by Moss, Brooke
My mind sang an operetta. He’s gonna kiss me. He’s gonna kiss me.
“Autumn.” His voice came out hoarse, his breath warm on my lips.
Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me. My heart quivered. The tips of our noses brushed together, and I closed my eyes slowly, intoxicated by the moment.
“Holy crap, Mr. T.”
Elliott’s voice rang out from the darkened hallway. Henry immediately stepped away from me, his eyes clouded. He snatched Cody’s shirt off the countertop.
“Are those burns?” Elliott came into the bathroom, pointing at Henry’s stomach.
On Henry’s midriff, just above the top of his jeans, a large red splotch surrounded a quickly rising blister.
I gasped. “Oh, shit.”
“Way to go, Mom.” Elliott frowned at me.
“El, go downstairs and ask Holly for an icepack, okay? And do not repeat that word.”
“Yeah, whatever.” He bounded down the stairs.
I looked at Henry and grimaced. “I had no idea that the gravy was so hot. Can I help you? I’m sure Holly’s got some burn ointment or something in here.” I swung the medicine chest open and it banged into the wall.
Henry pulled Cody’s T-shirt over his head and then took hold of my arm. “Relax. Slow down before you hurt someone.”
“I already have.”
Henry laughed huskily. The same laugh I’d heard in his classroom on the afternoon of Elliott’s conferences. “Stop being so nervous around me. We’re friends, right?”
I nodded numbly. I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted to feel his lips on mine, his body pressed against me. I wanted to hear him say that he still loved me, that he forgave me for breaking his heart in the rain so long ago. And then, I wanted him to lock the bathroom door, lift me onto the countertop, and...
Focus. Stay focused. Friends was good. Friends was a start. Friends was a whole heckuva lot better than what we’d been a few weeks ago.
“Okay,” I whispered.
We left the Judds’ house about thirty minutes later, shortly after my dad announced that he needed a beer before he killed someone. Henry didn’t say good-bye, but he did make eye contact as I shooed my father and Elliott towards the front door. My stomach whirled among the chorus of good-byes and happy Thanksgivings.
Just before I pulled the door closed, Henry winked at me.
Chapter Eight
“Merry Christmas, ho, ho, ho,” I said.
Elliott’s look screamed boredom. “It’s only the second week of December.”
We walked along the sidewalk, the crowd around us bubbling with excitement. I nudged him. “Come on, don’t be a Scrooge.”
I could tell he wanted to smile. “This is lame.”
Every year since I was seven or eight, the town of Fairfield has hosted a full-on Christmas extravaganza, complete with ice skating, cookies and eggnog, wreath-making lessons, caroling, and the lighting of the community Christmas tree in the park. I surprised myself by actually looking forward to this year’s festivities. Maybe I needed a break from the mundane, maybe I was enthusiastic because of the light dusting of snowflakes we’d gotten overnight, or maybe I was just plain crazy.
In the weeks following Thanksgiving, my hometown had begun to appeal to me. I enjoyed my job more than before. I liked seeing the regulars, week after week, when they came to pick up prescriptions and get a dose of gossip from Helen and Doris. Customers had gotten used to seeing me, and often asked about Elliott or my father. It was like having a large, yet slightly intrusive, extended family. Another improvement since Thanksgiving was that Henry and I had been true to our agreement to be friends.
Yeah. Friends.
It wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted us to admit that we were still in love, to recreate one of our hot and heavy make-out scenes from college, then ride off into the sunset together. But every time I’d seen Henry since Thanksgiving, we hadn’t even come close to touching. I’d hoped that being friends was really code for: Let’s reignite the flame, baby, and start a slow burn.
I pulled Elliott close. “Just come and drink some wassail with me, okay?”
“What the crap is wassail?” he asked, his voice muffled by my coat.
I gasped in mock horror. “Oh, my son, your big city upbringing has thwarted you. I have failed you as a mother by never exposing you to the Fairfield Christmas Festival.”
Elliott pulled away, a smile on his face. “That’s not very P.C. In Seattle, they called it a Winter Party.”
