7

 

Darcy looked in the mirror one last time, fluffing her hair, checking her makeup. She couldn’t wait to see Dean. Six cooking lessons, and she was already willing to fillet her heart and serve it to him on a silver platter. The lonesome cavern in her chest slowly filled with pebbles of trust and admiration. Would Dean ever want the job of filling it completely?

The doorbell rang. “Come in,” she yelled, finishing up in the mirror. She adjusted her red sweater then went to the front door, greeting Dean as he entered.

“Sorry, I’m late. The project I was working on took longer than I thought.” He passed her a paper sack and removed his boots.

They’d agreed to switch dinner up a bit and cook at her place tonight. “It’s fine. I’m running a little behind myself.”

Dean’s gaze traveled over her form as he stood to full height. The corners of his lips turned up as he reclaimed the bag. Heat crept up her neck and filled her cheeks. The spark was real.

His smile grew wider.

She playfully rolled her eyes. “Come on. I’m hungry.”

He chuckled, following her to the kitchen.

The countertop held bowls of fresh fruit she’d rinsed and set out earlier. Strong coffee brewed, the bold aroma mingling in the space between them. The normally chilly kitchen felt twenty degrees warmer with Dean in it.

He put the bag on the counter and pulled out its contents. “I brought the ham, eggs, asparagus, and hollandaise sauce.”

A cold blast of air rolled over Darcy as she opened the fridge to present her contribution. “I’ve got the biscuits and fruit.”

His brow arched. “Canned biscuits?”

She shrugged. “I don’t cook.”

“That’s what these lessons are for.”

“You said you were teaching me how to make eggs Benedict with ham. Not homemade biscuits. I thought we’d go the easy route tonight, since Clark Griswold is waiting for us in the living room. ”

“Another movie? It doesn’t involve any men in green pantyhose, does it?”

“Nope. Just an exploding turkey, a crispy cat, and annoying houseguests.”

“Well in that case, let’s skip dinner and get right to it.”

She threw him a mock scowl. “You’ll like it. I promise.”

Darcy preheated the oven according to the directions on the biscuit tube then arranged them on a cookie sheet. Dean fried the ham slices. The sizzling meat filled the silence during breaks in conversation. This Norman Rockwell picture—together in the kitchen, talking about their day, laughing—was as right as waking to a fresh blanket of snow on Christmas morning. And what a present he’d be to find waiting beneath the tree…

The thought sent her pulse racing.

“Ready to make the hollandaise?” He forked the steaming ham slices and transferred them to a plate.

She jumped, startled from her daydream. “Sure.”

His quick movements at the stove made his back and shoulder muscles tease through his gray shirt. She had to agree with every other woman in America. There wasn’t anything sexier than a man who cooked.

“Butter?”

She opened the fridge, remembering she’d used the last of the butter on her morning bagel. “Um…I’m out.”

“Hmm. So am I.”

“Do we have to have it?”

He nodded. “You can’t make hollandaise sauce without butter.”

Of course. She’d know that if she cooked. “No problem. I’ll run and get some.”

“No you won’t. I’ll go get some.”

“It’s my fault. I’ll only be gone a minute.”

“It’s dark out. You stay. I’m going.”

His protectiveness stirred her gut, but she refused to linger on it too long. “We’ll both go then.”

Dean swallowed, tucked his hands in his pockets. Swallowed again. “Get your coat.”

His voice was husky. Why did he look so torn by the idea? Was he angry about the butter, or was the idea of being seen with her in public bothering him? With each step through the hall, she debated whether to stay behind. He’d made so much progress, and she didn’t want to push him into anything he wasn’t ready for.

She removed the biscuits from the oven and turned off the thermostat then covered the ham slices with plastic wrap.

He paused in the doorway and pointed to a half-finished, six-foot tall wreath base in her classroom. “What’s that?”

“My contribution to the town festivities.”

It stood as tall as he did. “It’s huge.”

“Pastor Barnes wanted something to spruce up the church. He said to think big, so I did. He’s going to hang it beneath the steeple.”

Upon learning she was Dean’s neighbor, the pastor mentioned he’d known the Whitfields for twenty-five years and reminisced about Dean’s profession of faith and baptism at age twelve. Her heart leapt at the knowledge that Dean was a believer.

