Bright Copper Kettles

by Candice Sue Patterson

  Darcy’s gate latch stuck, and he wiggled it a few times to release snow, straining the muscles in his other arm to balance the tree. Metal on metal screeched as the latch gave way. He swung the gate wide, hauling the tree to the open front door.

  Dean stepped inside. “Darcy?”

  “Coming.” Her sweet voice echoed through the house.

  She walked around the corner from the kitchen, stealing his breath. Wavy locks framed her face, settling on the shoulders of her white blouse. A charcoal-colored skirt hugged her curves, and that wide smile kicked his gut. “What’s this?”

  Her slender neck craned to get a better view, and the desire to nuzzle his lips against it overwhelmed him. “A Christmas tree.”

  His voice cracked like a pubescent teenager.

  “For me?” She stepped closer.

  He nodded.

  Darcy beamed, and any reservation he had about buying it dissolved. “Where do you want it?”

  “Hmm…” She tapped her finger on her bottom lip. “The living room?”

  He wiped his feet on the entry rug and headed that direction. She closed the door behind him, killing the rush of cold air. A paperback novel lay open on the arm of the couch, bookmarked against the fabric. Daylight filtered through the bay window.

  “I just got home from church. Let me change, and I’ll run up to the attic and get the tree stand. At least I think that’s where my old Christmas decorations are. ”

  He rested the tree against the wall and scrubbed a hand down his face. “I, uh, can go up and get it for you if you like.”

  Why had he left the trunk behind? It seemed like a good idea at the time. Then again, he hadn’t planned on befriending the home’s new tenant.

  “That’s OK. You keep Gomez company. I’ll be right back.” She disappeared down the hall.

  The cat. Yeah, sure, he’d keep it company. Dean wadded some newspaper stacked in a pile on the hearth and tucked it beneath the kindling and fresh logs. He lit the paper. The twigs hissed and popped, the flames growing to encase the larger pieces of wood. The feline rubbed its body down his leg. He didn’t like cats. Especially ones who had better facial hair than he did.

  Darcy breezed through the room wearing faded jeans and a worn gold sweater, a tree stand grasped in one hand and a plastic box in the other. She set the stand in the corner. “Is this a good spot?”

  “It’s your tree.” He maneuvered the trunk into the stand. The net scratched against his face as it dropped inside. Darcy held it upright while he secured it into place.

  “Thank you, Dean. I can’t believe you bought me a tree.”

  Neither could he. “Don’t get too excited. Underneath this net is a very sad tree.”

  His pocket knife sliced through the mesh. The branches rustled and sighed as they fell into position. The tree looked even worse with the excess needles shaken off. With large gaps between the branches, he could clearly see through to the other side. “They were all out of Douglas firs.”

  She turned to him. Gratitude mixed with something indefinable shone from her misty eyes. “It’s the most beautiful Christmas tree I’ve ever had.”

  He laughed. “Then you were deprived.”

  Her smile grew serious, her eyes intense. “I mean it.”

  Stuffing his hands into his coat pockets, he balled them into fists to keep from reaching for her. He was cursed with the addiction of wanting to hold beautiful things in his hands.

  He stepped toward the exit.

  “Where’re you going?”

  Dean paused in his tracks.

  “You’re going to help me decorate it, aren’t you?”

  He really should go. Didn’t participate in the custom anymore.

  “Dean?” The plea in her voice tugged him back around.

  He hadn’t wanted a relationship, hadn’t been looking for a friend. But he got one. The more he spent time with Darcy, the more he wanted. No matter how much he tried to resist. He tossed his coat across the back of the couch. What else was he going to do today?

  She grinned and settled onto the floor beside the tree Indian style, then opened the plastic container. She patted the spot beside her. He obeyed, and she handed him a tangled mass of Christmas lights.

  “This is why you wanted me to stick around.”

  “Mostly.” She palmed a wad of newspaper and began unwrapping. “Oh, I forgot I had this.” Her eyes sparkled at a miniature pair of pink satin ballet slippers, dangling from a white ribbon and hook she held between her fingers. “My parents bought me this when I was seven.”

