He raised his brows.
“It’s just…looking ahead to summer, it seems like it might be a bit much.” She crunched a bite of lettuce. “Something I should’ve considered harder before moving here, right? I mean, I know there’s the whole Christmas in July thing, but July is for BBQ’s, fireworks, and swimming. Not Christmas.”
She popped a cherry tomato into her pouty mouth, chewed, and then swallowed. “The mayor told me that summer tourism is as busy as the holidays. Great for business—I’ll keep that as my motto. I think your shop and mine are the only ones in town that don’t have a Christmas-themed name. Rumor has it a homemade ice cream shop is moving in this spring. I wonder what they’ll name it.”
Dean swallowed his steak, his brain racing to keep up with the conversation. “Jack Frost.”
Her laughter filled the room. He wasn’t kidding. She had a nice laugh, though. Not a high-pitched cackle or a nervous giggle like some women.
The conversation stilled long enough for her to sip her soup. “I heard you grew up here. Was it every kid’s dream?”
He shrugged.
“I also heard you lived in Boston. I’ve been there once. My hotel had a great ocean view. I ate room service on my balcony that night and watched the boats in the harbor. What did you do there?”
She was approaching a dangerous subject. He didn’t talk about his life in Boston. Everyone else in this town respected his privacy, left him alone. She needed to do the same.
Darcy must’ve read the thoughts written on his face. She looked down at her plate and lowered her voice to a near whisper. “I’m sorry about your wife.”
Boundary crossed. The plastic water bottle crinkled in his grip. “What else did you hear?”
Her eyes widened. His tone held more hostility than he’d intended to display.
They finished their meals in silence. He knew he should apologize. His circumstances weren’t her fault. But he was rusty at conversation, having avoided it so long. The mention of his former life in Boston and the memories of Bethany made him angry. That’s what Darcy got for wading into the swampy territory of his heart.
Refusing—or afraid—to make eye contact again, Darcy gathered the empty containers and placed them back in the bag. He struggled for words as he studied her peace offering on the opposite wall. Copper-colored ribbon looped around circular, twisted branches, offset by pinecones and sprigs of green. It was masculine and perfect for his door.
She placed something in front of him. “I heard it’s your favorite,” she said softly.
Their gazes locked. It’s OK. I understand, she said, without words. Darcy snuggled into her coat and hat and closed the door behind her.
Dean opened the triangular box. Vermont maple oatmeal pie. His favorite.
****
Darcy groaned at her reflection in the mirror. Her wavy hair frizzed in the dry, winter air. She looked like a science experiment. Defeated by Mother Nature, she gathered her locks into a low ponytail. Gomez meowed, curling his gray, furry body around her ankles.
The cold tile floor seeped through her socks. She snatched her slippers from the bedroom closet before heading into the kitchen for breakfast. As she turned on the coffee pot, a chainsaw roared to life. Was that racket coming from her yard?
She walked to the kitchen window. Dean hovered over the collapsed tree limb that swallowed her front yard. The cold air painted his cheeks and nose red, and visible white breaths formed puffs around his lips. With smooth, languid strokes, he cut the limb into logs, which he collected in a pile.
After last night, she expected Dean to avoid her like the stomach flu. Talking too much had always gotten her into trouble. In her effort to befriend Dean, she’d pushed too far. Was this gesture a sign of forgiveness, or did he want to make sure his childhood home stayed maintained?
Hot java gurgled into the carafe, the robust aroma filling the kitchen. She went to work, crafting a bagel with cream cheese—the extent of her culinary talent. She poured herself a cup of coffee and spied her neighbor out the window. Hadn’t she done this the other day? Better not make it a habit.
When the limb was sectioned into manageable logs, Dean stacked them in a neat pile on her porch. As he carried the last load, she poured a second cup of coffee, checked for food in her teeth using her reflection in the toaster, and stepped out the front door.
He straightened his bent posture at the wood pile, eyes serious, jaw tight. A biting wind nipped through her sweater and jeans, but she couldn’t let him leave until she apologized. “Good morning.”
