4

Brock squared his coaster so it lined up with the edge of the coffee table. “Didn’t Burt have you primed to hear about my dog? I love to talk about Oscar, especially one hilarious adventure he once had at my folks’ place.”

“I can tell you’re itching to get on with the story. I suppose that explains why there’s no Christmas tree. That big lug would think it a giant toy? Oscar first, then no weaseling out of telling me who Brock Winston is.”

“You said a lot there. And we do have a tree; it’s not visible from here. You know who I am. You’re looking at me. Maybe you were groggy from the accident, but I already told you where I work and that I am kind of handy.”

“I remember. Judging by the neatness of your tidy home, parishioners are fortunate to have you looking out for their house of worship. But I don’t want to know about your job. I want to hear something personal.”

He resettled the ankle resting atop the opposite knee, and with no attempt to hide his interest, checked out the vision sitting across from him. Minor scratches and colorful bruises did not detract from her freshly-scrubbed good looks.

“What a man does for a paycheck is a lot of who the man is. Now I love my dad, but he believes menial tasks are beneath his son. Maybe what I do is way down on the food chain as far as making a good living, but it’s my choice.”

“Why be down on yourself about your job? Jesus grew up under the tutelage of his earthly father. Joseph was a tradesman.”

She’d given him something to remind his dad of the next time Brock felt he was a disappointment.

“I have a good feeling about you, Brock. You’re one of the good guys. If you weren’t a Good Samaritan, you never would have looked for me in the middle of a raging snowstorm.”

“I followed my gut instincts, however you want to believe. It could have been an angel or a nudge from God.”

Izzy cozied into the corner of the loveseat and drew her legs up. He now had a direct view of her face instead of her profile. All he longed for at the moment was to tumble into the depths of her clear blue, gold-flecked eyes. God made a beautiful creature when He designed this woman. How well could he get to know her during her short Christmas break?

“Brock? Do I have a spot on my face or is a scratch seeping blood?”

He tapped his foot and jiggled his leg. He wanted to know her story rather than talk about himself. He was nothing to write home about, especially according to his dad. He rested his mug on his upraised knee.

“You’re perfect. Guess it’s time for that tale about Oscar. He was a huge pup at four months old. My dad heard about him needing a new home because some dude’s girlfriend wanted to be the one-and-only in his life. Supposedly, Oscar has some wolf in his genealogy. You can tell by his chest there’s golden lab in his blood line, and German shepherd by the shape of his snout.

“The rascal’s legs grew faster than fast when he was a pup. With his hind quarters higher than his front legs, he had a sway to his back. For some time he appeared to be nothing but tall legs and a bottomless stomach, and he’d trip tail over teakettle. What a kick when he looked up at us with those amber eyes. We figured he’d be mortified if we laughed, so we tried to contain ourselves.”

“Did Oscar belong to your parents first?”

Talking about the dog came easy. Thinking about Oscar made him smile. “Dad found the pup with the agreement I would take him. I had to get a backyard fence built, and stuff was going on in my life at that time. I worked more hours than I do now.”

Oscar ambled into the room and plopped down by the fire, head over paws, and stared at Brock.

“It’s clear Oscar dotes on you. I’m guessing he’s heard his master tell this story over and over.”

Brock grinned at his dog and set his cup on the coffee table. He reached over and gave Oscar a scratch between the ears. “When Oscar was nine months old, somewhere around 90 pounds, Mom and Dad woke up to a mournful howl. Dad rushed outside. He didn't see Oscar at first. When he found Oscar, he ran to the dog and yelled for Mom to grab the camera.”

“I’d better set down my mug. I may laugh and spill my cider.”

Brock reached for and tested the cooling drink. He took a healthy gulp. “I wish I’d been there. Poor Oscar was hung up on the wooden seat of our swing set. We grew up with an old tall set from a country school. We’ve told our parents they need to get rid of it before they have grandchildren. The thing is dangerous. That’s a rabbit trail. My oldest sister lives there now. According to Mom, the look in Oscar’s eyes was pitiful. He was demoralized, no doubt begging for help and understanding while Mom and Dad consoled him and laughed in turn. All four feet touched the ground, but one end of the board seat was under Oscar’s back legs. The poor guy hadn't figured out that all he had to do was lift his hind legs and leap.”

“Poor baby. I’d love to see a picture.”

“I just happen to have one on my phone. Dad laughs every time he recalls the scene. He claims he dared not look in the pup’s eyes until he lifted Oscar’s hindquarters free. The overgrown galoot went to sleep without breakfast and slept until suppertime.”

Izzy covered her mouth. Her shoulders shook in silent laughter. “I’m surprised he didn’t howl earlier, as soon as he knew he needed help.”

“He’s always been a polite sort of dog. He must not have made noise until he heard the folks up and about in the house.”

Izzy stirred her cider with the cinnamon stick. She fixed her gaze on Oscar and finally laughed out loud.

Brock blinked. Izzy smiled and every light and sparkly decoration in the room dimmed. His head moved as slow as a moon dance as he swiveled Oscar’s way.

The silly dog lay with his paws over his ears.

“He knew you were talking about him.”

Brock set both feet on the floor and motioned. “Come here, boy, and get some deep scratches. You’re a good boy. I love you.”

