by Moss, Brooke
“Oh, it’s not missus, it’s miz. Ms. Layla Deberaux,” she drawled, putting her dainty hand into his. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
Charmed, I’m sure? I suppressed a giggle, and Henry shot me a conspiratorial smile.
“I’ve driven by your house a few times,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t it, though?” She smiled charmingly at me. “I designed it myself. Right down to the last tile. You’ll have to come see it sometime, Henry.”
“Oh, I don’t think—” he began.
Layla’s pressed her hand to Henry’s chest, French-tipped nails gleaming. “Don’t be shy. I’ve got a hot tub.”
I raised an eyebrow at her. Was she really hitting on him while I was standing here? Layla hadn’t changed much since high school. Once, I’d been talking to a boy I liked, and she’d sauntered up and handed me a box of tissues. She’d announced that I’d forgotten to stuff my bra, and then asked the boy to the Sadie Hawkins dance right in front of me. He’d been the quarterback, fated to become husband number one.
Obviously her methods hadn’t evolved over time.
“It’s got over thirty-five jets,” she bragged.
Henry’s eyes widened. “Impressive.”
“Yes, it is.” Layla removed her hand from Henry’s chest and checked her nails. “Maybe you can drop in sometime, too, Autumn,” she said, as if she’d just remembered that I was standing there. “Are you looking for extra work? I could use some cleaning once or twice a week.”
My cheeks burned. “You’re asking me to clean your house?”
Henry touched the small of my back. Layla’s gaze had followed his hand and her smile tightened. Henry looked at me and smiled brightly. “Didn’t you promise to go ice skating with me?”
“I did, didn’t I?” Plastering on a phony grin, I shook my head at Layla. “Sorry, Layla, the man wants to take me ice skating.”
We walked away from Layla, Henry quickly steering us around a group of carolers. “Holy crap,” he whispered. “What’s with your friend?”
“Layla? I am not friends with Lay-a-lot Deberaux.”
He looked back. “Well, she sure knew you.”
“Actually, she used to torment me in high school. She was one of the reasons I was so nervous to send Elliott to Palouse Plains. It’s never fun to be picked on.”
“The fact that she just offered you a job cleaning her house probably didn’t help.”
“Oh, you caught that?”
“She wasn’t exactly subtle.”
“Are you going to go see her thirty-five-jet hot tub?”
Henry looked at the ground, now covered in a dusting of white. “I don’t know if hot tubs are my thing.”
I couldn’t help myself. “Aren’t hot tubs every guy’s thing?”
“Sounds like you’ve been hanging around with the wrong guys,” he said. “Now, you owe me a trip around the pond.”
“I do?”
“I just saved your butt from Ms. Deberaux,” he reminded me as we entered tiny Fairfield Park. “Now you have to ice skate with me.”
“I’m indebted to you now?” I glanced around the park and realized that lots of the people milling around, sipping steaming-hot cups of cocoa and wassail, watched us curiously. Holly and Cody stood with their kids and Elliott at the opposite end of the park, warming their hands by the bonfire. Nearby, the school band played “O Holy Night.”
I caught Holly’s eye, and she waved excitedly, her gaze flicking between Henry’s face and mine. She was waiting for us to fall into a snowdrift and start making out. Thanks. No pressure.
“I don’t know about this.” I eyeballed the miniscule pond in the middle of the park.
Ice skating on Theil’s so-called pond was a tradition in Fairfield, even though the pond was just a wide, round section of the puny creek that meandered through town. It was only about twenty-feet wide and twelve-feet long, but before the festival each year, the Parks and Recreation Department—consisting of four guys and a weed whacker—trimmed the grass around it, lined it with logs for sitting, and encircled it with decorative paper lanterns.
One year, when I was about ten or eleven years old, Harriet Baumgartner, the local funeral home director, fell through the ice and had to be pulled out with ropes. Granted, Harriet Baumgartner had weighed about three-hundred-and-fifty pounds, and the water was only two-and-a-half-feet deep underneath the ice, but I’d still been too terrified to try skating again.
