Wrapped Up In Christmas
Page 7
“Stick with what you know. That’s my motto.”
“What you know is impressive.” She threaded a large needle with white yarn and picked up one of the plastic pieces.
“Don’t let first impressions fool you.”
She looked up from where she was sewing the yarn into the canvas. “I shouldn’t be impressed?”
He hesitated a moment before answering, “Not by me.”
“We have a problem then, because I am impressed. I’ve never known someone to cut out that many canvas pieces without messing up a single one.”
She’d meant the ornaments. He’d meant…what had he meant? That he’d thought he was a good soldier, but if he’d really been that good his comrades would still be alive?
As if sensing Bodie’s mind was going where it shouldn’t, Harry raised his head from his paws and made a sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a bark.
Yeah, boy, I know. I’m having way too good a time to go down that mental highway.
So, Bodie focused on the pretty woman smiling at him, embracing her goodness. Her big brown eyes were full of merriment as she hummed along with the Christmas music she’d insisted had to be playing while they cut.
He leaned back, eyes locked with hers as he challenged, “That’s all it takes to impress you? Perfectly shaped snowflakes?”
She held up the snowflake piece she was working on and waved it in front of him. “Don’t underestimate the power of a perfectly shaped snowflake.”
“I thought snowflakes were supposed to be unique, each one different.”
“They are. That’s where all this comes in.” She gestured to the decorating bits. “But as unique as they are, all snowflakes are made up of the same basic ingredient.”
“Snow?”
“Only with our snowflakes, our basic ingredient is plastic.”
Bodie laughed. “Not nearly as eco-friendly.”
“But it lasts longer. I still have snowflakes Aunt Jean and I made when I was a little girl.”
Bodie’s brow lifted. “You’ve been making these that long?”
She nodded. “Aunt Jean loved to make things. Clothes for me, quilts, crafts of all kinds—you name it. Had she not gotten pneumonia, she’d be right here with us making these ornaments.”
Had her aunt been alive when Sarah had made his quilt? Had she helped?
“Is that what she died from? Pneumonia?”
She nodded. “Influenza that turned into pneumonia that turned into respiratory failure that turned into me losing her.”
Bodie reached out, placed his hand over Sarah’s much smaller one and gave a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry.”
Their gazes met, held. Sarah’s eyes held surprise.
No wonder. Bodie was surprised at what he’d done, too. He wasn’t usually a touchy-feely person. He pulled his hand away, picking up another piece of plastic canvas.
He shouldn’t have touched her, had no right to touch her. And yet he’d taken her hand instinctively, wanting to comfort her in her loss.
What made him think he could ease her grief when he couldn’t even console himself?
“You talk about your aunt a lot.” He wanted to move past the awkwardness he’d created. “You’ve mentioned your father plenty of times, but never your mother. Why?”
Seeming to know what he was doing, she searched his eyes a moment, then gave a small smile as she accused, “There you go with the questions again.”
Rather than immediately answering, she started sewing again. When she came to the end of where she meant to sew the yarn, she tied a knot in the string, then cut the needle free.
Without looking up from what she was doing, she said, “It’s not a secret or anything, just not something I talk about.”
She threaded the large needle with a new piece of yarn and sewed along the outside border of another canvas piece. Feeling like a slacker, Bodie went back to cutting canvas, but his gaze kept returning to Sarah. She seemed to be concentrating on the snowflake, but he could tell her mind was far away.
“I have no memory of my mother other than stories other people have shared,” she confessed. “She died when I was born.”
Bodie winced. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” She sighed. “I wish I’d known her, had memories of her that were my own. I wish I could have known what she thought, what she felt, what her dreams were. Those kind of things, you know?”
He’d spent his first eighteen years with his mother. She’d worked hard, providing as best as she could for them, but she’d never been an affectionate person. Possibly because between her two jobs, she’d been too tired to do more than the basics when at home. She’d softened when she’d met and married Steve, but despite his young age, Bodie hadn’t softened with her. He’d gotten along well enough with his newfound family. He’d been Steve’s shadow as the man had paid him for his work, but Bodie had always known he’d leave Houston, would travel the world and serve his country. It hadn’t been hard to leave them behind when the house there had never truly felt like home.
Sarah’s emotional strings that bound her to her family, to this house, were so different from anything he’d experienced.
“Your aunt was your dad’s sister?”
Sarah nodded. “Aunt Jean was almost twenty years old when my dad was born. Apparently, he was an unexpected surprise to my grandparents and they all, Aunt Jean included, doted on him.” Sarah laughed at whatever was dancing through her mind. “Despite the big age gap, she and my dad were close. She was like a second mother to him. She certainly was to me, possibly because she and Uncle Roy never had children. You’ve seen the photo of them in the foyer.”
He knew the one she meant. A black-and-white wedding picture with a pretty dark-haired woman and a young man with slicked-back hair and strong features.
“You’re a lot like your Aunt Jean?”