She looked at him now as he studied the giant wreath and felt a prod to ask how his charity auction project was going. Are you sure, God? This may not be the best time. Buzz around town was that Dean refused to carry on the tradition. Remembering his reaction the day Ruth Simpson baited him in Darcy’s classroom, there was probably some truth to the rumor.

Ask him.

Darcy gnawed her bottom lip, slipping into her coat. She tugged on her hat and stepped through the door as Dean held it ajar. After locking the door, they moved toward the market, their feet disrupting the snow dust on the sidewalk. “How’s your auction gift coming along?”

Dean stiffened. His jaw ticked. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing escaped. He closed it and shook his head.

Darcy concentrated on the halos of light radiating from the lampposts. The soles of her red ballet flats brushed along the concrete. “I’m sorry about the butter. How’s the rooster? Classes were crazy today and—”

“It’s OK, Darcy.” Dean burrowed his hands in his coat pockets.

OK about the butter, or that she’d pried? Either way, he was cuing her to stop rambling.

They reached the market, and Dean opened the door, allowing her to enter first. An instrumental version of “Winter Wonderland” played through the store’s speakers.

The dairy section stood to their right. Dean grabbed a package of butter sticks and went to the only open register. She offered to pay, but he refused. The teenager yawned and tucked a strand of blue hair behind her ear. The light glinted off her diamond-studded nose ring. With her mismatched vintage clothing, the girl looked like a character from Candy Land.

Dean paid, and the cotton-candy-haired girl followed them out, locking the doors behind them.

The frigid air nipped Darcy’s nose. Her breath swirled in white puffs before disappearing. The temperature had dropped in the few short minutes they’d shopped in the market. Or maybe Dean’s temperature had dropped.

She wished he’d say something. Like, “It’s OK that you’re nosy sometimes,” or “I’m madly in love with you, Darcy. Will you marry me?”

Anything.

They approached Rudolph’s Christmas tree lot. A painted wooden sign poised at the entrance, reminding everyone they only had twelve more days until Christmas. Pines of various species and sizes were strategically arranged to entice customers.

Darcy gave in, halting in front of a Douglas fir at least seven feet tall. Just like the ones her parents erected in the living room when she was a kid, when Christmas held excitement and wonder. When David was alive.

Her heart sank. She curled her mitten-wrapped fingers around the links of the metal fence. She’d saved all her chore money that year, taking on extra jobs to save for that bicycle David wanted for Christmas. If she’d only known he wouldn’t be there…

“What are you thinking?” Dean’s voice was soft and low. He studied her, his eyes intense enough to see into her soul. “My brother would’ve loved this tree.”

She craned her neck to see the top. Snow clung to the needles, glittering beneath the street lights. How different would things be if David were still alive? Would he be married with five children? Would she?

For the first time, she realized losing her brother had affected all the relationships in her life. She and David had been inseparable since birth, ripped apart in a fleeting moment. Though she wanted love and marriage, a happily-ever-after, she’d sabotaged every relationship, bracing for loss that may or may not come. Not strong enough to go through that again.

Strong fingers wrapped around her hand. Darcy met his gaze, her body humming from his touch. With this man, however, it was different. She wanted to heal his hurt, which might in turn help heal her own. Holding back was no longer an option.

“Dinner’s getting cold.” He gently tugged her into motion, warming her hand the rest of the way home.

 

****

 

Two days later, Dean stood at the corner of Fifth and Main, gripping his cell phone in one hand and steadying a pathetic excuse for a Christmas tree with the other. “Darcy? It’s Dean. I’ll be there in about five minutes. Have the door open.”

He closed his phone and slipped it into his coat pocket. With a grunt, he hoisted the tree onto his shoulder, angry with himself for waiting too long. If he’d have gotten to the tree lot sooner, he could’ve snagged that Douglas fir she eyed the other night. Instead he was delivering Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree.

A group of tourist stepped aside as he approached, wishing him a Merry Christmas. He could always spot the tourists—never dressed for the weather and ecstatic about the holiday.

The wind blew the smell of sap and pine across his nose, taking his memory back to Boston. Bethany had scolded him for making the holiday such a momentous occasion, spending more on decorations and presents than their studio apartment could hold. But a native from Christmastown never celebrated the holiday lightly.

Until she died. Now he was the only person in this town who didn’t celebrate Christmas at all.

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.