He nodded, taking the offered mug from her fingers.
She crossed her arms against the chill. “Thank you for doing that. The extra firewood will be nice.”
Dean sipped the hot brew, his gaze never leaving hers. Steam lifted into the air and curled around his stubble-lined cheeks. The small crinkles around his eyes had deepened overnight. Lack of sleep?
Her stomach clenched. “Dean, about last night…”
He shook his head and swallowed. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
4
Darcy eased down the bakery steps with a box of sugar cookies in one hand, a small bag of donuts and a cup of coffee clutched in the other. People hurried down the sidewalk, bundled against gray sky and drizzle. A large crowd entered Prancer’s Pancake House, where the yard sign reported 25 days until Christmas. She was glad she only lived next door. Otherwise, she might not make it through the crowd of window shoppers, and the teacher couldn’t be late to her own class.
A couple strolled past, fingers tangled together, their gazes so transfixed on each other they nearly plowed her over. The cookies threatened suicide while coffee soaked her new glove. She put on quite a show, juggling her purchases like a clown in a circus act. Winning the challenge, she looked back, watching the couple vanish into the crowd.
Darcy sighed. If love was blind, she had twenty-twenty vision.
Mindful of traffic, she crossed the street to Dean’s house, smiling when she saw the wreath hanging on his front door. Another victory! The rust-colored ribbon blended nicely with the rustic wood. Pine sprigs gave the wreath life and the stoop a loamy forest scent. The place already felt homier.
She rang the bell. A light frost had gathered on his sign, camouflaging the gold lettering. Darcy clutched her coffee in her elbow. Maybe this hadn’t been the wisest decision. She’d broken ground with him yesterday. Dean sort of held up his end of their conversation with a full sentence and a few grunts here and there. She didn’t wish to overwhelm him, but everyone needed a friend and good neighbor. Right? That’s all she was trying to be. Just a friend.
But according to the gossip of Ruth Simpson, he had an entire support system he held at bay. So why would he make the exception of letting her in? Steadying her purchases, she turned to go.
The door creaked open and there he stood, barefoot, wearing a pair of faded denims and a white T-shirt. His damp hair stood in tufts where she assumed he’d run a towel over it. Clean shaven and still sleepy-eyed, he made her pulse stutter. Friends, huh? “Breakfast.”
He blinked.
She smiled.
He stepped aside, widening the entry.
“I can’t stay, got a class starting in fifteen minutes. I’ve smelled fresh donuts through my bedroom window since three o’clock this morning, so it’s no surprise I had a craving. The special was two for a dollar, and I’ll only eat one. I hated to see the other one go to waste. Thought you might like it.”
Stop talking, Darcy. She handed him the sack.
He stared at it. “Are you trying to fatten me up?”
Ring the bells of heaven, a total of seven words this time. His T-shirt was half-tucked into his beltline, revealing a solid, trim waist. Her cheeks grew warm. He didn’t have to worry about his physique.
She avoided his eyes. “I’d better go. Have a good day.”
“You too.”
His words hit her back as she darted toward her house. She opened the front d
oor with the assistance of her hip and put the cookies in the parlor next to the coffee pot. As she brewed a fresh pot, her stomach growled. She’d left Dean the entire sack of donuts.
****
Dean hoisted the candy kettles onto his shoulder and locked his front door. Wind cut the exposed skin on the back of his neck as he moved down the sidewalk to his car. A winter storm warning had ribboned across the TV early that morning, and the sky grew darker shades of gray with each passing hour. He’d get these kettles to the Holly’s, grab a few items from the market, and get back home within the hour.
He closed the trunk and pivoted toward the driver’s side door. Darcy stood in her yard, struggling to carry an awkward, and apparently heavy, box from the garden shed to her house. What was she doing?
Dean looked both directions before crossing the street. He let himself through the gate and gripped the sides of the box. “I’ve got it.”
