It took thirteen pounds of flour, two quarts of buttermilk, two pounds of butter, four pounds of molasses, forty eggs, ten pounds of confectioners’ sugar, more than fifteen pounds of candy, and every second of my free time that week, but I managed to finish my gingerbread house before the children’s cookie-decorating party, with an hour to spare. It was an exact replica of the Sugar Maple, including the barn and grounds. I fashioned the iron benches out of black licorice and cats to sleep upon them from softened Tootsie Rolls. Trees of upside-down ice cream cones covered in sliced green gumdrops lined the property. I even made a little sugarhouse, complete with fruit-leather curtains and a stone chimney built from jelly beans. A marzipan Salty stood alert on the porch.
The couches were pushed off to the side of the sitting room, and long tables were set up, covered in small dishes of sprinkles and candy, plates of naked gingerbread people, and piping bags of royal icing. I kept fingering the bags, worried the icing would set up too quickly in the cool room. When I asked to turn the heat up, I got a pained look from Alfred, who was already sweating in his red velvet suit, a child on his lap tugging at his all-too-real beard. Children poured through the door in waves, stuffing fistfuls of candy into their mouths and screaming for their mothers to take them over to see Santa. I directed the exhausted-looking parents to Margaret, who was pouring wine, and joined the children at one of the tables, demonstrating how Red Vines make the best lips while Froot Loops create a convincing head of curly hair. When all the gingerbread people were modestly dressed and I was sticky from head to toe, I went over to join Margaret at the back of the room.
“This is a fun party,” I said, picking up a piece of Manchego and topping it with a slice of quince paste. Some of the children were putting on a play with their gingerbread people. Alfred still had a line of children waiting to see him. A group was gathered around Sarah, who sat on one of the couches reading Christmas stories.
“It is,” Margaret said. “It’s nice to have the house filled with young people.”
“Did you not want to have children?” I asked.
“I didn’t marry until I was forty.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, although I wasn’t sure if I was sorry that she hadn’t gotten to have children or that I had asked the question. Probably both.
“Wasn’t in God’s plan.” Margaret took a sip of tea. “How about you, Miss Rawlings? Do you want children, or is that giant mutt of yours enough responsibility?”
“I don’t know, honestly. I haven’t really given it much thought.”
“Well, you’d better. You’re no spring chicken. You kids think you have all the time in the world, but I’ll tell you, it goes by quickly.”
“There’s just the pesky issue of not having a husband.”
Margaret raised her eyebrows. “Doesn’t stop most people. What about Alfred?” She waved her hand toward Santa. A child was crawling up his lap and trying to pull off his hat.
“What about him?”
“He’s good with children, patient. He has steady employment. I’ve always found him to be a nice man. Good-natured.”
“Margaret.”
“They do say the sperm count is low among men who have worked a long time in kitchens.” She made a circular gesture below her waist. “The heat.”
“Margaret! Stop!” I said, laughing. “I don’t want to spend any time today thinking about Alfred’s scrotum. He is like an uncle to me.”
“He likes you.”
“And I like him. As a friend. A good friend.” I reached behind my back to untie my apron. “Sarah said she would finish the cleanup. Do you mind if I take off? I’m going to the movies with Martin and the McCrackens, and I want to wash this sticky layer off of me first.”
Margaret’s eyebrows knit together. “Martin called earlier. He said to tell you that they couldn’t make it.”
“When did he call?” The lack of cell phone service was beginning to be a problem.
“This afternoon.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I mashed my apron up into a tight ball.
Margaret put down her teacup. “Because I was busy, Miss Rawlings, and so were you.”
“Did he say why?” I asked, my voice steady.
“No.” Margaret hesitated. “But I spoke to Dotty earlier, and she said Henry was having a bad day. Dr. Doyle was going to drop by this evening.”
“Is he okay?”
“I didn’t press.” Margaret shook her head once. “You shouldn’t either.”
“It’s not pressing if they’re your friends.”
“The McCrackens,” Margaret said, her voice clipped, “have been my best friends for more than sixty years. I think I’ll be the judge of what is appropriate.”
