Mountain Mistletoe Christmas

by Patricia Johns

  “Okay—let’s do that again with the next section,” he said. “You ready?”

  As they worked, she couldn’t help but notice this man’s strength. He hoisted things she couldn’t lift more than a few inches, and while he definitely took charge of things, she didn’t mind. The morning drifted by, and after a couple of hours of work, they’d removed the rotten cabinetry and all of the counter on the one side. The more they worked, the more torn apart the kitchen seemed to look, and Jen hoped her expressions didn’t betray her own uncertainty. Would Nick really have all of this repaired in time for Christmas?

  She didn’t have a choice but to trust him, but looking over the ragged remains of the bottom cupboards, her stomach sank.

  “What’s the matter?” Nick asked, stopping at her side, and the heat from his body emanated against her arm. “Freaking out?”

  “A bit,” she admitted.

  “It’ll be done,” he said, and then headed toward the sink. “And I’m getting this sink out before lunch.”

  There was something about his easy confidence that was reassuring. Nick got down on the floor and reached under the sink. He scooted back, disappearing underneath, just his lower torso and legs sticking out. She let her gaze move over him—his stomach was flat, and when he shifted positions, she was impressed by how fit he was.

  Cut it out, she told herself. He might have been flirting, but there was nothing easy about this guy.

  “Jen, I need you to do something for me,” Nick said, his voice muffled from under the sink.

  “Sure,” she said.

  “I’m holding on to a piece of pipe here, and I need you to reach in here and hold it for me for a second,” he said.

  “Right...” Did he realize how much space he was filling up? Because reaching in was going to put her just about on top of him.

  “Come on,” he said. “Sit next to me, here—” He scooted over a little more. “And reach inside—”

  Jen settled herself next to him, and in the process was forced to put a hand on his tight abs.

  “You’re in shape,” she murmured.

  “Perk of the job,” he replied, and she felt his calloused hand close over hers as he tugged her fingers up to the pipe he needed her to hold. He was close—so close that she could smell that tangy mix of musk and hard work, and it made her breath catch. As she leaned in to reach the pipe, her sleeve caught something. She didn’t think much of it, and pushed past, but as she did, there was an eruption of cold water. It sprayed them both, and Nick reached past her and turned a valve to shut the water off.

  Jen sat there in wide-eyed shock, water dripping down her face and soaking into her shirt. Nick was drenched, too, his shirt completely sodden and his beard dripping. He scooted back out from under the sink and gave her a level look.

  “Sorry...” she breathed.

  For a moment they just stared at each other and Nick’s expression was frozen. Was that anger she saw flickering beneath the surface, or something else?

  “That was the water shut off,” he said, his voice low and measured.

  “Yeah...” She struggled to her feet, and cast him an embarrassed look. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, then laughed. “But I could use a towel.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  Jen shivered and headed up the stairs. Once she got to her bedroom she peeled of her shirt and got another dry one on. She then grabbed a couple of towels and headed back down. When she emerged into the kitchen, she stopped short.

  Nick stood with his back to her, his shirt in a wet pile on the floor. His back was strong and muscled, and he stood there with his weight on one leg surveying his work. She cleared her throat, and he turned.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  She tossed him the towel and he patted himself dry, then draped it over his shoulders.

  “Tell you what,” he said, glancing back at her. “I’m going to head home for lunch and come back in something dry. The sink will wait.”

  “Yeah, good idea,” she said, but it came out a little breathier than she’d intended. “Again, I’m really sorry. I guess that’s why I hired you—home renovations aren’t my strong suit.”

  Nick bent down and picked up his wet shirt. He caught her eye for just a moment, and he smiled faintly. “We’re all good at something.”

  “Is there anything I can do while you’re gone?” she asked.

  “Eat lunch,” he said, then cast her a roguish smile and jutted his bearded chin in the direction of the sink. “And whatever you do, don’t touch that.”

