Frosted Kisses

by Heather Hepler

  “Wait,” he says. “You haven’t even seen the best part.” He opens the driver’s-side door and steps back. The inside of the door, which at one time must have been leather or vinyl, has been replaced by green fun fur. “What do you think?” he asks. Miss Beans just smiles and shakes her head. He looks at me.

  “I like it,” I say. I wouldn’t choose it, but I like that it’s surprising and out of the ordinary and maybe just a little weird.

  “I like it, too,” Miss Beans says. Chad Stinson grins at us.

  They thank me for my help and I head back inside, leaving them discussing whether he should repaint his truck lime green or grape. Apparently both colors are on clearance at Lancaster Hardware. And Chad Stinson says at three dollars a can, you can’t really go wrong. Miss Beans isn’t so sure and I have to agree. Sometimes you really do get what you pay for.

  When my mom drops Tally and me off at the Windham Farm on Saturday, we’re greeted by five huge buckets of white paint and plastic grocery bags containing a screwdriver, two rollers, and half a dozen paintbrushes. A thermos is perched on top of the pile. A note is wedged under one of the paint cans.

  Felling dead wood on the back 40.

  Make yourselves at home.

  —Dutch

  Tally opens the thermos and takes a sniff, then an experimental sip. She makes a face. “Yuck,” she says, extending the thermos toward me. “Black coffee. Taste it.”

  “Um, no,” I say. Why do people always do that? Sniff something horrible, taste something disgusting. Touch something repulsive. And then after you witness their revulsion, they want you to do it, too. Tally screws the top back on the thermos and flips the note over. She reads aloud.

  “Pineapple, sand castle, tulips, butterflies, polaroid, blue plate special.” Tally looks at me with a question in her eyes. I shrug. “Either he’s a genius or he’s crazy,” she says.

  “Or both,” I say. Tally pockets the note and we each grab a can of paint and a couple of brushes. We make our way around the back of the house, past overgrown lilac bushes, a garden full of rubbery rhubarb and spent irises, and a coop that’s more a pile of debris than anything that might serve as a home to chickens. Tally disappears around the corner and I follow. She stops so quickly, I almost run into her back.

  “What are you—” I look past her. “Whoa.” It’s the only thing I can think to say. Before us is the fence. I should say the FENCE, because it goes on forever, disappearing into a copse of pine trees only to reappear again hundreds of yards farther.

  “Hello?” I turn at the voice and see Blake walking toward us, his four-wheeler helmet tucked under his arm. “Whoa,” he says, stopping just short of where we’re standing. “There has to be half a mile of fence. Maybe more.”

  “You act like you’ve never seen this before,” Tally says. “You’ve lived in this town forever. Haven’t you been past here about a million times?”

  “Well, yeah,” Blake says. “But who looks at fences?” His shirt has a giant white question mark on the front of it and the words YOUR DESIGN HERE below it. He walks to the nearest section of fence and begins stepping off the distance between posts. I hear him mumbling to himself. “Eight feet, two posts, four rails.” He stands and studies the fence again. “What do you think? About thirty minutes per section?” Neither Tally nor I answer. Not having painted a fence before, I have no idea. “Let’s say thirty minutes,” Blake says. “Give or take.” He scans the fence line again and I can see his lips moving, counting. Then he’s back to mumbling. “Half a mile of fence, 8-foot sections. 330 times 30 minutes.” Then he stares at some passing clouds for a few seconds and announces that it’s going to take Tally and me 82.5 hours to finish the job. “Plus breaks,” he adds. Then he looks over at us, clearly pleased with his mathematical prowess.

  I glance at Tally, who looks like she might start crying at any moment, and then back at Blake. “Not helping.”

  Then Blake does what every guy, including my dad, does when someone is about to cry. He freaks. He starts stammering that he was just guessing and that he is terrible with math and that he’s sure it won’t take us nearly that long seeing as how we’re painting experts and all. Tally isn’t buying it, but she does smile to make sure he knows she appreciates the pep talk. Even if it is all nonsense.

  “It’s a big job, but we’ll get it done,” Tally says.

  “I’ll help,” Blake says.

  Tally shakes her head. “No way,” she says. “You have a paper and a lab report and that makeup test to do.”