She smiled. “I hope so. I couldn’t imagine a better person to emulate. This house isn’t just a beautiful building—it’s such a part of her that I couldn’t help but love it.” Her eyes grew glassy. “I want the same things for this house that she did. Love, laughter, warmth, family filling it. It’s been years since Hamilton House had those things.”
“You’re wrong.”
She looked up from where she sewed. “Excuse me?”
Now why had he said anything? He should have just kept cutting canvas. Only where Sarah was concerned, he kept doing things that put him on the spot.
He tried to shrug the question away, but her gaze pinned him. “Now it’s my turn to want to know the reason why. Why am I wrong?”
“If you were here with your aunt, in this house, then Hamilton House had all those things you say you want for it.”
Her hands pausing from their crafting, she stared at him. Her eyes filled with disbelief, then awe. “That, Bodie Lewis, very well may be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
Bodie’s insides melted. Or did something. Melt was the best way he could describe the thawing, cracking-open sensation in his chest.
Plus, melting justified the heat in his face.
Then, as if to give her a moment to get her emotions in check, she said, “But don’t think compliments are going to get you out of helping. Cut more or get busy sewing until we have a few ready for you to demonstrate your hot glue gun skills.”
Grateful for the reprieve from questioning what she did to his insides, Bodie picked his scissors back up. “Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter Five
Thanksgiving lunch with Sarah’s father went well. She visited with him for several hours and helped him put up his Christmas tree, all the while thinking she needed to get started decorating Hamilton House for its grand opening. Then, she snuggled under a quilt her mother had made and they watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas, as was their father-daughter tradition.
As he always did, Harry greeted her at the front door.
“Hey, boy. I have a habit of coming in with food, don’t I?” she told the dog, laughing as Harry excitedly bounced around her, no doubt thinking she’d brought something for him, too. “You’d like leftover turkey and dressing, wouldn’t you? I’d bet money it came from Maybelle’s kitchen, but shhhhh, I’m not supposed to know that.”
She carried the goodies her father had sent home with her to the kitchen island, along with her purse, then went to find Bodie. She found him in the larger suite’s bathroom, working on the tile.
“Wow. That looks great.”
“Just doing my job.” He finished setting a piece, then straightened. “You did a good job picking out the tile.”
“And you’re doing a fabulous job installing everything. On Thanksgiving.” She met his gaze. “I feel so guilty.”
He snorted. “I’ve worked on Thanksgiving for over ten years. It’s just another day.”
It was sad he felt that way, but given his military background, she understood. Still…
“I wish you had come with me to my dad’s.”
Glancing at her from where he worked, he shrugged. “I didn’t want to intrude. Besides, how would you have explained that?”
Confused, she stared at him. Did he know about the Butterflies and how they had him all picked out as her next big romance? She’d threatened them with bodily harm if they bothered him at Hamilton House, but she wouldn’t put it past them to have found a way. They were sneaky like that.
“Me going to Thanksgiving dinner with you.” He shook his head as if the idea was inconceivable. “Everyone would have made incorrect assumptions.”
The Butterflies would have, because that’s what they did. But other people would have seen it for what it was. Friendship. Nothing more.
Right?
“Friends go to dinners with each other,” she reminded.
“Maybe,” he conceded, but didn’t look convinced. “Everything go okay?”
She nodded. “It went great, except I don’t think Dad wanted me to leave. This is the first Thanksgiving without Aunt Jean, which is difficult enough, but also the first Thanksgiving I’ve not lived at home.”
Her father had let that little tidbit slip out in his conversation over dinner. She’d been so busy focusing on the positive, on getting ready for the festival, on preparing for the grand opening, she hadn’t thought about her dad missing having her there.
“He’s taking my moving out harder than I thought he would,” she said.
“It’s just been the two of you for years?”
She nodded. “Since Mom passed. I think he feels closer to her when I’m around.”
Still, she was twenty-five. She should’ve moved out long ago. But none of that changed how guilty she’d felt when he’d asked if she had to head back to Hamilton House so soon, even though she knew he wanted her to live her own life and just missed her.
Bodie stared a moment, then glanced at the shower. “I better get back to work. I have a drill sergeant of a boss.”
“Yeah, right. She’s the worst,” Sarah agreed with a smile. Then she remembered the food her dad had sent with her. “Have you eaten?”
He stopped to think a moment, then shrugged. “Lunch.”
She frowned. “Lunch was hours ago. You need to eat. I brought leftovers.”
“I’m not eating the leftovers, Sarah.” At her look of disbelief, he continued. “I mean, I don’t want to eat food intended for you.”
“Seriously, you should. There’s no way I’ll eat it all. I’ll barely even be home for the next few days. Starting tomorrow, I’ll be swamped with revamps to the church’s website and getting Christmas event schedules printed. Then, I have a ton of things to do for the Christmas festival.” Excitement filled her. She loved the Christmas festival. The event was always magical. “I can’t believe it’s almost here. Hopefully, the booth will do well again this year.”