“They’re my friends too. I’m not going to leave them alone because it would be more convenient for you if I were less involved in your life.” I tossed the apron onto the dirty cookie table. “And I’d appreciate it if you would give me my messages in a more timely fashion, since this town doesn’t have any cell service and you won’t let me get my own line in the sugarhouse.” And with that I pushed my way into the kitchen.
• • •
I thought a long walk with Salty would calm me down, but after he was walked, fed, and sleeping by the woodstove, I still found myself pacing around the cabin. After several failed attempts at reading and watching TV, I put my coat back on and grabbed my car keys. I drove slowly down the road, thinking I would just knock on their door, but the closer I got to the McCracken farm the more right Margaret’s words felt. When I reached the cell phone hot spot, I pulled over behind a pickup truck and saw that Martin had left a voice mail. He apologized for canceling at the last minute. I pulled back onto the road and kept driving, not knowing where I was headed until I saw the blue and yellow neon glow of the Black Bear Tavern’s sign through the trees.
The tavern was quiet. I plopped down on one of the free stools.
“Bourbon, straight up,” I said as I propped my elbows on the bar. The logger sitting next to me pushed a bowl of peanuts in my direction.
“Cheers,” I said, holding up my glass. We clinked drinks.
I felt a slap on my back. Tom was standing behind me, white shirt tucked in and string tie clasped at the neck. “Glad to see you here, Liv. Want to sit in?”
“The Beagles are playing tonight?”
“You didn’t know? I thought that was why you were here.” Tom sounded hurt, but his eyes were crinkled and sparkling.
“Just a quick drink.”
“Well, if you change your mind, we’d love to have you. No Martin tonight?”
“No, not tonight.”
I was sipping my second bourbon when a man leaned on the barstool next to me. “Didn’t think I’d see you in here,” he said. I turned to face the familiar flannelled bulk of Frank Fraser.
I held my hand up. “I get it. I’m not from here. I don’t belong here. Sorry to crash your bar, but it’s not like there are a lot of options.”
“What?”
“Not tonight, okay? I just want to have a drink in peace.”
“I just meant I didn’t think she would let you out of the kitchen this time of year. At least that’s how it was when Bonnie worked there. I hardly saw her all Christmas season. Sucked.” Frank held two fingers up to the bartender, who opened two Rolling Rocks and placed them on the bar.
“Just part of the glamorous world of baking.”
Tom stepped up to the microphone and tapped it with his index finger. “Evening, everyone. Since I know everybody in the room, I don’t think I need to mention that we’re the Beagles. Let’s do it, boys.” And with a tap of his foot and the strum of a banjo chord the band broke into “Hotel California,” singing in a high, lonesome harmony.
I groaned. Frank slid off the barstool, taking his beers with him.
Cold air hit the back of my neck when the bar door opened. I felt a hand on my shoulder. Martin slid onto the stool next to me and ordered a whiskey.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I replied, surprised but pleased.
We drank as we watched Frank and Bonnie press against each other on the dance floor. Frank’s hand slipped into the back pocket of Bonnie’s jeans. Her arms were wrapped around his neck and her eyes were closed.
Martin leaned over so his lips brushed my hair. “Do you want to get out of here?”
My heart sped up. “Sure.”
We drove down the highway in silence for half an hour, but I didn’t mind. The bourbon I had drunk at the bar had left my body feeling loose—the tension of my argument with Margaret and the long hours spent in the kitchen were finally lifting. I was blanketed by a feeling of calm that I hadn’t felt since the sleigh ride.
A bright yellow glow lit up the fog in the distance. “Almost there,” said Martin. He took the next exit, and we pulled into the familiar parking lot of the F&G truck stop.
“How did you know?” I asked. “This is my favorite place in the world.”
“You’ve been here?”
“It was on my dad’s truck route. He’d take me with him every so often.”
Martin smiled. “I used to come here all the time once I got my driver’s license. It’s the only place open past nine that isn’t a bar.”