  “You took ballet?”

  “I did.”

  Made sense. She possessed a slim, athletic figure and fluid movements. “Do you still dance?”

  She guffawed. “I never could. Wasn’t graceful enough. I danced like a puppet being controlled by a four-year-old marionette. This was the reward for my effort, however.”

  He unwound a section of lights.

  More newspaper rustled as she freed the next ornament. “This was my first one.”

  A wooden set of baby booties said Baby’s First Christmas.

  “Got a thing for shoes?”

  She laughed. “I do, actually.”

  Darcy went through several more, explaining the story behind each one. He almost had the last knot loose when he noticed the room was too quiet.

  Two identical, miniature wreaths, entwined together, rested in her palms. “Twin wreaths,” she whispered.

  “The name of your business.”

  She nodded, staring at the treasure. “My parents used to entertain a lot. They hosted a party for almost every occasion. David and I always greeted the guests at the door, pretending I was the maid and he was the butler. One Christmas my aunt said our greeting was as warm and welcoming as the wreath on the front door. From then on, at every party, we were known as the ‘twin wreaths.’”

  The grief in her eyes tore at his heart.

  Before he could console her, she leaped to her feet and grabbed the prong end of the light string. “Hopefully these will work. I hate it when one burnt bulb ruins the whole strand.”

  She plugged it in. The bulbs lit to life.

  Dean rose to his feet and wound the tangle-free lights between the branches.

  “What traditions did you have growing up?” she asked.

  “My mom wanted to decorate the tree differently every year, so the day after Thanksgiving, we made our own ornaments. Then she’d cook a big bowl of popcorn, and we’d string it on the tree. It was great, until I turned about ten.” Through pine needles and small rings of light, he caught her eyes widen.

  “What a great idea. I’ve got popcorn, but it’s the microwaveable kind. I’ll be right back.”

  A few minutes later, small explosions sounded from the kitchen. She returned with a giant bowl, heaping with cooked kernels. The smell of hot butter filled the room. With needle and thread, she impaled the popcorn while he flipped through the channels on TV. He stopped on White Christmas. It had funny parts, right?

  Bing Crosby crooned in the background as they strung the corn and decorated the tree. His stomach reminded him it was dinnertime. The leftover popcorn wasn’t doing the job.

  Darkness fell outside, amplifying the lights. Sounds of old Hollywood filled the room. The fireplace crackled. Every time Darcy moved, her perfume teased his nose. He loved being next to her. Hadn’t felt like this in so long.

  She reached into the box for the tree topper—a star. Not just any star. It had a long tail and reminded him of the one painted in Wise Men scenes. “You want to do the honors?”

  Darcy handed it to him. He shook his head. “It’s your tree.”

  He passed it back.

  On tiptoe, she stretched to the top branch. Her fingers wobbled, struggling to reach. He grasped her wrist to help when Gomez laced his furry body between her feet, knocking her off balance. She fell into his chest. Dean’s pulse hammered. His hands found her waist. She fit in his arms like she belonged there.


  “I’m sorry, I lost my balance. That silly cat is always in my way. You wouldn’t believe the things he—”

  He smothered her words with his lips.

  8

  Dean’s mouth was soft and warm against hers. Darcy’s hands trailed up his chest to his shoulders, then her arms made themselves at home around his neck. He pulled her closer, deepening the kiss. This smooch was definitely for the Guinness books.

  His hands kneaded her sweater against her back then gently pushed her away. She gazed into his dark eyes where she saw a battle raging. Was that regret? Please, don’t be regret.

  Calloused hands cupped her cheeks. His thumb brushed her bottom lip, replaced by another brush of his lips. Forget Mr. Right. She’d found Mr. Incredible!

  Dean snuggled her against his chest. His heart pounded in her ear, competing with her own throbbing pulse. Warmth seeped through his T-shirt, heightening the scent of his cologne. He clung to her like a life preserver. It was wonderful.