  Jen laughed softly. “Hands off. Got it.”

  Nick grinned, then tossed the towel to her.

  “I’ll be back in about half an hour,” he said.

  “Thanks. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Just come in when you’re back.”

  “Will do.”

  Jen shut her eyes, grimacing after he left. What kind of stories was he going to tell about her once his guys arrived to help him finish up the work? She’d just drenched her contractor! And would this get back as far as Lisa?

  But Jen was hungry—it was noon, and she’d been working hard all morning. She turned back toward the kitchen where she had some instant ramen in the cupboard that she could microwave. That with some saltines crumbled into it would hit the spot.

  And hopefully when Nick returned, they could put this whole embarrassment behind them...

  * * *

  NICK KICKED HIS front door shut behind him and pulled off his winter coat. He felt goose bumps rise as his bare skin met the cool air. Amelia ambled into the foyer from the kitchen and gave her father a startled look.

  “What happened to you?” she said.

  He opened the laundry room door and tossed his wet shirt onto the floor.

  “A knocked valve,” he said with a rueful smile.

  “Did you just come home like that?” Amelia started to laugh. “Does the owner know about this?”

  “The owner was the one who knocked the valve,” he retorted.

  “And you, like, peeled off your wet shirt and went home?” Amelia chuckled. “Sometimes I think you’re a little naive, Dad. You’ve got the whole hot contractor thing going for you. Mom is going to think this is hilarious!”

  Nick closed his eyes for a moment, annoyance surging up inside him. The last thing he needed was Amelia telling her mother this story.

  “I’m getting changed, having some lunch and then—” He eyed his daughter thoughtfully. “You want to come see that mansion?”

  “I don’t know. Would I be interrupting anything?” she laughed.

  “Your father is a professional,” he retorted. “There’s some of the original furniture in it still, and these massive paintings on the walls. It’s...like a time capsule. I think you’d like it.”

  “Yeah?” Amelia paused, considering. “Is it that cool?”

  “Yeah, it is,” he said. “And the owner is really nice. She’d probably give you a tour. If you want to see it, now’s your chance.”

  “Okay.” Amelia shrugged. “I’m making grilled cheese. I can make one for you, if you want.”

  And suddenly, they were back to old times...in a way. At least his daughter was happy to see him and teasing him a little. And he was touched by her offer to cook. Back when she was ten or eleven, before the divorce, she used to serve him her own made-up concoctions. Spaghetti with ketchup, scrambled eggs wrapped in rice paper, corn on the cob drenched in butter and sprinkled with parmesan cheese. The last one wasn’t bad, actually. Having his daughter cook for him again was nice...

  “Perfect,” he said, shooting Amelia a grin. “Let me just go find some dry clothes.”

  A half hour later Nick and Amelia were back on Jen’s doorstep. Amelia looked around in undisguised awe at the old place. When she was a kid, a cr
otchety old woman lived in this house, and she wouldn’t let anyone on her property, so they hadn’t had a chance to look any closer than the sidewalk would allow.

  Nick knocked, then opened the door, letting himself in.

  “Hello?” he called.

  Jen appeared around the corner, and she smiled when she saw Amelia.

  “You must be Nick’s daughter,” she said.

  “Yes. I’m Amelia,” Amelia replied. “Nice to meet you.” She shook hands with Jen. “This house is amazing. I was hoping to get a peek inside, and Dad said you wouldn’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Jen said. “I can give you the tour while your dad gets started, if you want.”

  “That would be great. Thanks.”

  “We’ll just start on that end,” Jen said, pointing toward the other wing of the main floor, the one he knew she wasn’t using yet. She gave Nick a smile. “You mind?”

  “Nope, carry on,” he said. “I’ll get to work.”

  And while Jen had been a help that morning, she was a strange distraction, too. She was pretty, and soft and smelled good...all things he shouldn’t be thinking about right now.