We weaved our way through the tractor-trailers and into the brightly lit lobby. The revolving display was jam-packed with pies. The hostess sat us in a corner booth.
A waitress came over with a pot of coffee and filled our cups without asking. “Anything else?”
“Black bottom,” I replied.
“Pumpkin for me,” said Martin, handing her the menu. He leaned back in the booth. In the bright yellow light of the diner I could see that his eyes were bloodshot. He looked exhausted. “I’m sorry I had to cancel tonight.”
“When Margaret gave me the message, she mentioned that Henry wasn’t feeling well.” I paused. “Is he okay?”
Martin paused. “The doctor suggested it was time to bring in hospice.”
My heart clenched. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“More help, mostly. A visiting nurse.” Martin cleared his throat. “The focus will change to just keeping him comfortable.”
I reached over and took his free hand in mine.
The waitress wordlessly placed the slices on the table.
“I’m glad I found you.”
I wondered if he meant tonight, or in general. I unwrapped the paper loop that held my fork and knife together.
Martin scraped off the whipped cream with his fork. “My brothers were over with their wives and some of the nephews and the doctor. I needed a break.”
I tried to spoon a bite of custard that was only vanilla, saving the chocolate part for last. “Too many people?”
“My family can be a little overwhelming at times.” Martin ran his fingers through his hair, his gaze focused on something behind me. “I never thought I would feel that way about them.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I was a kid, I was really close to my brothers. Now they’re just pissed off that I’ve stayed away for so long.” Martin alternated the pink and blue artificial sweetener packets in their plastic holder. “I just wanted to know who I was when I wasn’t Mark and Ethan’s little brother, or my mom’s baby, or my dad’s prodigy. I thought I’d join a band, play music, tour some, get to see a little of the world, then come home.”
“Why have you stayed in Seattle so long, then?” I asked. No one had ever had expectations of me. I wondered whether it would feel like pressure or a comfort.
“You know how it is—one thing leads to another. Time passes and you have your bandmates and your job, your apartment with the great little coffee shop downstairs and the cool dive bar right around the corner. Good friends. Suddenly your life is someplace else. The funny thing is that when I’m there, I feel like a kid from Vermont, and when I’m here, I feel, or I felt . . .”
I licked the last bit of chocolate custard off my fork. “I’ve never had any of those things.”
“Really?”
“Well—favorite coffee shop, yes. But I’ve never stayed in one place long enough for the rest. And I work all the time. The kitchen has always been my world.”
Martin cleared his throat. “Don’t you think it’s time to settle down somewhere, young lady?” he said in his best Henry voice.
“Oh my God,” I laughed, “you sound just like him.” I peeled off the lids of three creamers and dumped them into my coffee cup. “I do, actually. Think about settling down,” I said. “But I’ll tell you what I told your dad—I think that decision is going to be Margaret Hurley’s.”
“What did you do now?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s somehow your fault,” I said, pointing my empty fork at him. “I don’t think she’s a fan of our friendship.”
Martin lined up the ketchup bottle with the salt and pepper shakers. “She means well.”
“So do I.” I brought my empty coffee cup to my lips and pretended to drink, just to give my face something to do. “What do you think?”
“About Margaret?” Martin asked.
“About our friendship.”
“You all set here? Do you need anything else?” asked the waitress with the world’s worst timing. If I hadn’t worked in food service, I would have stiffed her the tip.
“What kind of pie do your folks like?” I asked Martin. “We should bring them some.”
“Two pieces of orange chiffon, to go,” he said to the waitress. He stood, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. “I’ll go settle up.”
We listened to an old country music station all the way back to Guthrie. I dozed for a while, until I was startled awake by the sensation of the tires crunching on gravel. Martin pulled into the space next to mine in the Black Bear Tavern parking lot.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Nearly midnight.”
“I’ve been working at least twelve-hour days all week,” I said, stifling a yawn. “I never feel it until I slow down.”
“Thanks for staying out with me.”
“I’m glad you found me,” I said. I meant it in all the ways.