Fairfield called their event the Christmas Festival, and proudly displayed a life-sized, illuminated nativity scene right in the middle of town. Fairfield had their own version of politically correct.
“Around these parts, Christmas reigns supreme,” I said.
“Why do we need the sled?” Elliott eyeballed the old-fashioned wooden sled I dragged behind us.
“We’ll use it later to haul the tree back up the hill.”
He looked skeptical. “Whatever you say.”
In the center of town, strands of red and green lights were strung high between telephone poles, and wreaths of fresh evergreen and holly hung on every door, window, and pole. Holiday songs—fittingly sung by country music artists—twanged from hidden speakers. People strolled around wearing Santa hats, and little kids sucked on candy canes.
Elliott and I bought cups of hot cider from Fisk’s, then made a couple of ornaments, despite Elliott declaring how nerdy it was. I even convinced him to join me in singing with the carolers for a handful of songs, and we bought a wreath of flocked holly to hang on our front door.
“You two should go pick out a tree before all of the good ones are gone,” the woman selling wreaths said cheerfully. “They have some balsam pines that are the bee’s knees.”
Elliott snickered. “The bee’s knees?”
I put my arm around him quickly. “A balsam sounds delightful. Thank you for the advice.”
She nodded.
I scooted Elliott toward the tree lot outside the library building. “Don’t make fun of people,” I whispered.
We wandered through the meager assortment of trees—some tall and lush, others resembling the tree in A Charlie Brown Christmas, a spattering of needles around their trunks. Elliott liked the bigger, fuller trees, and I wanted one of the small, lonely-looking ones that would fit in our modest living room.
Fingering the needles on a thick blue spruce, I asked Elliott, “How about this one? It’s nice and thick, and we could put it by the front window, so people can see the lights from the street.”
“Nobody walks that far up the hill,” he said from behind a seven-foot tree that had dark brown sap on the ground around its trunk.
I shook my head and joined him. “I walk up and down that hill all the time.”
“Yeah, but nobody else does. We could put the tree in the bathtub and just as many people would see it. Let’s get this one.”
“Do you see all of that sap? It’ll be everywhere. And it’s a pain in the butt to wash off, you know.”
“Whatever. It’s not that hard.”
“Yes, it is.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve tried to wash it out of my clothes and off of my hands before.”
“You’re a city lady. When have you ever had to wash off sap?”
“I grew up here. I used to climb trees all the time.”
“I don’t believe that.” He gestured at the blue spruce I’d been eyeing. “Fine. Get that one. Grandpa will complain, though. He said he didn’t want a tree.”
“Grandpa always complains.” I smiled. “He hasn’t had a Christmas with family in town for years. He’ll love it, no matter how much he gripes.”
“Yeah, probably.” Elliott looked wearily at the sled. “We’re gonna pull the tree all the way home?”
I handed a twenty to the vender and tilted the spruce onto its side to drag it over to the sled. “Ugh.” I grunted under its weight. “It’s sturdier than I expected.”
Toget
her we half-dragged, half-rolled the tree to the side of the library, then I tied it onto the sled with twine. Balsam needles pricked my fingers. “Ow,” I yelped.
“The whole bottom half is hanging off of the back of the sled,” Elliott said. “Won’t that break the branches?”
“Yeah. Let’s try pushing it up onto the sled more.”
He bent over and shoved on the trunk a few times, barely scooting the tree forward. “This tree’s made of lead.”
“Switch places with me. You tug on this end, and I’ll push the trunk. Just try not to break the tip.”
We took our new positions, and I pushed the thick tree trunk six or seven times, barely shuffling it forward.
Elliott stared at the tree. “The twine came undone.”
“Crap.” I scratched my head. “Can you lift it at all?”
Elliott tried unsuccessfully. “Should we call Grandpa?”
“No, I can do this.” I deepened my squat, and gave it another heave. “How does it look?”
A voice rumbled from behind me. “Looks pretty good from back here.”
