3

 

The front porch was a blanket of white by the time they reached the Jansen’s house. Brynn was staying with her grandparents—at least for the time being. Dillon had returned to the modest frame house on several occasions through the years—for a thank-you dinner when Mr. Jansen recovered from his bout of pneumonia as well as for various other gatherings. The Jansen’s were also frequent patrons of Pappy’s Pizzeria, which was located directly across the street from Cutler Nursery, and they had a habit of stopping by to say hi whenever they ventured that way for something to eat. Each time Dillon’s path had crossed theirs, he’d hoped for another glimpse of Brynn; each time he walked away disappointed. Apparently, her father’s connections with the military had them relocating frequently. Last he’d heard, Brynn was living near the Landing in Jacksonville. Finally, college classes at the University of Tennessee followed by a year-long internship in Asheville drew him away for a string of years. Unable to return home for any length of time, he’d tucked away the yearning to see her again.

But now he was back in Clover Cove for good, and Brynn had returned, as well. The desire to connect resurfaced with a vengeance, surprising him with its raw strength. Only one thing had Dillon carefully considering his next step; was Brynn simply here to assist her Gran through this rough patch following the awful accident that could have easily claimed her life—or did she have intentions to relocate permanently?

Dillon made a mental note to ask as soon as the opportunity arose. In the meantime, he pulled into the stunted drive and killed the truck’s engine. Headlights dimmed, leaving nothing but the glow of streetlights than lined the block in soldier fashion. Stars were shielded, along with the moon, by storm clouds that roiled like angry puffs from a smoke stack. The wind moaned and whispered through the truck’s doorjamb. Within seconds, the windshield was covered in a sheet of white, making the car as closed-off as a cave.

“Wow, those clouds are ominous.” Brynn unlatched her seatbelt. “I don’t think this is going to let up anytime soon.”

“Doesn’t look that way.” Dillon took his ball cap from the console and tugged it over his head. “Better bundle up.”

He lifted the collar of his flannel shirt before slipping from the driver’s seat and jogging around to open Brynn’s door. He took her hand and together they trudged up the drive toward a narrow walkway that led to the modest wood-framed house flanked by a wrap-around porch. Wind whipped through the wooden slats and set a whitewashed porch swing into motion. Chains creaked as it swayed side-to-side, jostled against the house and elicited a low, methodic thud.

“Head inside.” Dillon nodded toward the steps leading into the living room where Mr. Jansen waited behind a glass-paned storm door. “I’ll grab the tree and be right in, too.”

Brynn rushed up the stairs to join her grandfather. The storm door slapped against the jamb as she made her way inside.

Dillon craned his head for a better look at the sky. The storm had come out of nowhere and without warning. If the pace held, it was on course for a full-blown blizzard. Quite an anomaly; Clover Cove hadn’t seen such weather in decades.

Dillon circled back to the truck. He loosened the rope holding the tree and hoisted it onto his shoulder before heading toward the house again. He scaled the stairs two at a time, thankful they’d left Brynn’s truck at the nursery. The drive to her grandparents’ house had taken a good deal longer than usual, despite the four-wheel drive. Brynn’s Chevy would have struggled to traverse even the main roads.

Brynn waited at the door to let Dillon in and warmth enveloped him as he stepped into the modest living room. A fire crackled in the hearth and the musky scent of burning embers mingled with tree sap. Cinnamon wafted from the kitchen, a remnant of the baking adventure Brynn had mentioned. Dillon’s mouth watered at the thought of the soft, moist cookies she’d promised.

“Over here.” Mr. Jansen motioned to the tree stand tucked along an expanse of bay windows near the front of the house. He’d already draped the area around it with an embroidered silver and gold tree skirt. “I’ve got everything ready, son.”

“It looks good.” Dillon wedged the tree into the stand with ease, having years of practice. As Brynn held the trunk steady, he dropped to his knees and tightened bolts along the base to keep the boughs securely in place. The tree’s crown came to within inches of the ceiling—the perfect height for adding an angel or star. “I’m glad we made it before the roads got too bad.”

“Who would have thought? None of those weather-folk predicted this.” Mr. Jansen scratched his bald head. “I’m thankful you looked after Brynn.”

“Of course.” Dillon vowed to look after her more, God willing. “The tree’s just the right height. Brynn debated over several before she settled on this particular one.”

“It’s mighty fine.”

“It sure enough is.” Dillon pulled a small pair of collapsible scissors from his jeans pocket and made a few strategic cuts along the netting until it fell away. “Presto.”

“Oh, my.” Brynn’s shoulder brushed his as she reached across to fluff branches that had bunched together in transit. “Thank you Dillon. It’s gorgeous.”

“A mighty blessing.” Mr. Jansen stepped over to shake Dillon’s hand. His face was drawn, his brow furrowed as he stuck an unlit pipe between his lips. Dillon knew that, although Mr. Jansen had kicked the smoking habit years ago, he still enjoyed the scent of tobacco. “And an even greater blessing, son, that you returned Brynn home safely. I was a fool to send her out in such a storm.”

“It wasn’t snowing when I left, Gramps.” Brynn leaned in to kiss his cheek. “No one knew this was coming. Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’m sure it’s caught a lot of people off guard.”

“The white stuff sure is purty, though.”

“Yes, it is.” Brynn gathered the netting from the floor and bunched it together. “I’ll take this to the trash and get some water for the stand. That tree will need a drink.”