“My dad was asking for you.” Martin turned to face me and leaned his head back against the seat. “He wanted me to apologize for his missing the movie.” Martin closed his eyes for a long moment. “And . . . he asked me to make sure you would come see him this week. With the dulcimer.”
I brushed at my eyes with the back of my sleeve. “Of course. I’ll come by as soon as I can get away. Should I call first?”
“Just come by anytime. Mom would love the company if Dad’s resting.”
“When will you be there?” I asked, tugging at the drawstring at the bottom of my fleece jacket.
“If I’m not there, I’m selling trees. You could come by and see the lights.”
“I will.”
Martin caught my left hand in his before I made my escape. “Olivia . . .”
I turned back to face him, holding my breath.
“You asked me what I thought about our friendship.”
I nodded, wide-eyed.
“It makes me feel like I’m home.”
It was as if he had answered a question I hadn’t known I was asking. Speechless, I slipped out of the truck, closing the door quietly behind me.
• • •
The crush of holiday parties at the Sugar Maple kept me tied to my workbench from dawn until late into the evenings. I practiced deep breathing each morning while making my daily prep list, each day seeming more impossible than the last. We were just as busy as I had been at the Emerson, but at least there I’d had a staff. My arms ached from whisking giant vats of egg yolks for the chestnut buttercream to fill my bûche de Noël, and I had a permanent indentation of a gingerbread man pressed into my left palm from cutting out cookies. Alfred managed to keep his good humor despite his moonlighting as Santa on the weekends, and his relentless teasing made even the most stressful moments feel like we were the hosts of a never-ending party.
One afternoon in the middle of December, Margaret found me lying on my back on the storeroom floor with frozen bags of peas pressed to my forearms.
“What on earth are you doing, Miss Rawlings?”
“Just resting,” I answered, twisting my hips from side to side.
“Well, why don’t you do that in the cabin, in private?”
“I’m helping with the hors d’oeuvres party.” Things between Margaret and me had remained chilly since the cookie-decorating party.
“Sarah can help Alfred tray everything up. Take the night off. I need you fresh for the hospital-board dinner at the end of the week.”
I pressed myself up. Standing, I eyed her carefully. “Are you going to use this against me at a later date?”
“Stay if you don’t need the break,” she said.
“I’m out of here,” I called as I struggled to untie my apron strings while walking back to the kitchen.
“Don’t forget about the brunch tomorrow morning. And what about these peas?”
I kept walking before she changed her mind.
• • •
By four o’clock I was standing on the McCrackens’ front porch, my hair freshly dyed Manic Panic Atomic Turquoise, holding a bowl of homemade caramel corn in one hand and the dulcimer in the other. Dotty answered the door.
“You shouldn’t be out in this cold with wet hair,” she scolded, ushering me into the foyer and closing the door. “Henry is reading in the sitting room. Go on in.”
I knocked lightly on the door before entering, dulcimer first. Henry was dozing, his head back, lips slightly parted. I was grateful he was asleep so I had a moment to compose myself. Henry had looked thin at Thanksgiving. Today he looked almost skeletal, his translucent skin pulled tight across the points of his cheekbones. I blinked back tears and cleared my throat.
“Hey, Henry,” I said softly as I clicked open the latches of the dulcimer case.
Henry’s head snapped forward. He wiped at the corner of his mouth with a white handkerchief. “I was wondering when you were going to get around to seeing me.”
I laughed and bent down to kiss his cheek. “I was wondering that myself. I didn’t think Margaret was ever going to let me out of the kitchen.”
“She’s a slave driver, that one. Always was. Drove her husband crazy with an endless to-do list.” Henry patted the spot next to him on the couch. I sat down. “Now tell me, have you had any time to practice?”
“None at all.”
“Well, let’s hear, anyway.” Henry settled back into the cushions and closed his eyes.
I brushed the pick across the strings mindlessly a few times before I settled on a tune. I played it three times. When I stopped, he opened his eyes and smiled.
“‘Blackberry Buckle’?”
I nodded.
