What was inside? The trunk and lock weren’t old enough to be antique, so it was doubtful she’d find anything of historical significance. Everything else in the attic belonged to her. Could someone have left this behind?
Darcy glanced at the clock. She had just enough time to finish the wreath, change clothes, and explore the confines of the trunk—if she could break the lock—before dinner.
After rearranging a few bows to make the wreath symmetrical and adding several pinecones, Darcy grabbed an ice pick from the kitchen. She fiddled with the metal, working the ice pick at every angle until she heard a click. The lock broke free, and she held her breath, prepared for the stench of mothballs as she lifted the lid.
White satin billowed beneath items wrapped in tissue paper. Instead of the stench she expected, a flowery perfume hit her nose. Carefully removing the paper, she unearthed a pair of cufflinks, a blue garter, and a pair of champagne glasses. The silky fabric felt cool and heavy in her hands. Before she even removed it, Darcy knew what it was. A wedding dress.
The style was modern—strapless, empire waist. As far as she knew, Dean’s parents had owned the home for more than forty years. Could these be from Dean’s wedding? She stood and held up the dress. A silver picture frame escaped the fabric’s folds and dropped to her feet.
She tucked the dress back inside the trunk and lifted the frame. The bride in the photo was stunning. Dark brown curls framed a flawless, olive complexion. A toothpaste-ad smile beamed at the groom, whose back was to the camera, his arms encasing her on the dance floor. Darcy didn’t have to see the face of the groom to know who he was. She’d recognize the contours of that build anywhere. Dean.
Her heart ached for his loss of this beautiful woman. And for the fact that she didn’t capture his heart that way.
The mantel clock chimed seven. Darcy jumped to her feet and went to her bedroom to change clothes. Did Dean realize the trunk had been left behind? Of course she’d return it to him, but the process would be awkward, especially since she’d picked the lock. And she’d have to confess that she’d opened it. How else would she know it belonged to him?
Anything more than a neighborly friendship was getting harder all the time.
****
Dean stacked the last plate into his cabinet and shut the door. He’d kept quiet throughout dinner, balancing thoughts of moving forward with their relationship or retreating, contemplating which risk weighed the most. Trying not to think about a murderer visiting their town. Darcy, as usual, filled his silence.
She unplugged the sink stopper and wiped down the faucet and countertops as soapy water swirled down the drain. Her red sweater fit around her just right. Every time she moved her perfume beckoned him closer. And those lips. Like she’d eaten a cherry popsicle. He couldn’t take it another minute.
With his back against the counter, he grasped her wrist and turned her around to face him. After she dropped the wet rag onto the counter, he cupped both of her hands in his. Dean rubbed his thumbs in small circles on the back of her hands. He knew she felt the same about him by the way she blushed when she caught him staring too long, her nervous babbling, and the way she kissed. He doubted she’d ever kissed any man that way, or she wouldn’t be single.
So why was this so hard?
Dean swallowed. “I know we haven’t known each other very long but…I’d really like to see where this goes.”
Her brow crinkled. Words were his enemy. He released her hands and caressed her face. He hated feeling so vulnerable. “I really like you, Darcy, and I’d like to try being more than friends. What do you think?”
“I would, too.”
He brought his mouth to hers, hungry for another kiss. The buttercream frosting from dessert still lingered on her lips. Dean savored it.
The doorbell echoed through the house. Someone needed to learn better timing. He pulled away and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be right back.”
He went through his workshop and opened the door. “Pastor Barnes.”
“Hello, Dean. It’s been a long time.” The tubby man thrust out his hand.
“It has.” Did the pastor come to scold him for his absence from church? “Come in.”
“I can’t stay.” Pastor Barnes stepped inside. His red tie peeked over the collar of his coat, and his thin hair lay parted down the middle. He’d always reminded Dean of Teddy Roosevelt.
Dean closed the door.