My legs turned to gelatin, and my ears rang. I glanced over my shoulder. Henry stood there, wearing a leather coat, a long, knotty-wool scarf the same shade of gray as his eyes, and a stocking cap on his head. He was the epitome of a man’s man, with his perpetual whiskers and half-smile. I literally thought I would melt.
“Hi.” I tried to stand, but lost my grip on the tree trunk and stumbled backwards.
“Whoa there, chief.” He laughed.
Again with the chief thing? I steadied myself and put my hand on my hip, trying to look casual. “So…hi. Whatcha doin’?”
He grinned. “I’m enjoying the festival.” He nodded at Elliott. “Hey, Elliott. How’s it going?’
“Hey, Mr. T. Got any twine on ya?”
Henry patted his pockets. “Sorry. Fresh out.”
I looked at my Christmas tree with contempt. “I picked the world’s heaviest tree. No joke. This thing is like a giant redwood.”
“Why don’t I help you?” he asked.
“You don’t have to.” I waved my hand. “I can do it.”
“You’re gonna bust up your back or something,” Elliott said.
“Give me a little credit. I almost had it.”
Elliott scrunched his face. “No, you didn’t. Aren’t you supposed to take it easy on your back when you’re old?”
I raised my eyebrows at Henry. “Did my kid just call me old?”
He shared a smile with Elliott. “I believe he did.”
“All right.” I bent and hoisted the tree, groaning. “I’ll show you…”
Henry took hold of my hips, and pulled me up to a standing position. My skin tingled beneath my layers of clothing. “Oh, no you don’t,” he joked, lifting the lead tree with one hand. “You’ve got to be careful in your old age.”
“You’re older than me.” I brushed needles off the legs of my jeans.
He gently maneuvered the tree onto the sled. “And that’s how it’s done.”
“Show-off.”
Nearby, Holly and Cody walked down the street, their bundled-up kids trailing behind them like ducklings. I waved.
“Hey,” Elliott whooped, his voice cracking. “Mom, can I go walk with them?”
“That okay?” I called to Holly.
She nodded and moved baby Ty from one of her hips to the other. “Of course.”
“Come on, Elliott,” Tabitha called. “We’re gonna get hot chocolate from Fisk’s. They make it with real chocolate bars.”
“Can I go? Please?” Elliott shifted from foot to foot.
“Sure, go ahead,” I said. “Want us to join you and carry a couple of the boys?”
Holly shared a look with Cody and the two of them shook their heads in unison. “Not on your life.” Holly grinned. “We’ll meet you down at the park. You two can find us, can’t you?”
“We’ll find you.” Henry secured the last piece of twine as the Judds trekked on with Elliott in tow.
“So, uh…” Suddenly shy, I looked around.
Henry tilted his head. “You’re not going to clam up on me now, are you?”
“No.”
“Come on, I’ll buy you some cocoa.”
“What about the tree?”
“You’re not in Seattle anymore. Hey, Dirk,” he called to the vendor. “Can you watch Autumn’s tree for me?”
Dirk waved. “Sure.”
We were in Fairfield, Washington, where the honor system was still considered contractually binding.
Henry and I sauntered down the sidewalk, pausing occasionally to look at the booths offering ornaments of every size, shape, and color. I stole a few glances at Henry as we walked. His eyes crinkled at the sides when he smiled and greeted people with his husky voice. Several women blushed when he stopped and spoke to them. I waited while he bought a tiny, pipe cleaner nativity scene from a little girl I recognized from Elliott’s bus stop.
“A nice addition to your collection?” I asked.
Henry shook his head. “Actually, I don’t have any Christmas decorations. This is my first.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Laurel got them all,” he said.
“Oh.” We took a few more steps. “Henry?”
“Hmm?” He stopped to examine a plate of sugar cookies with great intensity.
“What did you mean when you said that we’re friends?” I fidgeted with the buttons on my coat.
Henry gave me a sideways glance, and briefly flashed his white teeth. “Don’t you want to be friends?”