“I haven’t heard that one in a long while. We should make a playlist just of songs about sweets.”
“Speaking of which”—I grabbed my messenger bag from the floor—“I made you some caramel corn, and I brought over these.” From my bag I pulled out two DVDs: Swing Time and Shall We Dance. “I thought we could watch them here since we couldn’t make it the other night.”
Henry nodded once, smiling. “We can watch one after supper. You’re staying. Now play me something else.”
I placed the dulcimer back on my lap, picked up the noter, and began the first phrase of “Kitchen Girl.”
Henry took hold of the end of the dulcimer and slid it onto his lap. “You can do a nice slide there in the second part. Blend the notes together.” He demonstrated. “Now you try it.”
I played the tune from the beginning, adding the slide technique where it worked. I sneaked a look out of the corner of my eye. Henry looked tired, his eyes dark and hollow. He caught me looking and smiled.
“This is a good tune to play with the fiddle. If I weren’t so blasted tired, I’d join you. You’ll have to teach it to Marty. I’m not sure if he knows this one.” Henry placed his hand on my forearm. I stopped playing. “Keep going,” he said. I strummed the strings with the pick.
“You, know, Olivia,” Henry said softly, “Martin is a good man.”
“I know,” I said, blushing. “Just like his father.”
“Humph. Too much like his father, if you ask me. Now stop your sweet talk and listen.” Henry’s grip tightened. “Marty is a good man, but like me he’s stubborn, and slow to make changes. You’ll have to be patient with him.”
I looked over at Henry, willing him to say more, but I focused on my fingers working the strings.
“Patient how?” I asked as I practiced his slide technique.
“Like this.” Henry covered my hand with his again and slid over the frets, again and again until I got the feel of it. Despite Henry’s frail appearance, his grip was strong. “Mark and Ethan too. I’ve been lucky.”
I slid the dowel across the frets. Henry bowed his head in approval.
“You don’t have children of your own yet. But when you do, you’ll see that all you want is for them to be happy.”
I nodded, feeling confused.
“We do our best as parents while we can. But after we’re gone, we expect that our children will go on. That they’ll keep becoming who we raised them to be.”
Henry paused and squeezed my arm. I stared hard at the dulcimer strings, fighting the pressure that was building in my chest.
“I have regrets. I imagine all fathers do. I wish I could live to see Marty settled with a family of his own. But I’m proud of that boy. I raised a good man. I just want you to know you can count on him.”
I turned to face him. Henry looked straight at me, his blue eyes bright against his pale skin. “You’ll remember that, right?”
“Sure,” I said, putting the dulcimer on the table and tucking the pick into the strings. “He can count on me too,” I said quietly.
“I know he can.” Henry tucked the dulcimer into its case. “Now, I want you to take good care of this old girl.”
“Henry, I couldn’t.” My heart raced. This sounded too much like good-bye.
“An instrument needs to be played.” He snapped the metal clasps shut.
“But you made it for Dotty. You should keep it in the family,” I said.
Henry took my hands in his and leaned toward me. “That’s what I’m doing.”
The door to the sitting room opened and Martin appeared in the doorway, his cheeks red from an afternoon outside. “Hey, Dad.” Martin’s smile widened when he saw me. “Hey,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Dad, Mom said dinner is ready. Do you want to eat in here?”
Henry pressed into the couch and held himself straight. “No, son. Livvy brought some movies to watch. Why don’t we get settled into the living room?”
“I’m just going to run up and change,” Martin said as he backed out of the room.
I stood up, brushing my wool skirt down. “I’ll go see if Dotty needs any help.”
In the living room Henry settled into an old recliner. Martin looked fresh in a white Irish fisherman’s sweater and a pair of jeans. Taking center stage by the bay windows was the most magnificent Christmas tree I had ever seen. Twelve feet tall, the white pine was covered trunk to tip with tiny colored lights, tinsel, garland, and hundreds of ornaments, many of them homemade, which looked to be from at least ten different decades. I stood in front of the tree in awe, wanting to know the story behind every treasure.
“It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” Henry said.