The man rubbed his thick fingers over his wooly mustache. “I trust the annual charity project is going well. It’s going to be an exciting year. St. Mark Children’s Hospital and Grant-A-Wish Foundation is sending a group of children to celebrate Christmas with us.”
Dean stiffened. “So I heard.”
“The whole town’s abuzz to make this holiday unforgettable for those families. We’re pulling out all the stops, so to speak. The mayor and I have decided that this year’s proceeds will go to the foundation to help more children’s wishes come true. Thought I’d stop by and let you know, so you could plan accordingly. Prepare your speech.”
Speech? He wasn’t giving any speech. Nor would he continue the auction tradition. Especially now. It was a great cause. He wanted to see all children’s wishes come true, sick or not, but someone else would have to do it. Surely, the pastor would understand. Dean opened his mouth to explain himself when Darcy entered the room.
“Hello, Pastor Barnes.” Her cottony perfume reached them before her body did. “I trust you got my message about the wreath.”
“Yes. Thanks for leaving the door unlocked for me. I’ve already loaded it into the bed of my truck. You’ve outdone yourself, Darcy.” Pastor linked his hands behind his back and rocked on his feet.
“I’m glad I could help.” She beamed.
Dean’s mind whirled. How could he tell the pastor he wasn’t participating without looking like a jerk in front of Darcy?
“Well, I won’t intrude on your evening. I’ll see you both tomorrow evening.” Barnes turned toward the door.
“Goodnight, Pastor.” Darcy closed it behind him.
Dean strode to his workbench and fiddled with the vice grip. “What’s going on tomorrow?”
“He’s holding a special meeting at the church to celebrate the kids’ arrival.” She slipped her hand into his. “Will you go with me?”
His gut knotted. The last time he’d attended church was for Bethany’s funeral. He had no desire to look her murderer in the face his first time back. “I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on tomorrow.”
Darcy glanced around the workshop’s bare tables and tidy floor. She wasn’t buying it. “Surely you don’t have anything so pressing you can’t take a break for a couple of hours.”
He leaned his arms against his workbench. “I’m not going.”
“Why, Dean?” Her voice was soft, low.
Because…how could he celebrate the life of that man’s child when he’d taken Dean’s? Dean was glad the kid had beat his cancer, but the whole situation wasn’t fair. James was a drunk and a criminal. Dean had always strived to do the right thing. Went to church, read his Bible, prayed. Why didn’t he get to keep his family?
“I told you I have work to do.” His words came out harsher than intended. Exhaling a deep breath, he straightened and pulled her to him. “Now, where were we?”
Her fingertips against his lips kept him from inching closer. She looked down at the floor. “We need to talk.”
Dean gripped her waist. “Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?”
Her lips twitched, but she didn’t smile. “Maybe once or twice.”
“That’s it?”
Darcy swatted his arm, and he chuckled. His laugh was cut short when her face grew serious.
“Dean, I…” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear then squeezed his fingers. “I found a trunk in my attic.”
Oh, that. He didn’t respond.
“Does it belong to you?”
He nodded.
“You
knew it was there?” Her face lifted at the news. “Well, why didn’t you say something? You could’ve asked me for it. I’d have brought it over or you—”
“I left it behind on purpose.”
Her eyes rounded wider. “Why?”
This wasn’t how he’d envisioned the evening. Pastor Barnes pressuring him into something he didn’t want to do, and Darcy forcing his skeletons out of the closet. But now that she’d found the trunk, he at least owed her an explanation. “After Bethany died, her parents took what they wanted of her possessions. I kept some pictures. Nothing more. Her clothes, her things—they were too hard to be around. They smelled like her.”
He swallowed down the cake climbing its way up his throat and lowered onto the workbench, propping his elbows on his knees. “I didn’t know what to do with her wedding dress. I couldn’t just drop it off at the Salvation Army with the rest of her things, but I couldn’t keep it either. So when I heard Mom and Dad had a buyer for the house, I left it behind.”
Darcy knelt in front of him, her soft hands encasing his. “Did you want someone to find it?”