  Then his arms retreated, and he stepped back, scrubbing a hand down his face. She missed him already. Inches separated their bodies, but it might as well have been the ocean.

  Gomez meowed, stretching at her feet. Could she telepathically command the cat to trip her into Dean’s arms again?

  Dean’s Adam’s apple bobbed against the collar of his shirt. He snatched his coat from the back of the couch and thrust his arms into it, stalking to the front door. Don’t leave yet. You’re on assignment.

  With his fingers on the knob, he paused. “Lock up.”

  The door closed behind him. Mr. Incredible aborted his mission.

  Her shoulders wilted.

  Gomez dropped at her feet, yawning, blinking sleepy eyes. The lazy hairball didn’t even notice the world had just tilted off axis.

  “I thought we were a team here, buddy?”

  He stretched on his side and flicked his tail as if to say, I did my part. You’re the failure.

  The final credits of White Christmas scrolled along the screen in time with the blaring orchestra. She lowered onto the couch, scowling at the wadded newspapers, unused ornaments, and pine needles littering the floor. It would all spend the night there. Dean obviously regretted that kiss for one reason or another. She was back to frozen dinners for one.

  Her finger clicked through the channels. The images on the screen played before her, but she couldn’t focus on a thing. She’d barely hear a line or two of dialogue before she moved on to the next channel, disinterested. Finally, she settled on the local news.

  Photos of three children filled the screen. The two girls were lying in hospital beds with scarves tied around their smooth heads, clutching stuffed animals. Their smiles didn’t quite reach their eyes. A boy with pasty skin stood next to his parents, in what Darcy assumed was his bedroom. He wore a baseball cap that didn’t fully hide his missing hair. His big blue eyes tore at Darcy’s heart, as did the fear in his parent’s faces.

  Beneath each picture, a caption told the child’s age—all under seven—the type of cancer each child battled, and what city they lived in. Then the camera switched to a female news reporter bundled in winter gear, standing in front of St. Mark Children’s Hospital. “These kids are in remission and will be celebrating their victories through The Grant-A-Wish Foundation with Santa himself. Each child and their family will arrive in Christmastown on a horse-drawn sleigh, led by the jolly elf, where the holiday will come alive with festivities, presents, and a live auction. If you’d like to donate gifts or auction items, please, call the number below. Back to you, Dave.”

  The camera faded to another reporter who began his story on a local house fire. Darcy turned off the TV and stared at the wall reflecting the colored bulbs on the tree. She could be such a selfish person sometimes. Those poor families had glimpsed death. The children had missed out on months, even years, of their lives in a bed, fighting cancer. Darcy’s home wasn’t consumed in flames. And here she was whining because Dean’s reaction to that kiss didn’t go her way.

  Images of those precious children flashed through Darcy’s mind while she readied for bed. She thanked God for His grace, for the doctors’ wisdom and allowing modern medicine to heal those children, knowing all too well the caliber the loss of a child ensued on a parent. She prayed for safety for the victims of the house fire as she burrowed beneath the blankets.

  The corner of her mattress bounced as Gomez trampolined onto it. He meowed and kneaded the blankets beside her, making himself comfortable. She rubbed her fingers over his fur, his purr vibrating her arm. Tonight, instead of feeling sorry for herself, she was going to do what Bing and Rosemary had suggested—fall asleep counting her blessings.

  ****

  Dean threw the ball-peen hammer on the workbench and raked his fingers through his hair. The sheet of copper was near ruin from beating it to oblivion. It would cost him, but he didn’t care. Anger churned in his veins. Opposite from the reaction he’d had last night when Channel 6 reported a story about a group of kids visiting Christmastown through the partnership of a children’s hospital and charitable foundation. Dean had been so shocked when James Riley, the man who’d killed Dean’s wife and child, flashed across the screen as the father of one of the children chosen, that he’d stopped breathing.

  He’d sat numb for hours, staring at the television, even after the moving images turned to black and white snow. After waking on the couch this morning with a stiff neck and sore back, animosity replaced shock, swirling in his gut with his morning coffee. How could God sit on his throne and allow such warped events to happen? Was He laughing even now? That’s not love. That’s not mercy.