  Blake makes a dismissive noise. “The paper’s done. The lab report’s cake. And the makeup test is for Mr. Nickel’s bird class.”

  “Bird class?” I ask. I don’t remember Blake taking ornithology.

  Blake nods and makes his arms into wings. “Bird class,” he says. “As in I’ll fly right through.”

  Tally shakes her head at him, but she’s smiling a little, so that’s something. “Isn’t there something else you’re forgetting?” Tally prompts.

  Blake looks at her blankly.

  “Soccer practice?” she says.

  Blake looks at his watch, then he makes a noise that sounds like a surprised chicken. When he looks up, there’s panic in his eyes. “Sorry,” he says. “I gotta go. Anyone who’s late has to do pukinators until, well, until he pukes.”

  “Delightful,” Tally says. “And that is why I’m not playing soccer.” Blake pauses and frowns at her. “Oh, and the fact that I can’t kick a ball to save my life.”

  “Later,” Blake calls, jogging toward his four-wheeler. He pushes his helmet back on his head.

  “When would you have to kick a ball to save your life?” I ask.

  “Well, like an explosive ball,” she says.

  “Kicking an explosive ball is probably a bad idea,” I say.

  Blake climbs on his four-wheeler and starts it up. We watch as he steers down the driveway, sending up a rooster tail of dust in his wake.

  “Guess we’d better get to it,” Tally says, nodding toward the paint cans.

  “Guess so,” I say. My already low enthusiasm for the job plummeted even further after Blake’s little mathematical assessment.

  “Come on,” Tally says, bumping me with her shoulder. “It’ll be fun.” I nod, remembering Gram’s saying, “Once begun is half done.” I know what she means. The hardest part sometimes is just getting started. And I totally get why that applies to scooping the cat box or cleaning my room, but this? The Great Fence of Hog’s Hollow? I take a deep breath and follow Tally over to the nearest section of the fence.

  From far away I couldn’t really understand why Dutch wanted the fence painted, but up close it’s obvious. If it was ever painted, any trace of it is long gone. Tally and I use the screwdriver to pry the lids off the buckets. Then we each take a bucket and a brush and start on a section. It’s not hard work. It’s just sort of fussy and messy, but soon we get into a rhythm. Tally tries to talk for a while, telling me about how she wants to sell the rest of the Rock Paper Scissors T-shirts at Winter Fest as a way to raise money for the ARK.

  “What is Winter Fest exactly?” I ask.

  “It’s fun,” she says. “A lot better than Hog’s Hollow Days. For one, there’s no Hog Queen. But there’s also tons to do. There’s a pancake feed and snowball fights and ice carving. And the Ice House.” She pauses. “And then on the last night, they have fireworks.” Her cheeks get pink.

  “What?” I ask. She shakes her head and she blushes even more. “Tell me!” I say. She shrugs and turns away. Then she mumbles something. “Um, I didn’t catch that.”

  She turns and looks at me again. “I said, ‘That was when I first met Blake.’”

  “During the fireworks?” I ask. She nods. “That’s so romantic!”

  “Don’t tell him I told you,” she says.

  “I won’t,” I say. She smiles and we go back to painting. “Tally and Blake sitting in a tree …” I sing. She rolls her eyes at me, but I can tell she doesn’t m
ind.

  Every once in a while, I pause to rest my wrist and look around. Whatever we might think about the job itself, the location couldn’t be better. The farm backs up against a thick forest. Red and orange leaves cling to the maple trees, while the pine and spruce are every color of green, from a deep viridian to a blue gray that reminds me of the ocean just before a storm. Tally seems better than she’s been lately. Less stressed. And the mysterious piece of paper has yet to make an appearance. A flock of geese flying overhead starts honking like crazy. I look up and watch them until they disappear over the hills.

  “Pretty, ain’t it?” I jump at the voice behind me, sending a spattering of paint onto my already freckled shoes. There’s a man standing a dozen or so feet behind us. Old jeans, a thick flannel shirt, and heavy hiking boots are all north woodsman, but the braided leather bracelet and longish shaggy gray hair would look more at home on someone riding a surfboard or rocketing down a ski slope. I recognize him from Gram’s Main Street Meltdown. “Sorry,” he says, blue eyes crinkling in the corners. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Hi, Mr. Ingmar,” Tally says. I can see her holding her breath, hoping she got his name right. I’m with Blake. It’s probably not Ingmasomething.