He shook his head. “Not exactly. I figured whoever found it would throw it out or donate it, and I’d be none the wiser.”
“Why here? Why not leave it behind in Boston?”
Dean turned his head and closed his eyes, seeing James’s face before him. “She was five months pregnant when she died. A boy. The baby…was conceived in that house. Seemed like the perfect place to bury my memories at the time.” He pinned his gaze on her. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
His swirling emotions and loneliness mixed with her misty eyes made him bold. He gathered her in his arms, dove his fingers in her hair, and pressed his lips to hers, kissing her until they were both breathless.
Darcy stood and stepped away. “I’m sorry, Dean.”
Something told him she wasn’t apologizing for his misery.
“Why?” His breath was ragged.
Her chest rose and fell. “You have so many things left to resolve. Until you come to peace with Bethany’s death and let go of your anger toward God, things will never work between us.”
Her confession peeved. “I have accepted her death.”
“No, you haven’t. The truth is in my house, in your reluctance with the auction, your refusal to go tomorrow night.”
How dare she? Didn’t she know how hard it was for him to let her into his heart? “What do you want from me, Darcy?”
“I care for you, Dean, very much. And I want you to be fully healed before we go any further.”
Dean propelled from the bench. Why did everyone need something from him? His parents wanted him in church. The town wanted his donation. Darcy wanted him to forget about his wife, his child. “What do you want me to do? Go to the meeting? Welcome the man who’s responsible for killing my family into my town, hold hands, sing Kumbaya, and skip together through the snow?”
Darcy brought a hand to her mouth.
“You want me to go get the trunk and deal with my issues? Let’s go.” His voice grew louder with every sentence.
Without stopping to put on his coat, Dean thrust his feet into his boots and stormed out the door. Snow crunched beneath his feet. An SUV approached the crosswalk, but he kept moving. Pedestrians had the right of way.
Darcy’s footsteps crunched several feet behind him. “Dean, wait.”
He reached the other side of the street as squalling brakes pierced the night air. Thump.
Bile rushed up his throat. He spun around.
The vehicle rested across the street at a forty-five degree angle. The headlights illuminated the road. Darcy lay crumpled between the front tires.
9
The ambulance doors slammed, blocking Darcy from view. “I believe she’s all right, sir, but we’re taking her to the hospital to be sure.”
She’d regained consciousness by the time the medics arrived and complained of her arm hurting. Dean studied the pocket-sized EMT with flaming red hair. He wanted to rest easy in the man’s words, but couldn’t. “I’ll meet her there.”
The EMT nodded and banged his fist on the back door twice, then hopped into the driver’s seat and drove away. Sobs echoed in the crisp air as the SUV’s driver, a frazzled mom in her mid-thirties, relayed her account of the accident to a police officer. Dean had told the cop what he knew while the EMT’s examined Darcy and the female driver.
Blue and red lights flashed across the buildings, clashing with the festive greens, reds, and golds. Dean moved toward his house. His boots slipped on the same sheet of black ice the SUV had hit. This whole scenario was painfully familiar, only this time the driver wasn’t intoxicated.
If only he hadn’t fled the house angry, Darcy would be tucked in her warm bed right now. Another cruel reminder of how fleeting life could be. He felt like a pawn in the game of life, forced to positions on the board he’d never have chosen. Checkmate.
Dean threw his head back and scowled at the crescent moon. He refused to lose another woman he loved.
Wait. Love? The word sucker punched his gut. Did he love Darcy? It was too soon to tell, but he knew he cared enough for her to dread losing her. Wouldn’t survive that again.
He climbed the porch stoop and opened the door. The room’s warmth enveloped him. He didn’t realize how frozen his face and limbs were until he stepped inside. His foot met with something soft as he reached for his coat hanging on the wall hook. Darcy’s scarf lay coiled on the floor.
The pink flannel looked silly in his big hand. A dirty imprint from his boot marred the fabric. He gathered up the other end and held it to his nose. Darcy’s scent filled his lungs.