  He stalked to the shelf and raised his fist, prepared to pummel the copper kettles to the floor. No, he couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t change anything.

  Dean planted his hands on his waistline, toeing the slivers of metal shavings on the floor. He filled his lungs with air then released it in a slow, steady stream. His reflection stared back at him from the curved copper of one of the kettles. He didn’t recognize that man anymore.

  The metal was cool against his fingers as he ran them over a spot beginning to tarnish. They all needed a good polish—had grown stale from sitting unused too long. A little elbow grease and they’d be good as new.

  He remembered the first night Darcy came over, that pink sweater and those long legs. She’d touched these very kettles, beaming at his handiwork. Blasted woman. What was he going to do about her?

  Dean’s heart rate slowed, and he suddenly felt calm. Thinking about Darcy, being with her, made life a little less bleak. She made him feel alive again. That in itself betrayed Bethany’s memory. He couldn’t begin a relationship so soon. But after that kiss, he couldn’t forget Darcy if he tried.

  Scratching his fingers along his jaw, Dean walked to the telephone, pushing last night’s newscast as far from his mind as he could manage. He needed a neighborly distraction. Darcy might not even speak to him after the way he stormed out last night. He enjoyed that kiss way too much, and that had scared him. Could still taste her on his lips. “Darcy?”

  ****

  Darcy locked the door and flipped the sign—Closed—after the last student left. Full classes with several women straggling in at the last minute made the day hectic, but it was a good distraction. It kept her focused on something other than meeting Dean for dinner. Her stomach knotted every time she analyzed his motives for this morning’s call.

  Dean-of-many-words had issued the vaguest of invitations. A simple, “Your kiss changed my life. Let me return the favor,” or, “Your lips are revolting. Meet me for dinner so I can cut ties,” would’ve cured her anxiety of not knowing. Would tonight be the night he delivered his let’s-just-be-friends speech? If so, she could save him the trouble. She knew it word for word.

  The six-foot wreath swallowing the east corner of the room had received numerous compliments today. Only a few more loops of gold and red ribbon strategically placed, and it’d be ready for Pastor Barne
s to pick up this evening.

  She turned on the radio then climbed the stepladder with her tool belt of supplies. Her fingers made quick work of the ribbon, twisting and curving. With floral wire securing the bow, she tucked it between the branches. Sammy Davis Jr. and Carmen McRae crooned “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” Her mind wandered to what she would wear to dinner, how she would act if her fears came true. Lord, I really like Dean. I know he’s still working things out, but he’s come so far in the last month. I think we’d be good together. Don’t You?

  Elvis’s “Blue Christmas” blasted through the room. Hmm, bad omen.

  The cardboard spool slipped from the end of the ribbon and tumbled to the floor. She wouldn’t have enough to finish the last two bows. Darcy descended the stepladder and foraged her ribbon supply. Did she really not have any more gold trimming? There had to be some somewhere.

  She rummaged through the boxes in the spare bedroom with no success. There wasn’t any in the shed either. She’d gone through those containers a few days ago. The attic, maybe? The things the moving men had stored up there were still a mystery. She hoped the dark, cold space held what she needed. Her UPS shipment wasn’t due for two more days.

  Flashlight in hand, she climbed the attic stairs. The door creaked open, and she stepped inside. A splash of daylight and a cold draft filtered through the windows. Plastic totes and boxes, labeled in permanent marker, lined the walls. She aimed the flashlight beam over the items, and shuffled the containers, searching for what she needed.

  Her foot met something in the dark with a hollow thunk. She bit her lip, trapping the words that came to mind before they escaped, and flashed the light over an army green trunk with brass clasps and lock. This wasn’t hers. Had the moving men mixed some of her things with someone else’s?

  When her ribbon pursuit failed, Darcy carried the trunk downstairs, careful not to lose her footing on the way down. She knelt beside the trunk, running her fingers through the dust film coating the top. She’d have to pick the lock somehow, or enlist the help of a power tool, which she didn’t own.