  “Hey there, Miss Tally.” He narrows his eyes at her. “Although I’m pretty sure I told you to call me Dutch.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Tally says. “I mean, Dutch.”

  “And you must be Penny,” he says. He walks toward me with his hand extended. I put out my hand, but then think twice about it when I see how much paint is on it. “Pleased to meet you,” he says, taking my hand. His hand is huge and warm and calloused. He squeezes mine briefly and steps back. He studies me for a moment, then nods. “You favor her,” he says. “Your grandmother, I mean.”

  “Really?” I say. I don’t look very much like my mother and only like my father in my hair color and around my mouth.

  Dutch just smiles before turning toward the house. “Let’s see if I can’t rustle up some lunch for you two.” Then he turns and narrows his eyes at us. “I’ll bet you can knock out another section before I can whip something together.” He turns away again, whistling off tune.

  Tally grins at me. He’s issued a challenge and Tally is about as competitive as they come. “Let’s do two,” she says. We get back to work, painting as fast as we can. “If I ever bump into Mark Twain,” Tally says, “I’m going to have some words.”

  “If you ever bump into Mark Twain, run. Because it’s a ghost. He’s been dead for over a hundred years.”

  “Good point,” she says. We are just finishing up the second section when a clanging from the front porch makes us both look over. “He has a dinner triangle,” Tally says, laughing. “Awesome.” We quickly cap the buckets of paint and wrap the brushes in the plastic bags from Lancaster Hardware. “Race you,” she says, taking off running toward the house. I shake my head, but hurry after her. I easily catch up and begin to pull away. “No fair,” she yells from behind me. But I’m not exactly sure what she’s protesting. I place my hand on the side of the porch and turn and wait. It only takes a moment before she’s standing in front of me. “Holy cow. You’re fast.”

  Dutch appears in the doorway. “Well, get in here,” he says. “Food’s getting cold.”

  Tally and I look at each other. I shrug and we kick off our shoes at the door, adding them to the lineup of hiking boots, running shoes, and sandals with tire treads for soles and ropes for straps. I step inside first. Tally follows close behind. We both pause just inside the door and look around. The whole main floor of the farmhouse is one big room. A giant stone fireplace dominates most of the far wall, and a small kitchen huddles against the wall to our left.

  “You can wash up over there,” Dutch says, directing us toward the sink. Tally and I take turns at the faucet, pumping apple-scented soap into our hands and running them through the warm tap water. Dutch is standing beside one of the chairs, waiting for us. He nods toward the other chairs. It isn’t until we’re seated that he sits. A reminder of my father suddenly wells up inside of me without warning. He always waited to sit until my mom and I both were seated. He also always stood if we left the table. At the time, it seemed like unnecessary formality, but Dutch’s easy courtesy makes me miss my father’s quirky ways. Dutch bows his head briefly and I see his lips moving. I glance at Tally and see her wide-eyed, barely breathing. I wonder if something about this has triggered a memory for her, too. And it occurs to me how many of my friends have someone significant missing from their daily lives.

  Dutch raises his head and looks at each of us for a moment, as if really trying to see us. Then he grins. “Well, dig in.” He passes Tally a plate of only slightly mangled peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. “Sorry about those,” he says. “I’m still hunting for the silverware.” He nods toward the stacks of boxes at the far end of the room. “It’s harder than you think to make PB&J’s with a Swiss Army knife.” Tally passes me the sandwiches and I add two halves to my plate before passing them back to Dutch.

  “It’s probably good that Switzerland is known for its neutrality,” Tally says, studying her sandwich.

  “And why’s that?” Dutch asks.

  “The Swiss Army knife isn’t that imposing of a weapon. I mean, you’re just as likely to flip open the scissors or a bottle opener as a blade.”

  Dutch nods as if seriously considering her observation. “Although the ruler-saw combo might give someone pause.”

  Tally looks around the sparsely furnished room. “You know what you need around here?” she asks.

  “You mean other than a couch, a rug, and a couple of bookcases?” He nods toward the boxes of books lined up in front of the fireplace.