When she left, Dillon turned to Mr. Jansen. Together, they peered through the expanse of living room windows, the view only partially obscured by the tree. “Brynn’s truck’s at the nursery. I’ll return it as soon as the roads clear.”

“Figured as much. No hurry at all. I’m mighty thankful you thought to drive Brynn home. After what happened to her grandmother, I suppose I worry a bit more than I ought to.”

“That’s understandable. Brynn says Mrs. Jansen’s going to be fine?”

“That’s what the doc says. Sometimes being hardheaded and stubborn is an asset, and my better half carries those traits in spades.”

As if to prove his point, a methodical thump along the wood floor in the hallway caught their attention. Dillon turned to find Mrs. Jansen approaching the doorway. A shock of white hair crowned her head and she leaned on a cane for support. But the sharp twinkle he remembered was still evident in her deep blue eyes.

“What a nice surprise.” Her voice crackled with age. “Why, Dillon Cutler…you finally found your way back to us.”

“Yes, ma’am. It took a while, with school and all. But I’m home to stay now.”

“That’s good.” Gran nodded. “Absolutely perfect.”

“Gran, let me help you.” Brynn loped back from the kitchen. She rushed over and handed a pitcher of water to Dillon before taking Mrs. Jansen by the arm. “You might have fallen. You should have called for help.”

“Nonsense, child. I have a sprained ankle and a splintered arm, not an amputation. I’m perfectly capable of fending for myself.” Making good on the claim, she hobbled toward the tree. “I see there’s been a bit of conspiring between the three of you. What a lovely testament to Christmas cheer. And the scent…” She inhaled deeply before draping her uninjured arm over Brynn’s shoulders. “Now, my dear, the Season of Giving can officially begin.”

 

****

 

“We almost forgot this.” Brynn reached into the pocket of Dillon’s jacket, now draped over a chair in front of the hearth so it might dry out, to retrieve the small wreath fashioned from mistletoe that Hattie Cutler had sent along. The wreath, garnished with a neat red bow, dangled from a short length of thread. “I’d better get the step stool.”

“No need for that.” Dillon took the wreath. “Where do you want it?”

“There in the doorway. Do you see the nail Gramps left last year?” Actually, it had been sunk along the top of the door jamb for as long as Brynn could remember. Brynn once asked Gramps how long he and Gran had been hanging the mistletoe in that very place and he’d answered, “Ever since our first Christmas together, ’round about forty-four years now, I’d gather. That doorway sure has seen its share of kissin’.”

That had been half-a-decade ago, and the tradition still rang strong and true.

“I sure do.” Dillon stepped up and in one swift motion had the wreath settled into place. “How’s that?”

“Perfect.”

Voices drifted from the hallway near the garage as Gramps hauled boxes of holiday decorations in from the storage shelves and Gran oversaw his work, adding a helpful comment from time to time. Their banter was so familiar it warmed Brynn’s heart.

Her gaze rose to meet Dillon’s as the mistletoe dangled overhead. “Why does your mom leave the berries on the wreaths if they’re poisonous?”

“They’re not meant to be eaten.”

“Then what’s their significance?”

“Tradition states that every time two people share a kiss here, they’re supposed to remove a berry. When all the berries are gone…no more kissing.” Dillon closed the distance between them. “Looks like we snagged one with a load of berries.”

Brynn felt the urge to laugh, but the flutter of her heart tamped the giggle as Dillon’s subtle scent—the outdoors mingled with fir and wood smoke—tickled her nose. “You still don’t remember what you said that night as you handed me the mistletoe, do you?”

“I remember you…your pretty brown eyes and hair like a veil of light.” His gaze softened to velvet as he eased a bit closer. “I was afraid you’d fall trying to pin the mistletoe in place because you were so…scrawny.”

“Scrawny?” Brynn’s laughter found its way up from her belly. “How flattering.”

“You’re not scrawny anymore.” Dillon smoothed a hand along her sleeve. “You’re…just right.”

“Well, if I remember correctly, you said, ‘Don’t hang it ’til we leave, ’cause there are still a lot of berries, and I’m sure not kissing any girls.’ I’m pretty sure that’s a direct quote.”

“Don’t hold it against me. I was only thirteen. I didn’t know any better. But I know better now.” He reached for her hand and Brynn felt calluses along his palms, borne of hard work at the nursery. His breath whispered over her cheek. “I sure won’t let the opportunity slip through my fingers again. How about you?”

“You’ve become much wiser through the years.” Brynn leaned into his embrace. “But do you make it a habit to kiss women beneath the mistletoe?”

“No, but I’d like to start a new tradition—with you.”

The room seemed to sigh as time paused for the slightest moment. Dillon’s touch was oh-so-gentle as he dipped his head to claim her lips. Brynn pressed a palm to the nape of his neck, savoring the moment. She’d waited a dozen years for this…had dreamed of it on stormy nights while she snuggled in bed, drifting off to sleep. And now, well, the moment was everything she’d imagined…and more.

Dillon broke contact.

“Does this mean we have to pluck a berry?” Brynn murmured.

“Make that two.” He drew her back in for a second kiss, a touch more demanding but still just as sweet. Brynn’s pulse quickened while the chill that had followed her home from the nursery fled. It was impossible to feel anything but a deep, fulfilling warmth while sheltered in Dillon’s arms.