by Sylvie Kurtz
After picking up Jamie at his friend Bobby's house, Beth made a quick stop at the post office before it closed at one. A yellow slip waited in her box.
"Look, Jamie, there's a package from Grandma and Grandpa Lannigen."
Not being able to deal with their only child's death, Jim's parents had left the area soon after Jim's funeral. They'd settled in Arizona, far from all the reminders of their loss—including her and Jamie. They sent packages on birthdays and at Christmas, but not once had they made the trip up north in the past five years.
Beth lowered the square box to Jamie's height. "What does the sticker say?"
"Don't Open Before Christmas!!! Awww." Jamie grabbed the box and shook it. A clanging that sounded suspiciously like Legos rewarded his effort. "Can we put in under the tree?"
"We'll see." That would be a mistake. Out of sight would mean out of mind. Under the tree might prove too big a temptation for her curious son.
Jamie skipped around her as they made their way back to the library where she'd parked her car.
Looking up at her with a wide smile, Jamie rapped on the side of the box. "Knock-knock."
She groaned and laughed at the same time. "Who's there?"
"Felix."
"Felix who?"
"Felix-cited all over."
She twitched Jamie's nose. "You're still going to have to wait until Christmas."
"Awww."
She unlocked the car and stowed the package on the front seat, then, looking at the library building, she hesitated. Already snowflakes wafted in the air and salted the pavement. She wanted to get home before the brunt of the storm hit. But her curiosity was an itch that needed scratching. "Let's go in for a minute."
"Why? I already got books."
"I just want to look at something real quick." Real quick—before I lose my courage and change my mind.
Jamie started to whine.
"I'll bet Miss Sarah will let you help her scan books if you ask nicely."
"Yeah!" He raced ahead.
Her palms were damp as she handed her library card to reserve Internet time. Tension knotted through her as she sat and stared at the screen. Her fingers stuttered on the keys as she typed in commands. Then when the search engine page came up and the cursor blinked waiting for instructions, she swallowed the lump in her throat, but could not seem to make her fingers move.
"Need any help, Mrs. L?"
The unexpected voice at her shoulder startled her. Chandler Mackenzie, a student from school, who worked as a junior page shelving books.
"No, thanks, Chandler. I was just getting off."
With a resigned sigh she exited the program. She hated it when Eve was right.
She wasn't ready for marriage or any kind of serious relationship. Someday, maybe. But not now. Still, Logan was becoming a friend, and with friendship came the obligation of trust.
The answers had to come from him—maybe all he needed was an opportunity.
* * *
The sound of his own phone sprang like an alien screech amid the near-silent task of grouting his newly tiled counter. Logan stared at the offending implement he'd tossed on the floor. Who could be calling? He hadn't given anyone his number. He swept the float across the tiles, but curiosity finally made him pick up.
"Logan, are you there?"
Beth. A simultaneous zing of pleasure and annoyance coursed through him. "How'd you get this number?"
"I have my ways."
He could hear her smile and turned to look out the window at the seafoam-green house across the street. The Christmas lights shone as brightly as their owner. He imagined her in the kitchen, dressed in red and green or maybe yellow and purple, phone between ear and shoulder, stirring something. As if to prove him right, the soft pinging of the oven timer chimed. A smile twitched at his lips. There was something to be said about predictability. "I'm feeling violated."
"Violated? Really?" There was hesitation in her voice. "You know, I can never tell when you're serious and when you're attempting a joke."
"That's me, a man of mystery."
She laughed and the sound popped through him like soap bubbles from a teased wand. "Has this man of mystery worked up an appetite?"
He was immediately transported back to his vivid dreams of her and him and the insatiable appetite he'd tried to quell in them. He cleared his throat, and as if she could see him from across the street, he shifted his body away from the window. "I don't recall giving my number to anyone."
She giggled. "Except Gus to call you when the part you ordered came in."
"The kitchen fixture." He should have ordered it online, then he wouldn't have to deal with this unexpected burning hunger. "Is nothing private in this town?"
"Not much. I guess I should have warned you that he's seeing Eve and that Eve is an incorrigible meddler. How about I tell you all about the latest gossip over dinner?"
"I'm not much into gossip." And the thought of seeing her again was a bit too appealing, dangerous even, in this state of mind.
"I made your favorite—brussels sprouts and sweet potato."
A gruff puff of laughter escaped him. Beth and food. Predictable. Tension drained out of him. Besides, his fridge was empty and he didn't want to attempt a trip into town with all this snow falling. "Well, when you put it like that, how can I refuse?"
Chapter 9
The weighty snow had already dropped half a foot of white over the landscape. Even with the dark of evening, the temperatures rose, turning the flakes into ice pellets. A town snowplow, yellow lights blinking, rumbled by, sealing off the end of his driveway, then Beth's. He'd have to borrow a shovel in case he needed to get out—in an emergency, of course.
The burning welcome of Beth's porch light, the icing of snow on the roof and the colorful bulbs he'd installed made her house appear like a gingerbread creation.