She jumped, but relinquished the object. “You scared me to death.”
“Sorry. Where to?”
“My spare bedroom for now. It’s become my temporary storage closet.” She pushed open the door, the hinges protesting with a groan.
The box didn’t weight much, but the size made it challenging to maneuver through the narrow doorways. Female voices wafted from the parlor. Was she in the middle of class? Great.
He assumed Darcy occupied the master bedroom so he hurried to the small room down the hall, putting distance between him and the strangers. Wreaths and floral supplies rested along one wall, clashing with the masculine blue of the room—his old room. Stacked boxes were labeled according to their contents. The familiar room felt stale and foreign.
“Just set it down anywhere.” Darcy unwound her pink scarf from around her neck. “I’ve yet to get through all the boxes the moving company put in my attic and shed. Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome.”
Dean slunk down the hallway to leave through the kitchen to avoid interrupting class. His foot hit the first square of the faded tile floor when a high-pitched voice rang out.
“Dean Whitfield.”
Drat. He faced the parlor. Ruth Simpson.
“I thought that was you, Dean. Come in here and sit a spell.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got a delivery to make.”
Ruth pursed her shockingly bright red lips. “Nonsense. You’ve got time to grab a cookie or two. Come on.”
He looked to Darcy for an escape.
“Help yourself. There’s plenty.”
Traitor.
Ethel gave a high thumbs-up, devouring the baked disc like it was her last meal.
Why was everyone throwing food at him all of a sudden? Did he look sick?
Darcy handed him a napkin and pointed to the plate of peppermint cookies. He only took one, still full from the donuts. Darcy layered it with another, a mischievous smile curling her lips.
“We’re all excited about this year’s charity auction, Dean.” Ruth stabbed her foliage hoop with a sparkly Christmas ornament.
His stomach tightened.
“Charity auction?” Darcy’s eyes widened with interest.
Ruth sipped her coffee. “Every Christmas since 1958, Whitfield Copper makes something to represent the town. It’s auctioned, and the proceeds go to charity. The mayor decides which charity will get the goods.”
“What a great tradition.” Darcy’s big brown eyes sparkled.
He had to get out of here.
“Your father always did such a fantastic job with the opening speech,” Ruth continued. “Had a special way of working the crowd. We’re excited to see what you’ll bring to us now.” She lowered her flabby chin, her gaudy earrings swaying.
Dean swallowed. “I better get going. Storm’s rolling in.”
He handed Darcy the napkin of untouched cookies. With long strides, he fled the house, escaping into the frigid December air.
****
Wind whipped the sides of the house, threatening to blow the structure off its foundation. Darcy had cancelled the rest of the day’s classes, relieved with the knowledge that her pantry was full.
She stoked the fire then settled on the sofa. Gomez joined her. Purring, he stretched along one cushion, curling his fluffy tail around her calf. “Well, boy, looks like it’s just you, me, the fireplace, and a good book.”
Again.
Wonderful blessings, but couldn’t the monotony be broken just a little?
Her stomach answered the question. After making a turkey sandwich, she reached for the two lonely bananas in her fruit bowl. She separated them. Would she ever get to buy a full bunch?
With food and a bottle of apple juice in hand, she nestled onto the rocking chair she’d pulled in front of the roaring flames. Gomez jumped on the hearth, dancing in a circle twice before sinking to the stone and resting his head on his paws. They basked in the glow, protected from winter’s wrath.
Swallowing the last bite, she fingered through the stack of fiction she’d checked out at the library the day before. What genre best fit the occasion of a single woman surviving a blizzard alone? Suspense? Romance?
She should have a T-shirt made. I survived a blizzard with Nicholas Sparks.
Darcy chuckled at her own joke. Lame. She really needed to get out more.
Without much debate, she opened the romance—like there was any doubt—and escaped to another place and time by the end of the first chapter. The hero reminded her so much of Dean: handsome, strong, wounded. Needing someone to come along and revive him. If mouth-to-mouth would do the trick, she’d gladly volunteer.