His throat closed. He couldn’t allow himself to love her when she could be ripped away from him on a whim.
It was best to be alone. Feeling nothing.
****
Sunlight washed over Dean’s face. He squinted against the intrusion. A yawn fled his lips, awakening every stiff muscle in his body. Why did his neck hurt? He remembered Darcy—the accident. His eyes popped open.
The plastic chair creaked as he arched his back to stretch his spine. The ER’s waiting room was empty, the nurse’s station abandoned. A local news anchor reported on the muted TV, his lips moving too fast to discern the words. The time and outside temperature appeared in a gray box at the bottom of the screen. Six o’clock, fifteen degrees.
Was Darcy OK? Were they still running tests? The last he’d heard, her arm was broken and the doctor would be releasing her soon. His relief over her minimal injuries settled his nerves, and he’d dozed off. Had they released her while he’d slept?
A nurse in black scrubs skirted the check-in desk, removing a chart from a metal divider. Dean rushed to catch her. “Ma’am.” Her blonde bob swayed as she turned. “A patient came by ambulance last night—Darcy Carr. Have they released her?”
“They’re releasing her right now. Are you a family member?”
“Her ride home.”
The woman smiled, deepening the lines around her eyes and mouth. “Have a seat. She’ll be out in a few minutes.”
If he sat any longer his backside would fuse to the chair. The nurse disappeared through a door marked Staff Only, her squeaky shoes silencing with the closed door. Dean glanced around the room to the vending machine in the far corner. His stomach growled.
The coffee dispenser spewed inky liquid that tasted the way he imagined mud would. But for fifty cents, he couldn’t expect Starbucks. He downed it along with a stale pack of powdered donuts. It might not be brain food, but at least it was fuel.
A door opened and Darcy appeared, her left arm cradled in a dark blue sling, a neon pink cast ending at her knuckles. She inched toward him carrying a small white bag and sporting a nasty scrape on her right cheek. The corners of her glazed eyes drooped, and her hair hung limp over her shoulders. She’d never looked more beautiful.
Dean closed the space between them. “How do you feel?” He placed his hands on her shoulders to
steady her staggering legs.
“Like I’ve been hit by a car,” she croaked.
He chuckled. His fears abated, holding a living, breathing Darcy in his arms. He tugged her scarf from his coat pocket, wrapped it around her neck, and gently pulled her to him. “I’m so sorry.”
“I just want to go home, Dean.” Her shaky voice vibrated his chest.
“All right.” He pressed his lips to her head and breathed her cottony scent one last time. “Let’s get you home.”
****
Darcy stood in front of the foggy bathroom mirror and towel dried her hair, wincing when she bumped the goose egg on her crown. Pain meant she was alive, and she thanked God for His protection last night. A broken ulna and radius would make things difficult for the next eight weeks, and the full classes scheduled the next five days leading up to Christmas nearly impossible, but she’d survive one way or another. Maybe she’d hire Ruth Simpson as her assistant. The woman had taken almost every class Darcy offered and had a real talent for placing the right pieces together.
With zombie-like movements, Darcy finished dressing, tugging and zipping with her good arm, exhausted from the task. By the time she healed, one arm would look like Popeye’s, the other like Olive Oyl’s.
Gomez scraped his front paws on the rug at the bottom of the steps leading upstairs, releasing a half-purr, half-growl. She scratched behind his ears, yawning. The pain medication made her groggy, and that short nap wasn’t enough. “I’ll be back in a little while.”
Darcy stopped short of the front door when she noticed the trunk missing from where she’d left it last. Dean must’ve taken it with him after he’d tucked her into bed. She glanced at her casted arm. In her ambition to help him, she’d only hurt him—and herself. His demeanor after they left the hospital was stiff and distant. Would their relationship ever be the same?
She prayed for wisdom as she slipped into her coat and struggled with the buttons. Before she could make her way to the meeting, she’d detour to the town’s coppersmith.
Bright Copper Kettles Page 7