My gut rumbled, but the sound was not associated with hunger. “Of course I do, I just—”
“I put you in the dreaded ’friend zone,’ didn’t I?” He made quotation marks with his gloved fingers.
“No,” I said quickly. “I mean, yes. I don’t know. It is just weird.”
“Want to know what’s weird?” He grasped my elbow as we sidestepped an older couple. “Try going through a divorce and moving to the tiniest, most obsolete town in the world. Then you find out that you’ve moved to the hometown of the woman who ripped your heart out a dozen years ago.”
I pressed my lips together. “You got me there.”
“I didn’t mean to be so rude to you in October.” He released my elbow. “I was just surprised. And, I was—”
“Pissed off?” I asked.
He laughed. “Yeah, I was sort of pissed off, too. I mean, I wasn’t mad at you, I was just mad at my life—the way things turned out. Does that make any sense?”
“I think so,” I said. “I was pretty angry when I moved back here, too. Not at anyone in particular, but because I had to move at all.”
“How do you feel about it now?”
I looked around. Christmas songs filled the air. People strolled around, singing and laughing. Ray Fisk wore elf ears—his cheek stuffed full of chewing tobacco—and passed out raffle tickets for the ham giveaway. The place could have been a Norman Rockwell painting. My gaze settled on Henry. “I feel pretty good about it.”
Snowflakes danced in the wind, and I gazed into the sky. “It’s snowing.” My voice swelled with excitement. “Elliott will be thrilled. I haven’t seen a snowy December in years.”
Henry raised his chin and looked upward. “Wow.”
“Will this be your first white Christmas?”
He nodded and grinned. “Does it show?” With the exception of the years he’d spent going to school in rainy Seattle, Henry was a California boy.
I reached up and brushed some white flakes off of his long eyelashes. “Yes. You look as happy as a kid.”
His eyes blazed with intensity. “I feel like a kid.”
We held each other’s gaze for a few moments, and I gulped. It was happening again. That damned staring thing that Henry did, heavy with words that neither of us had the guts to say—a nine-months-pregnant pause that made me squirm.
“Autumn Cole, look at you.”
I bristled.
That voice had come from the source of most of the torture I’d endured as a teenager. It had mocked me for being different, for being flat-chested and redheaded, and for being the daughter of the ever-intoxicated Billy Cole. That voice belonged to the head cheerleader and homecoming queen, the daughter of the president of the only bank in town, the girl who had driven the nicest car parked in the school parking lot at Palouse Plains High.
Layla Deberaux.
I turned and faced her, pursing my lips to keep from grimacing. She looked almost the same as she had in high school.
I hated that about her. I really did.
Layla had blonde hair styled to absolute perfection, bright, brown eyes rimmed with naturally dark lashes, a face Botoxed into a permanent state of pleasant surprise, and a long, lean body that scored a ten on the perfection scale. She wore a belted leather coat and skinny jeans tucked into knee-high boots. Rings sparkled on most of her fingers. I tried not to be too obvious as I checked out her left hand. Sure enough, her ring finger remained unadorned.
I’d been briefed on Layla’s story within days of starting my employment at the pharmacy. Layla happened to be one of Doris and Helen’s favorite subjects. She’d married the quarterback of the football team right after high school, only to leave him a couple of years later for one of her father’s banking associates. Courtesy of him, she’d popped out two perfect children, the crowned prince and princess of the Deberaux family. That marriage had ended when banker-guy left her for a graduating senior with bigger and more impressive boobs. Now, Layla lived alone in her palace on the hill, perpetually searching for her next victim.
Layla smiled, but all the makeup and Botox in the world couldn’t hide the fact that she was less than pleased to see me standing two inches away from the hot, new teacher in town, brushing snowflakes off of his eyelashes. Henry was fresh meat to the likes of Layla Deberaux.
“Layla. How are you?” I said, then clenched my teeth.
She tossed her hair. “I’m fabulous. How are you? It’s so good to see you back in town.” Before I could reply, she focused her attention on Henry. “And you’re the Mr. T all the kids are talking about.”
“That’s me.” Henry held out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs.—”