The inner conflict behind his eyes that morning broke her heart. She hadn’t read every page in his story, but she grasped the gist of his plot. She closed her eyes. Lord, help Dean.
A crash against the bay window startled her, and she jumped from the chair. Blackness swallowed the sky. Ice pellets hit the window and stuck to the glass, blurring her view of the outside world. Goose bumps crawled up her arms. The fire had died down while she visited the old west.
Thankfully, a pile of wood awaited her in the mud room. She’d had the smarts to stack some inside before the storm, so she wouldn’t have to trek out in this mess. Darcy arranged some small logs in the crook of her arm and carried them through the house, grateful for Dean’s hard work on the fallen limb.
As she teased the fire, the frozen rage outside grew fiercer. The lights flickered. Then died. Memories from another storm illuminated in the darkness.
The sweltering July heat bogged down the air-conditioning in their brick apartment. It had given up hours ago, and the window fans whirred hot air around the rooms. Everyone was cranky, including Momma after scolding Darcy and David for aggravating each other. Sweat trickled down Momma’s nose when she warned them for the hundredth time and handed down the death sentence—grounded for a week.
“No fair, Momma. He started it, and I promised Julie I’d play with her tomorrow.” The lights blinked.
Momma extended her bottom lip, blowing air upward to her forehead where a curl had escaped her ponytail. The sliver of hair stuck to her saturated forehead. “Julie will get over it. Maybe next time you’ll both listen when I tell you to quit.”
Momma left the room. Darcy scowled at David, arms crossed, sticking out her tongue. “I hate you, David.”
Thunder rolled through the open window, vibrating the floor. Greenish clouds churned in the sky. The little hairs on the back of her neck stood. They’d been so busy fighting they hadn’t noticed the oncoming storm.
A moment later, Momma returned and herded them to the bathroom, where they hunkered down into the bathtub. The apartment trembled. The eerie shriek of breaking glass hurt her ears, before the roar of what sounded like a train took over. Was Daddy safe at work? Would the tornado demolish the neighborhood, trapping their bodies beneath the rubble?
David’s arms wrapped tightly around her. All was forgiven. If only she’d known that was the last hug he’d ever give her.
&n
bsp; Darcy stared at the orange embers glowing in the fireplace. Gomez climbed to the arm of the couch, blinking his slotted eyes. Darcy exhaled the memory. She hadn’t meant those words. She didn’t really hate her brother. He’d just had this way of making her so angry.
David peered down at her from the picture she took from the mantel. I know you didn’t mean it, he seemed to say. She’d begged God’s forgiveness for those evil words long ago, and though she knew God and David forgave her, it didn’t close the gaping hole where David used to be. With his death, she’d lost herself. Even now, she searched for pieces, discovering a fragment here and there.
The lights blazed again. She returned her brother’s picture to the mantel and retrieved her grandma’s old quilt, along with an oil lamp she kept for emergencies. Stretching her legs across the sofa cushions, she burrowed beneath the blanket. The bulbs flickered, and the light fled for good this time. After igniting the lamp, she fetched her book and read by the light of the flame.
A loud racket snatched her from the canyons of Wyoming back to reality. Had something hit the house?
The noise sounded again. She followed it to the parlor, where it grew stronger against the front door. Was someone knocking? Who could it be in the middle of all this?
She grabbed an umbrella for protection in case the visitor intended to harm her. But would a killer really venture out into a blizzard? She unlocked the deadbolt and twisted the knob, fighting the air current with the door.
A bulky, masked man hovered against the wind.
Darcy’s heart hammered in her chest. Blizzard killers did exist.
5
Darcy raised the umbrella over her shoulder like a baseball bat. Was that all the protection the woman owned?
Dean gripped the mask and yanked the fabric from his face. “It’s me.”
“Dean?” Her shoulders relaxed as she lowered her makeshift weapon. She put a hand to her chest.
Bright Copper Kettles Page 3