Oscar slanted a comical look at Izzy, lumbered to his feet, stretched, and padded to Brock.

“I think he’s saying ‘so there’ to me. You said your family is all here, your sisters are married, and your father pastors a church. I’m amazed God put you on the road not far behind me. What were you doing west of Lincoln?”

“I was on my way back from Grand Island. I went to see my grandparents before they go south for the winter. You finished with your cider? Time will go fast. I’ll take the cups to the kitchen, and then show you the place.” He made short work of tossing cinnamon sticks, rinsing out the mugs, and stacking them in the dishwasher.

She waited at the bottom of the stairs. “The woodwork is wonderful.”

“Yes it is. Stay, Oscar. I won’t allow you the chance to trip our pretty visitor.” He shrugged at Izzy’s mouthed thank you. “Somewhere along the line, folks came up with carpet as a sign of opulence or something. This home is over a hundred years old. Golden oak floors lay under years of dirty carpet…Well, upstairs first. Let me go behind you in case your ankle gives you trouble. I’ll break your fall.”

“You are a sweet man, Brock Winston. Any other day, I’d run up the steps, but I’ll let you be chivalrous.” A beat later, “Oh, there’s your Christmas tree. How clever to put it in the niche.”

“It’s safe from Oscar that way. My sisters learned how to decorate from Mom. The wide landing here at the turn of the stairs provided a perfect place to build a shelf. You can see there are rooms on each side of the stairs. One is still used for storage because I’m always painting or sawing somewhere. With the basement occupied, Burt and I need the other bedroom for our overflow. His room is on the right side, mine on the left. We share the bath.”

“Did you always want to be a carpenter or been handy with your hands?”

No. But his dream hadn’t matched his dad’s. “Actually, no. I thought about writing, but it didn’t work out.”

“Writing? As in books?”

“Uh. More like Bible studies. I’ve thought about fictionalizing biblical martyrs.”

“You can still do that.”

“Maybe someday.”

“You will if God leads you.” She ran a hand over door trim. “I’d love to run off and explore every nook and cranny in this home, except closets. But I’ll restrain myself because I’m not a child.”

“If you promise not to snoop, I can open the rooms to the basement, but later, after I check with the renters first.”

“That’s an admirable quality, the way you put others first.”

“I try. You stay close now so I can protect your bruised body if you ankle goes wonky.” He’d discerned a clear difference in their outlooks. She was an adventurer the way she exhibited such enthusiasm in the potential fun of exploring his home.

Brock viewed life more from a serious standpoint. From the viewpoint of his job, the way he put his wants on hold, to the rift with his dad over not going into ministry.

Brock circled in front of her, again to break any potential fall, and waited on the landing.

She raised an eyebrow, but let him have his way. She followed him down the stairs, exposing that pretty dimple every time he looked up at her. He reached the floor and turned to give her a hand, positioning his eyes on a level with her mouth. The light revealed a dusting of freckles across her nose and a darkening bruise on her right cheek, opposite the dimple.

At the sudden urge to kiss that bluish spot, he leaned forward. Their touch had sizzled earlier when they each reached for the handle of her rolling bag. She’d sucked in her breath, which he took to mean she’d felt the zing as he had. He gave her credit for recovering in the blink of an eye.

The memory of her reaction pushed him to close the distance between them now until they were a breath apart.

Feet stomping on the back stoop announced Burt’s return.

Izzy blinked twice and retreated up a step.

“Baby, it’s cold out there.”

“So this is Christmas.” Brock sang back to Burt, keeping his gaze locked on Izzy. He pivoted. “Glad you didn’t come in singing ‘let it snow’. ’Tis the season, bro. I was beginning to wonder if you’d make it back in time for the service tonight. No wet boots beyond the kitchen. I need to get changed.”

“Yes, mama, you old mother hen.” Burt shed his coat, and Brock welcomed the wafting chilled air that cooled him in response to the almost tender moment with Izzy.

She brushed his sleeve. “Oh, I better get ready myself. Thanks for the tour, Brock.”

Izzy Kahn might just as well have shocked him with a live wire the way a current of high voltage shot through him.

Brock raced up the stairs, replaced his beige flannel with a hunter green sweater, and ran his fingers through his over-long hair. He added a splash of old-fashioned smell-good, patted each cheek, and hoped Izzy would go for it. He commanded his feet to not tromp down the stairs, or his knees to bounce when he sat. He jumped to his feet at the sound of the opening bathroom door.

She appeared in the hall dressed in red, her hair pulled up away from her face.

Brock gulped. His feet felt glued to the floor. Corny clichés crimped his senses. Speechless. Mesmerized. Tantalized. Frozen in place.

Burt stared from where he stood in front of the fireplace, rooted in place as well.

Brock slapped his brother on the shoulder. The action broke his trance.

“God sure did good when He made you.”

She dipped in a mini curtsey. “Thank you, kind rescuer.”

His tongue thickened, and he fought a cough.

Izzy wore high color in her cheeks. He wanted to think he’d put the blush there. A fleeting thought made him wish they could stay home tonight, sit in front of the fire rather than go out in the cold. Yet, the cold was what he needed at the moment.