  Nick stood there for a moment, listening to the creak of their footfalls and the soft murmur of their voices. He missed having a feminine presence around. That was one part of the divorce that he never did get over completely—a woman’s scent, her voice, her touch in the decorating. There were a few times he nearly settled down, but those relationships had never felt quite right, not on a heart level, at least.

  Nick stepped out of his boots and hung his coat next to his daughter’s, then headed into the kitchen. There was plenty of work to finish up before his carpenter arrived tomorrow morning, and he wanted to make sure that he cleared the way for Floyd to get to work right away—no wasted hours hauling out junk.

  He’d sketched what the original cupboard layout had been for the section of cabinetry he’d removed, complete with measurements so Floyd could re-create it. But even as he surveyed the kitchen, Nick’s mind was already moving forward to the next stages of the job.

  He heard the women’s steps coming from the back servants’ staircase, and their voices filtered down to him. He was putting in some wooden supports around the sink to keep it in one place while he worked.

  “We actually studied something similar in law class,” his daughter was saying. “There was a watercolor painting that sold for over a million dollars. It was by this super-popular modern artist, maybe fifteen years ago. Anyway, the buyer left with the painting, set it up in her personal gallery and invited her friends to come see it. But unbeknownst to the buyer, the artist had booby-trapped the painting so that when it left the carefully controlled atmosphere in the gallery, it started a chemical reaction that over the next twenty-four hours turned the painting into a black smudge.”

  “I heard about that—” Jen led the way back into the kitchen, and turned back toward Amelia. “The artist claimed that the meaning of the work was life’s impermanence, and therefore, the painting was just as it was intended.”

  “But what about the buyer?” Amelia said. “She didn’t get what she thought she was buying, and the beauty of the art was ruined. She threatened to sue anyone involved.”

  “What happened in the end?” Jen asked. “I never did hear.”

  “It turned out that the big media attention actually drove up the value of the piece, and the buyer sold it to another collector for five hundred thousand dollars more,” Amelia replied. “It was quite hush-hush, though. The new buyer didn’t want to advertise that he had it—not wanting to get himself robbed. But had the case gone to court, it’s hard to say who would have won.”

  Amelia and Jen were getting along, Nick noticed. More than that—they were downright hitting it off. He rose to his feet.

  “Did you hear about that?” Jen asked, looking over at him.

  “No, I didn’t,” he replied.

  “It was a big deal, actually,” Amelia said. “It would have set some major legal precedents had it gone to trial, but it got people thinking more deeply about art, freedom of speech, that sort of thing. Did the artist owe the buyer something more or less than she’d created? Were they allowed to question her artistic freedom in creating a piece that ended in a form they didn’t like? Did they have any right to insist that her art conform to their expectations?”

  Nick turned back to his work. This was like old times—Amelia and Shari used to discuss this sort of stuff all the time, and they’d very happily left him out of it.

  “What do you think, Nick?” Jen asked.

  Nick looked up. “What’s that?”

  “What do you think?” she asked. “If you’d bought a piece of art for a million dollars and it turned into a black smear—do you think you’d have a right to sue the artist?”

  “I wouldn’t spend a million dollars on a piece of art,” he replied.

  “Fine, Dad,” Amelia said. “If you had a billion dollars and a million dollars was pocket change.”

  “Then I don’t know why I’d bother going to court over pocket change,” he said with a small smile.

  Amelia sighed. “He’s like this. Don’t even bother asking him about art or anything.”

  Jen’s glance moved between them, and Nick felt his ears heat. He was tired of being talked down to, especially in front of Jen.

  “Really?” Nick straightened. “Don’t ask me?”

  “Are you giving an honest, thought-out answer?” Amelia countered. “You never do.”

  Never? That was a strong position to take. Most times, he’d learned to just back out of his daughter’s conversations with her mother. They didn’t much care what he thought anyway. But he wasn’t going to be put into a corner today.