  “You need a pet,” Tally says.

  Dutch grins and looks over at me. “She’s about to tell me about some poor, lonely dog who needs a good home.”

  “A good forever home,” I say.

  Dutch turns to Tally and leans back in his chair. “Okay, let’s hear it,” he says.

  Tally is momentarily put off her game, but she rallies quickly. “Well, the way I see it, you have two options. First, there’s Bear. He’s a golden retriever. Not the smartest dog on the planet, but sweet and loyal. Or there’s Lily. She’s a herding dog. Crazy smart, but timid.” Dutch nods, but Tally’s not finished. “Or maybe you’re more of a cat person. We’ve got dozens of them.” She leans forward. “Literally.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Miss Tally,” Dutch says. “When you finish my fence, I’ll swing by that ARK of yours.” He takes a sip of his water and looks at her over the rim of his glass. “Although I will warn you. I tend to go in for the tough cases.” He puts down his glass and smiles. “I like challenges.” He glances out the big window that looks out over the pasture, then back at us. “Well, eat up. We’ve got us a bunch of fence to paint.” We finish our lunch quickly and help Dutch carry the empty dishes over to the sink. He turns the water on and adds a good amount of soap.

  “Mind if I use your bathroom?” Tally asks.

  “Second door on the left at the top of the stairs,” he says over his shoulder. Tally heads up the stairs, leaving me alone with Dutch. He glances back at me and nods toward a dish towel lying on the counter. “You can dry,” he says.

  I pick up the towel and wait while he scrubs and rinses the first plate. Dutch’s directness reminds me a lot of Gram. I’m fairly certain I shouldn’t mention that to her. In fact, she doesn’t know Tally and I are here. I didn’t exactly hide it from her, but I wasn’t totally forthcoming with the details when she asked about our latest job. I told her we had some painting to do. She didn’t ask any follow-up questions and I didn’t offer any more information.

  Dutch hands me the first washed plate, which I take carefully. As I rub it dry, a million questions flood my mind. Why did he move back to Hog’s Hollow? Why did he leave in the first place? What’s the deal between him and Gram? Why does the surfboard leaning in the corner of the living room look
like it has a bite taken out of it? But every question I think to ask seems too personal, so I remain quiet. Dutch hands another plate to me and I carefully wipe it, like the task takes all of my mental energy so I can’t actually speak.

  “I’m looking forward to a proper snow,” Dutch says, finally breaking the silence. “The stuff they have out West—” He shakes his head, like it’s too depressing to even talk about. Then looks at me. “This will be your first winter here in Hog’s Hollow.” I nod. “You’re in for a treat. Prettiest place in the world to be during the holidays.” He hands me the last plate. “And I should know.” The implication that he’s spent holidays in a lot of different places hangs between us.

  Finally I work up some courage. “Did you grow up here?” I ask. He nods. “What made you move back?” I ask.

  “I’ve crisscrossed this country half a dozen times. Herding cattle in Montana, smokejumping in Oregon, roughnecking off the coast of Texas. I spent the last fifteen years running a surf shack down near La Jolla. But my heart’s always been here.” I hear the door open upstairs, then Tally’s footsteps above us. “Hog’s Hollow is home. Always has been,” he says. Dutch looks at me. “I think I can finish up,” he says.

  I dry my hands and leave the towel on the counter. Tally hops down the steps and smiles at me. She nods toward Dutch, a question in her eyes. Did I get any details? I give her a tiny nod and then head up the stairs.

  I step onto the landing and stop. The entire wall in front of me is covered in photographs. And not carefully framed, artfully arranged ones, but a giant mass. Just hung with pushpins, edge to edge. Some even overlap others. Big full-color ones and tiny black-and-whites barely bigger than a postage stamp. But they are all of the same things. Close-ups of faces. Old and wrinkled men with scars hang beside pink-cheeked toddlers with knit caps pulled low to keep out the cold. It’s beautiful and slightly disconcerting. A hundred pairs of eyes peering at me, watching me. One woman has her hand in front of her mouth. Laughing, shining eyes. I lean in. I know that face. Gram. But young. Probably not a lot older than I am. I look into her eyes, so much like mine, as Dutch said. And I wonder what she was thinking. What made her laugh?