’s coming out of your mouth right now,” he said. “You’re great with people.”

  “No, I’m not,” she argued. “Even at the store. I’m shy, and if I do talk, I have nothing interesting to say, or I say the wrong thing, or I babble.”

  Caleb leaned over the table toward her. His face wore a menacing scowl, but his words were not intended to hurt.

  “Who told you that crap?” He didn’t give her time to reply. “You need to stop saying things like that. You’ve been talking to me, and believe me, you’re doing a good job. I don’t like to talk to people, but you…you’re pretty easy to talk to. I….”

  He let his words trail away and she took the time to absorb what he said. He enjoyed talking to her? She felt warm inside, and she hadn’t yet sipped her tea.

  Caleb shook his head and put a hand up between them. “Look, my aunt knew talent, and above all, she knew people. If she thought you were worth investing in, so should you. Tell you what, I’ll believe for both of us.”

  What an absolutely lovely thing to say. Winsome sipped her tea. She had no idea where some people found self-confidence, but it had eluded her all these years and she doubted it would just manifest in her because he said so, but she wouldn’t argue with him. And she wouldn’t tell him to not waste his time believing in her. She could use all the help she could get.

  “So, you make candles,” he said, and sipped his drink.

  Used to. Before Dante came along and told her how useless it all was.

  “Yes,” she said, rather than get into it.

  “What kind?”

  “All kinds.”

  Caleb gave an irritated huff and set his cup down. “Winsome. Can you give me a little more to go on? Are they organic? Do you use some kind of exotic scents? I guess what I’m asking is, what stands out about them that my aunt would think you have what it takes to open a shop?”

  Okay, so he was going to tear her down without even knowing it. She’d talk about it, get pumped up about the idea, then see it come to nothing. Fine.

  “I do use interesting scents, when I can get them,” she said.

  That had been before Dante accused the guy she bought her essential oils from of wanting to sleep with her. Though he’d been much cruder about it.

  “It’s mostly about the designs. I carve them.” He looked a little confused. “I wish I had one to show—wait! I do! I gave one to Ruth. She kept it in her room. Is it still there?”

  “I have no idea.”

  �
��Do you mind if I go and see?”

  She hadn’t been in that room since she’d been here, for fear that stepping into the space would make Ruth’s absence all the more real. But if she just ran in and out, she should be fine. Caleb motioned for her to go ahead and she moved as fast as her fractured body would allow, across the hall and down to the bedroom at the back of the house. Trying not to let her eyes alight on the empty bed, she snatched the candle from the wide window sill and retreated, carrying it back to the kitchen.

  Caleb’s eyes widened when he saw her creation. Not mock interest, but genuine intrigue.

  “You made this?” he asked, taking the red and white candle from her.

  This one was designed to look like candy, curved and folded over on itself, forming ribbons and waves. To her delight, Ruth had used it, not just kept it for show.

  “Yes. I gave her that for Christmas,” Winsome said, fondly.

  She watched his face as he turned the object over and around, inspecting it from all angles. He seemed impressed. Her heart swelled with pride.

  “You made this? Seriously?” he asked, meeting her eyes. “From scratch?”

  “Well, I didn’t make the wax,” she giggled. “But yes. The carving is simple. Getting the right placement of the folds is the real trick.”

  “I’m impressed. How do you get those layers of color?”

  “Well, after you have a shape from a mold, you dip it in color, then dip it in cold water, then back to the color. When you have enough layers of one color, you go to another one.”

  “You make it sound easy.” He shook his head. “I guess that part is, but the carving…wow. When you said candles, I’m thinking…you know…candles, like you see in jars, or in holders on the table,” he said, using his hands to describe what he was saying.

  She chuckled. Typical guy. “I can do those, too.”