  “You want my opinion? You’re not going to agree with it, but I’ll give it to you,” he retorted. “When people buy something, they have an expectation. What is art but someone’s vision of beauty? Well, I’m responsible to the people who spend money for my work—”

  “You’re a contractor, Dad,” Amelia said. “This is different.”

  “Is it?” he snapped. “I create something beautiful for my clients, and it takes skill, vision and a whole lot of hard work. Do you think this art gallery—everything from the crown moldings, a polished wood floor, the mansion reworked for a new purpose—is any less important than the pieces of art it holds?”

  Amelia eyed him, but didn’t answer.

  “My clients have an expectation, and I don’t get to surprise them. They want beauty, and I deliver it. What that artist did was get her name in the news to increase the value associated with her name—and that was a shifty ploy, in my humble opinion.”

  “Not all art is beautiful,” Amelia countered. “Art isn’t about beauty alone, Dad. That’s where you miss the point.”

  Corrected, as always.

  “But all art makes us feel something,” Jen cut in. They both looked over at her, and Jen shrugged. “I know a local Colorado artist who includes a deeply personal, ugly, truthful pencil sketch underneath every single painting he does. He says that art isn’t real unless it includes the vulgar, as well.”

  As usual, the conversation was going to run right past him. And Jen had no idea about their family tensions. She was talking art. They were talking history.

  “You mean Scott Hedgeworth?” Amelia asked. “You actually know him?”

  “He’s a friend—” Jen stopped. “Well, he was connected with my ex-husband. They both raised money for the same scholarship fund. He came for Christmas one year, and he always attended our New Year’s Eve parties. He and I hit it off. In fact, he’s promised me two original pieces to show in the gallery when it’s open.”

  “You’re going to have two original Scott Hedgeworth paintings?” Amelia shook her head. “You know what those are worth?”

  “I hav
e a pretty good idea,” Jen said with a low laugh.

  “Right. Of course,” Amelia said. “You’d know! Dad—do you know who Scott Hedgeworth is?”

  “Your mom used to be a big fan of his,” he replied. So yeah, he’d learned a thing or two about that particular artist.

  “My stepdad got my mother a Scott Hedgeworth painting,” Amelia said, turning back to Jen. “And even one of his smaller works cost a fortune. But I mean, Chris can afford it.”

  Nick couldn’t help the irritation that simmered at that. Money wasn’t the only thing that measured a man, but it certainly did impress his daughter. He turned back to the trusses under the sink, wishing he could tune the rest of this conversation out.

  “Which piece is it?” Jen asked.

  “It’s called Summer Garden,” Amelia replied. “In the foreground is a bee hanging off a flower petal, and in the background is a woman with a wheelbarrow.”

  “I know that one,” Jen said. “I saw his sketches when he was just working on it.”

  This all felt a little too familiar. He didn’t begrudge Jen or Amelia enjoying art, but his view of things, his opinions, were very quickly swept aside as uninformed because he didn’t have an advanced degree. But some things were simpler than they thought. That artist with the blackened painting wouldn’t have made the money she did without the buyer. And having a hidden trick like that... Art or not, that trick was cruel to the woman who forked out the cash. That was integrity. Not that they’d listen to his take on it.

  Amelia shot her father a grin, and he realized he’d missed part of their conversation. “Dad, Scott Hedgeworth is one of the most celebrated American painters today. So I know you aren’t going to be impressed, but you should be. Mom sure will be! His work’s value has been steadily rising over the last decade, and some very serious collectors have been driving up the price of his work... Mom’s Hedgeworth piece is already worth about twenty grand more than it was a year ago. It’s an investment!”

  But Nick wasn’t interested in the exciting things that Chris’s money could buy. Nick couldn’t give his daughter the things that Chris did. He couldn’t afford her Ivy League education, or the trips to Africa and Europe, or the paintings done by celebrity artists. What he could offer was a regular old Christmas with ceramic singing bears and some comfort food. None of which his daughter seemed to value anymore.