“I don’t see how it couldn’t do well with all the snowflakes you’ve made.” He didn’t look up from where he’d gone back to working on the shower tiles.
“What if no one wants snowflakes this year? What if they are snowflaked out?”
Turning, he cocked a brow. “Has it been a problem in the past?”
She shook her head. “But I’ve only been in charge of the booth since Maybelle retired. She’s the lady you thought was me that first day,” she added when she realized that although she talked about the Butterflies, he’d only met them on the one occasion, so he didn’t know to which one she referred. “I only took over two years ago.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine. And if not, you can focus on new ornaments for next year’s sale, or some other Christmas thing, and use the snowflakes as backup items.”
What he said made sense.
“I guess that’s what we’d do. We do sell other handmade ornaments besides the snowflakes. Plus, we have the baked goods and the Present Pick that’s always a hit. But the snowflakes are special.”
Because it’s what she’d done with Aunt Jean.
He stepped back, inspected the tiles he’d just put up. “What’s the Present Pick?”
“Ever see the pick-up duck game at fairs or fundraisers? You know, where kids pick a duck floating in the water and on the bottom there’s a number coordinating with a prize?”
He nodded.
“That’s the idea behind Present Pick. There are lots of presents that are ring-box sized with lids that lift off. Kids pay to pick a box. When they open it up, inside is a number associated with a prize.” Just remembering all the fun they’d had with the booth last year had her smiling.
“I’m sure it will be a big success this year, too,” he assured her, looking amused.
Sarah wasn’t sure if it was her or the description of the games that had him smiling. Either way, she loved that he smiled. She’d seen him smile several times, but the beauty of it still hit her in smack-dab the center of her chest.
“Now, let’s see about getting some food in you,” she reminded. “Because if you don’t take me up on my offer, I’m positive Harry will.”
“You know,” he leaned against the bathroom stall, “it slows down my finishing your house when you have me do all these other things.”
“Other things such as eating?” she teased. “Don’t fool yourself that it’s not self-serving. I’m saving myself from you passing out from lack of food.”
He shook his head. “Wouldn’t happen.”
“Listen, I don’t think it’s going to slow you down that much to eat. Besides, it’s Thanksgiving. Live a little. Have leftovers.”
“I’ll eat, but Thanksgiving is just another day on the calendar.”
“Just another day? Bite your tongue.”
He’d said as much before, and she’d let it pass without commenting. But today was the day and she wanted to share this little piece of it with him. To give him a taste of her traditions even if that only meant leftover turkey and dressing while sitting at her kitchen island with her for company. “Next thing you know, you’ll be saying Christmas is just another day,” she teased, expecting him to deny it.
He looked guilty as charged.
“No.” She grabbed her heart in an overly dramatic move. “Say it isn’t so.”
“Check out this fancy tile work,” he said instead, gesturing to what he’d worked on all day. He’d built the frames for the shower stalls several days previously, had them plumbed and boxed in. He really was a jack of all trades.
“Saw it when I came in,” she reminded him. “You don’t really believe Christmas is just another day, do you?”
“Man, I’m starv
ing. Did you say something about food?”
“Chicken,” she accused.
“That would be turkey,” he corrected, his eyes twinkling.
A laugh slipped from her at his joke. “Don’t think we’re done with this conversation. But before you faint from starvation, come on. I’ll heat you a plate while you clean up and let Harry outside.”
“Anyone ever tell you how bossy you are?”
Her cheeks heated. She didn’t think of herself as bossy. Quite the opposite. She lived to serve others. Still, she lifted her chin and gave him her bossiest look.
“I’m a Special Projects director. I direct. It’s what I do. That’s not being bossy. It’s directing.” Okay, that was a different spin to her job.
“Keep telling yourself that.” Bodie glanced around the bathroom. “I’ll clean up a little in here, let Harry out, and then I’ll take you up on those leftovers.”
“You never talk about your time in the military. Why is that?”
Bodie looked up from where he was cutting the corners of the bathroom wall with paint. Sarah had come into the room to ask his opinion on a couple of recipes. Within minutes, she had a brush in her hands and was helping him paint the bathroom walls just as she’d done with the bedroom trim.
“Not everyone talks about everything that ever happened to them.”
Holding up her paintbrush in a mock warning, she veed her brows at him. “Was that a jab at me? I’ll have you know I don’t talk about everything that ever happened to me. I just—”
“I was teasing, Sarah.” It surprised him how much he enjoyed teasing her.
“Good thing you explained.” Lips twitching, she lowered her paintbrush. “So, tell me about your time in the military.”
“Some things don’t need to be talked about.”
“Sometimes it helps to talk about things that don’t need to be talked about.”
She had no idea what she was saying. He sure didn’t want to put the grim images in his head into her mind. No one should see the things he’d seen.