"Can we make one, Daddy? Can we?" Sam had stood mesmerized in a grocery store check-out line by the gumdrop-and-licorice-adorned graham cracker house on the cover of a magazine. "They've got plans and everything." No one would have mistaken their effort for a work of art, but Sam had beamed with pride at their Christmas table centerpiece. After the accident, he'd smashed the cookie house against the wall and hadn't bothered to pick up the pieces for more than a month.
Hunching his shoulders, he whistled to Max who'd stopped to sniff at a disoriented autumn leaf. She rabbitted up to him. He couldn't quite figure out why he'd let her tag along.
Jamie answered his knock. "Mr. Ward! I got some new hockey cards. Wanna see?"
The boy seemed glad to see him. "Maybe later. I brought Max."
"Really?" Jamie beamed, giving his heart an uncomfortable tug.
"She wanted to play."
"Thanks!"
Max squirmed around Logan's leg, half her body wagging in anticipation. Jamie reached for her. His laughter at Max's canine kisses warbled like a bird's song and a strange satisfaction softened Logan. He shrugged it off.
"Max, come, Max." Jamie lured her toward the living room. "Mom's in the kitchen."
As if she would be anywhere else. His lips twitched as he headed for the kitchen. The aroma of something sweet and spicy greeted him, then warmth enveloped him, and brightness dazzled him, stirring dormant echoes of a nearly forgotten hope.
Places like this really did exist; they weren't just the fiction of needful children's dreams. He suddenly thought of Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz as she fervently said, "There's no place like home," and regret soughed inside him.
But it was the vision of a dancing Beth that stopped him short and made him lean against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, with the uncomfortable captivation of a voyeur. A barrier seemed to prevent him from crossing the threshold into that inviting world of kitchen comfort and feminine zest. As if taking that step would alter something vital.
She looked like a candy cane with her fuchsia corduroys and pink sweater with its white stripes and sparkling silver snowflakes. Where did sh
e find clothes in such bright colors? Surely the market for those things didn't exist.
The radio was turned up and, using a wooden spoon as a microphone, she sang "Winter Wonderland" along with Elvis, swiveling hips and all. He had a sudden urge to grasp that candy cane of a woman and taste every inch of her. He stuck his hands in his pockets, frowning at the craving gnawing at his gut.
She whipped around, caught him watching her. A spark of surprise and pleasure flickered in her eyes even as her cheeks flamed. Her gestures became the short, snappy ones of the embarrassed as she cut Elvis off midtwang.
"Hey," she said, stirring a pot, "take your coat off and stay awhile. Want something while you wait for dinner?"
You. The energy and the softness she exuded, her unwarranted attraction to him, entinced him. When she discovered the real Logan Ward, would she still think she wanted him?
Not in a thousand years.
So why had he accepted her invitation tonight? He didn't need the complications, the responsibilities, the obligations. He didn't want to hurt her or Jamie.
A long breath shuddered out of him. He'd come because, no matter how often he told himself it wasn't so, the truth was that he wanted Beth—wanted to lose himself in her softness and warmth... in her vibrancy.
But he couldn't. For all of their sakes, he had to keep this relationship on a neighborly level. His muscles suddenly twitched for something to do. "You got a shovel? I'll clear your drive."
"No need. Ed Barclay plows me out after every storm." She opened the fridge. "Tea, coffee or juice?"
"I'm fine." As fine as he could given his dueling conscience. He shook off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair.
A clashing of metal on metal charged from the living room, followed by a childish peal of laughter and an excited bark.
He curbed his urge to check on the boy and silently prodded Beth to go look in on her son. She blithely kept removing produce from the crisper. A sour streak of frustration turned his disposition to vinegar.
She wasn't any better a parent than Julia. How many times had he come home to find Samantha alone in a room, the danger of ordinary things all around her? And there was Beth slicing cucumbers without a care while Jamie got himself into trouble. "How could you have that radio turned up so loud? What if Jamie had needed you?"
Her hands stopped in the middle of shredding lettuce over a salad bowl. She shot him a questioning glance. "Mother's intuition. He's in the living room, playing with his toy cars. You brought Max. They're having fun. What's the problem?"
"No problem." And she was a meddler, too. If he had any sense, he'd leave right now.
She was right, though. He was being unreasonable. Just because he couldn't trust his instincts anymore didn't mean he had to take it out on her. "Max likes your cooking."
"So you came just to feed Max?" She quirked him a smile as she set the salad bowl on the table.
No, for that smile. "A dog's gotta eat."
"I see. You're afraid you still won't like brussels sprouts and sweet potatoes." Her throaty laughter floated like a caress. "Why don't you go round everybody up for supper, and we'll find out? Everything's just about ready."
Yeah, everything was just about ready to push him right off the tightrope he was walking.
* * *
There it was again, that look in Logan's eyes, something between hunger and terror. It made her shiver with delight and a dose of doubt of her own. Projecting again, are we, Beth?
She shrugged, squirted soap into the sink and watched the water foment bubbles. Thinking of Logan in that way was dangerous. She wasn't looking for a quick affair and wasn't quite ready for anything else.
Maybe someday. But not right now.
And certainly not this fast. Falling in love with Jim had taken time, but the results—that deep friendship, that enduring love—had been worth the leisurely pace.