Henry laughed. “Are you scared?”
“No.” I backtracked. “Okay, maybe a little. I don’t really know how.”
He took my hand and pulled me toward the pond. “Come on. I’ll teach you.”
Four other people skated to the music of the school band. The snow fluttered down more thickly now, sticking to my braid and on Henry’s hat. He offered me a reassuring grin as he gave a dollar to the young man renting out dozens of mismatched old ice skates. We sat on a log to put them on. Henry had his laced and tied in a matter of seconds, while I sat tugging and fumbling to secure the antiques to my feet.
“Here.” Henry gently lifted my foot and properly laced the skate while I watched in reverent silence. “You’re going to break your ankle unless you lace them up tight.” He released my foot, then lifted the other. Reaching beneath the tongue of the skate, he grabbed my sock and tenderly tugged it farther up my leg.
“How do you know all this, California boy?”
Henry gave me a taunting smile. “I’ve got plenty of skills you don’t know about.”
I was pretty sure I levitated off of the log for a moment. I didn’t doubt Henry’s skills in the slightest.
With Henry’s assistance, I managed to make it onto the ice. We skated in slow circles around the pond. I faced forward, gripping his hands while he skated backwards, encouraging me. The band played “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” jolly and irresistible. After a few turns I began to relax and enjoy myself. Holly grinned at me from the shore, the kids played in the snow, and almost everyone else seemed to have stopped what they’d been doing to watch us skate together. Apparently Henry and I were the town “project.”
“That’s it. You’re doing great,” Henry prompted, releasing my hands as we turned.
“Hey, don’t—” I reached for him.
“Relax. You’re a natural.” He smiled, pulling a candy cane from his pocket and unwrapping it. “And you’re the prettiest woman on the pond.” An older woman skated past and harrumphed at him. “Well, second only to you, Mrs. Patterson.”
I covered my mouth and giggled.
“She’s my landlord,” he said.
Nodding, I picked up my pace, bringing myself closer to Henry. He sucked on the end of a candy cane and waved cheerfully at our audience.
“Are you ready to try going backwards?” He sounded excited. His eyes matched his tone, the crinkles on the sides of his eyes deepening.
“I don’t know.” I looked down, focusing on the fallen tree branches beneath the ice. I thought of Harriet Baumgartner. My knees turned to jelly. “Henry, give me your hand.”
“No, you’re doing fine.” He put his hands on my waist to steady me.
His hands felt so good, even through three layers of clothing. My heart sped up, my ears rang. “Henry.” His name came out like a croak. My stomach did a somersault, and I pitched forward.
The toe of my skate collided with Henry’s, and we fell. I jerked forward, pushing him backward. Before either of us could right ourselves, we hit the ice with a thud, followed by a long skid to the edge of the pond.
“Oof.” He’d groaned when his butt hit the ice, sending his candy cane skittering several feet.
I’d landed on my knees between Henry’s legs, and had flopped forward like a ragdoll. A collective “ooh” resounded from the crowd, but I didn’t look up from whatever had softened my landing. I didn’t know much, but I knew enough to be grateful that I’d just sidestepped a concussion.
By landing face-first in Henry’s cro
tch. Hard.
There have been times in my life when I’ve wanted to disappear. When Cliff’s grandmother called me a hussy, spit at my feet, and kicked me out of her dingy basement? Yes. When my father wet his pants on Halloween? Yes, again. And now?
I begged for David Copperfield to work his magic.
I raised my head, scrambled out from between Henry’s legs, and rubbed the dent that Henry’s button-fly had left on my chin. “Are you okay?”
Henry didn’t respond. He curled into the fetal position on the ice. Several people in the crowd snickered, and my cheeks burned.
“Can I help you up?” I asked weakly.
Henry had closed his eyes tight. He shook his head.
“Did you injure Mr. Tobler again?” Elliott shouted, from the edge of the pond.
I opened my mouth to reply, but Henry spoke before I could. “No, I’m fine. We just—” He opened one of his eyes and looked at me pointedly. “Bumped toes.”
