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 Barnes 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.

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.