Besides, Logan needed to heal the grief deep inside him before he could consider a relationship. He wasn't ready, either.
Still, there was that look in his eyes. And there was something to be said for companionship. She liked having someone to talk to over dinner, hadn't realized how much she'd missed that until Logan sat at her table and asked about her day.
A friend she could use... and so could he. Unconditional friendship—that was the way to make him find his smile once more.
"Where do you want these?" Logan asked, holding up the red-and-green snowflake placemats.
"Just shake them out and put them back on the table."
Without being asked, he took the sponge from the dish above the sink and wiped the table. He did the task with the ease of someone who'd had practice, which aroused her curiosity again.
"You've done this before," she said, hoping he'd fill in a detail or two.
He shrugged. The sharpness of the movement spelled do not enter more clearly than any sign. Okay, Logan, I'll back off. For now.
He took a clean dishcloth from the linen drawer and joined her at the sink.
"How's your kitchen coming along?" Ease into the hard stuff. Basic Psychology 101. It worked with teenage girls, sullen six-year-olds and bruised adults.
"I've got the priming coat done on the walls and cabinets. Now I've got to decide on paint."
"Still going with plain white?" A bit of humor always helped loosen things. She tried to keep a straight face, but her lips quivered as she slanted him a teasing glance. "Have you considered adding gray stripes? For the prison-cell look."
He frowned a deep, intent glower.
She was used to humor. Eve had a wicked sense of it. Jim had been witty, and constant exposure to his jokes had brought out her own lighter side. Almost everyone she knew enjoyed good repartee. And Logan had endured her teasing about his color scheme before.
But he'd worn a strange expression when he'd caught her singing along with Elvis earlier and had kept it on all through dinner. He seemed preoccupied, more distant than usual. She should have realized he wasn't in a playful mood. Her insides fluttered at her blunder, and she frantically searched for a way to lighten the mood once again.
He took the saucepan from her still hands and wiped it dry. "Don't smile like that."
"Like what?" She scanned the counter for something else and found the Dutch oven.
"It makes me want to kiss you."
His unexpected admission choked her breath. It was one thing to think he might want to kiss her, quite another to have him express the desire.
Her voice squeaked. "I see."
Frowning, she plunged the Dutch oven into the suds and scrubbed hard, afraid that if she stopped he'd see her fingers shaking. "Logan—"
"I don't want to care for you in that way."
"I understand." She worked at a piece of stuck-on sweet potato. She didn't want to care for him in that way, either. He was a project, not a prospect. "You confuse me."
Avoiding her gaze, Logan dried the bowl in his hand to perfection. "I'm sorry."
It wasn't that she wasn't attracted. Something about Logan did reach out to her and made her want to reach out to him. But was it just her need to heal the wounded or something more?
Jim had often teased that only his allergies kept the house from turning into a zoo. While Jim was alive, more often than not, one lost soul or another had occupied their spare room. And if fate hadn't so cruelly parted them, a brood of children would trample these floors. She swallowed her regret.
"I saw the pictures in your wallet," she said, concentrating on the pan in her hands, on her project.
He made no reply. The drip of the faucet, the crank of the water pump beneath them in the cellar, Jamie's faraway voice filled the void with glaring discord.
"What are you hiding from?" She swished the soapy water over the already spotless surface of the pot.
"Where does this bowl go?"
"Just leave it on the counter."
He attacked the serving spoons with bone-rattling intensity. She should drop the subject. Everything a
bout the stiff lines of his body, about the stern set of his face told her to. Yet ghosts of pain also resided in his eyes, and she found she could not ignore those.
"You can't outrun demons," she said.
He held up the spoons. "Where do these go?"
"In the jar by the stove."
He rescued the soapy Dutch oven from the water, leaving her hands empty. She pulled the plug and listened to the soapy water gurgle down the drain, then scrubbed the stainless-steel surface free of germs.
"There's a cure, you know."
He grunted and held up the pot.
"In the cupboard behind you."
The kitchen clanged with noise until he found a home for the saucepan, the vegetable steamer and the Dutch oven.
"Logan—"
He slammed the cupboard door. "Drop it, Beth. You don't want to go there."
She reached for the towel hanging on the oven door handle and leaned against the counter to dry her hands. The space between them might as well have been the Grand Canyon for all her ability to reach him. "The cure. It's called living."
He let his head fall forward on his chest. She could feel him counting. When he looked up again, a dangerous fire lit his eyes. "It must be nice to view the world with rose-colored glasses."
"I'll take my rose-colored glasses over your personal black cloud any day."
"Dreamer."
"Cynic."
He strode to the door, the heels of his boots striking a strident plick-plick on the tiles. She could not let him go on this bitter note.
"Logan."
He paused but didn't look back. She dropped the towel on the countertop, crossed the expanse of tile and put a hand on his shoulder. His muscles stiffened beneath her fingers.
"You're a good man, Logan Ward."
Slowly he turned, leaving her hand adrift like a bird on a thermal. He caught her shoulders and pressed her body against the wall, drawing a gasp of surprise. The cat clock's tail brushed at her ear time and again counting the seconds as he stared at her, his gray eyes volatile—a storm ready to erupt.