I touched his arm. “I am really sorry. My face hit your…”
Laughter rumbled in his chest. “I’m well aware of what your face hit.”
“I told you I couldn’t skate.” I rubbed my sore chin.
“You didn’t tell me you were lethal.”
“Now that we’ve established he’s okay,” Elliott said, “can you guys get up? They’re about to light the tree.”
I glanced up. The crowd was migrating toward the center of the park, where the mayor stood in a bright green blazer, holding the end of a long, orange extension cord.
“Oh, shoot. Go stand with the Judds. We’ll be there in a minute.”
Elliott jogged off with the crowd, leaving me to help Henry up. I stood carefully on my skates, then reached for his hands. “Let me help you. It’s the least I can do.”
He raised his hands to mine and gripped tightly. “You really pack a punch, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.” I shuffled to the edge of the ice, and pulled him to his feet.
Henry grabbed me just as I started to lose balance again. We both dissolved into giggles. “You are seriously one of the clumsiest people I’ve ever met,” he whispered in my ear.
I righted myself. “That’s not very nice.”
“Let’s get these skates off of you before you impale someone.”
“Good idea.”
I looked over at the town’s Christmas tree as the mayor plugged in the lights. “Let the holiday season begin,” he exclaimed. The tree, a fifteen-foot evergreen covered in thousands of multicolored lights, illuminated beautifully. The townspeople cheered. I grinned when they began singing “Joy to the World.”
“You should do that more often,” Henry said in a low tone.
I shifted my gaze away from the tree. “What?”
“Smile.” We stood on the edge of the otherwise empty pond, and he put his arms around me. “You’re beautiful.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I melted in his embrace. “I, um, thanks.”
Kiss him. Kiss him, my mind screamed. My stomach filled with thousands of manic butterflies. The nearby music faded into white noise, and an unfamiliar buzz of excitement filled my ears. I was in Henry’s arms. Henry’s arms. It was almost too much to bear.
Without a second thought, I tentatively brushed my lips against Henry’s. His lips and whiskers felt like silk surrounded by sandpaper, and the two sensations thrilled me. A shiver tickled my spine. I tilted my head to the side and sighed in complete bliss.
That was all the permission Henry needed. He flattened his palms against my back, pulling me tightly to him. His lips tasted like a candy cane.
The essence of Henry filled my senses and stirred my insides. His aroma was so richly familiar that it felt like a homecoming when he kissed me. I recognized the scent of books—old, hardback books with worn paper and broken spines. His apartment had been full of them when we’d been young. And something else, something I couldn’t quite place as he opened my mouth with his, making my skin tingle and my stomach clench with desire. Leather. Thick, worn leather that looks cracked to the eye, yet is soft and pliable to the touch. That’s what Henry smelled like—then, and now.
I draped my arms around his neck and pulled him closer. I didn’t want this kiss to end. I’d fantasized about it since I was twenty years old, and I was going to suck the very marrow out of the moment, engrave it into my mind.
We pulled apart. My eyes were bleary, as if I’d just awakened from a deep sleep. My lips were practically humming. Henry looked as if he felt the same.
“Autumn?” He looked at me, frozen in place.
“Mom. You missed it.”
Henry released me, and I turned. Elliott charged toward us, a trail of Judd kids close behind him. Holly approached us, too, looking clueless that that we’d been kissing. In fact, not one person dispersing from the tree-lighting ceremony appeared to have seen our little ceremony on the ice.
My gaze returned to Henry, and my stomach dropped. The wrinkle between his brows had reappeared, and he gazed at me with an emotion I couldn’t identify.
Distaste? Irritation? I gulped. Regret?
“I’ve got to run.” His voice sounded hoarse. He stepped off the ice, bent down and untied his skates.
“What? Why?” I scrambled to remain upright.
It took me a good couple of minutes to shimmy my way to the edge of the pond. By the time I’d stumbled to a log and taken off my skates, Henry was halfway across the park. He moved with a quick and decisive stride, hands shoved into his coat pockets, head down.
That hadn’t gone the way I’d planned at all.
Chapter Nine
“Merry Christmas, Grandpa.”
The joy in Elliott’s voice made my heart swell. I looked on as he presented my father with a gift. The Christmas morning sun peeked through the threadbare curtains, casting lines of white light across the living room floor where Elliott knelt. Dad had begrudgingly joined us at the crack of dawn to open presents. He’d settled in the recliner while Elliott plugged in the lights and I started the coffee.
My dad’s eyes widened. “You got me somethin’?”
“Well, yeah,” Elliott replied. “Mom did, too.”
My father appeared legitimately shocked. I wondered what he had done on all of the Christmas mornings while I was gone. Probably nothing. I wanted to hug him and tell him how sorry I was, but I refrained. We weren’t that kind of family.
Dad tore open the paper. “What’s this?”
Excitement lit Elliott’s smile. “I made a CD for you.”
Dad examined it. “What’s on it?”
“I played some of your songs on my cello.” Elliott’s voice resonated with pride. “Then I recorded it on my computer and burned it onto a CD for you. It’s a couple of the country songs I heard you playing in your car.” He shot me a nervous glance, then continued. “And the other day, you said that you really liked “The First Noel,” so I did that one, too. And then I did a couple of Willie Nelson songs, since everyone around here is sorta obsessed with him.”
El and I exchanged a look and waited while my dad absorbed it all. The coffee percolator gurgled. Elliott had worked hard on the CD, and his eyes were as big as Christmas ornaments as he sat there, drumming his fingers on his knees, while he waited for his grandfather to react.
Say something, Dad. I willed him not to disappoint Elliott.
My father lifted his eyes to us.
My breath halted when I realized that they were moist.
“This is, uh…” He ran a cracked hand across his chin. “A hell of a present, kid.”
I grinned and excused myself to get some coffee while the two of them discussed Elliott’s mixture of songs. Elliott often referred to country music as cow pie tunes, yet was proud that he’d taught himself how to play them for his grandfather. What a kid.
I returned to the living room and handed my dad a cup of coffee.
“Well, then,” Dad grumbled, “I guess I should give you two your pres
ents—those two. Down by the tree stand.”
“I told you not to get me anything,” I said.
“Oh, shut up,” he said. “Since when do I listen to you?”
Elliott unwrapped his gift, then held up a tweed newsboy cap. “Wow.”
He had a thing for hats, and his collection was growing out of control. He’d even started wearing them to school again, despite the teasing he received from other boys—though Tabitha thought he was positively dreamy.
“It used to be my dad’s.” My father smiled wistfully. “Your great-grandpa. It got eaten by some moths, so I had someone in town spruce it back up for you.”
Joy filled my heart as my dad showed Elliott where his father’s name was stitched into the tag. Since we’d been in Fairfield, Dad had acted put-out and annoyed with our presence. I’d assumed he wasn’t paying any attention to us, but he’d been taking mental notes the whole time.
“Open yours, Mom.” Elliott put the cap on over his curls and smiled.
I opened my gift, a small, watercolor painting of a wheat field and a barn, and a worn set of watercolor paints and brushes. The set was past its prime and pretty beat-up, but I recognized the good-quality brand.
I looked at my dad. “What’s this?”
He glanced away. “Nothin’ much. Just some old junk.”
“This is hardly junk.” I fingered the wooden brush box.
He coughed into his fist, then cleared his throat a few times. “Just thought you’d get more use out of them than me.”
“Hey. That was in the attic,” Elliott said.
“What were you doing in the attic?” Dad grumbled.
El shrugged. “I gotta do something to pass the time around here. There’s a whole box of those paintings up there. Some of them are pretty good, too.”
I narrowed my eyes at my dad. “Whose are they?”
He lifted his bony shoulders. “Mine.”
I did a double take. My father painted? No, no, wait—my father painted? The man who’d made fun of me for spending my afternoons doodling and painting, instead of trying out for basketball or the cheerleading squad? The man whose last words before I left for college were, “Stop wasting your time, kid”?