“It’s dazzling.”
“We look forward to it every year.”
“I can see why. It’s like a museum.”
Henry smiled. “More like a scrapbook. There are hundreds of memories on those branches.”
I sat down next to Martin on the couch. Dotty came in with a basketful of bread and sat on the other side of me. When we were finished eating, I cleared the bowls while Martin set up the movie and Dotty brought out the caramel corn. By the time the RKO signal stopped beeping, Henry was asleep, his breath ragged.
“Should we turn it off?” I asked Dotty.
“No, dear, he’ll sleep through it. It’s good for him to rest.”
Dotty tucked a yellow wool blanket over my lap as Fred Astaire borrowed a dog to have an excuse to walk near Ginger Rogers. I curled up under the blanket and let myself drift.
When I woke up, the room was dim, lit only by the lights of the Christmas tree. Henry and Dotty were gone. And I was lying with my cheek nestled on the chest of Martin McCracken, my arm across his stomach. Martin’s arm was around my waist. He was leaning against the edge of the couch, deeply asleep. My cheek felt scratchy against his wool sweater and I realized that I had drooled on him. Horrified, I slid carefully from under Martin’s arm and repositioned the blanket to cover him. I tiptoed into the hallway to find my coat and boots. When I was bundled up, I crept back in to peek at Martin one more time.
He looked boyish. His hair was mussed, and his lips were parted slightly. I could picture waking up to this face every day. I leaned over, pressed my lips lightly to his temple, and quietly left the room.
• • •
The week before Christmas, when the last dollop of hard sauce had been placed on the final dish of figgy pudding, Alfred let out a loud whoop and wrapped his arms around me, spinning me around the kitchen.
“Put me down,” I laughed, batting at his biceps.
Sarah walked into the kitchen with a tray of four champagne glasses, followed by Margaret carrying a bottle of chilled prosecco. Alfred grabbed the bottle and twisted off the cork with a satisfying pop. He poured the wine carelessly into the glasses, letting it bubble over the rims.
“I wanted to say thank you,” Margaret said. “You all did an excellent job. We had our best holiday season on record.”
“Hear, hear,” said Alfred.
“The guests were all so happy,” said Sarah. “Especially with the desserts, Livvy.”
I raised my glass to the group. “This has been the happiest Christmas season I can remember,” I gushed. “Thanks for letting me be a part of it.” I took a long sip from my glass, too shy to look at their faces.
“Well,” Margaret said, setting her glass down. She reached into the inside pocket of her blazer and retrieved three white envelopes. “I hope this will help with your Christmas shopping, now that you have time to do some.” She handed us each an envelope.
I hadn’t expected a bonus from such a small business. I reached over and wrapped my arms around Margaret. For the first Christmas in years, I had many presents I actually wanted to buy. “Thanks so much,” I said, rocking her back in forth in a tight embrace. Alfred and Sarah looked on, shocked and amused.
Margaret patted at my arms. “That’s enough of that, now.”
“What do you all do for Christmas, anyway?” I asked. After serving Christmas lunch at the Emerson, I had always spent the day at the movies in Chinatown. You’d be surprised how packed theaters get on Christmas Day.
“My family is just across the border in Littleton,” said Sarah.
Alfred scratched his beard. “I’m off to go skiing with a bunch of buddies. You headed down to Boston, Liv?”
“God, no. I hadn’t actually thought of it. I’ll probably end up—”
“You’re expected at the McCrackens’,” Margaret interrupted. She leaned toward me. “I saw Dotty embroider your name on a stocking.” My heart swelled.
“Well, I’m off to bed,” Margaret said firmly. “I’m not planning to be in until after breakfast. Enjoy your evening.” Margaret patted Alfred on the shoulder as she walked out of the kitchen.
Alfred pulled another bottle of prosecco out of his reach-in refrigerator. “Another drink?”
I took off my chef’s coat and pulled on the old purple cashmere sweater I kept under my station. “Not me. I’m dying to curl up under the covers and drift off not making a prep list in my head.”
Sarah laughed. “I had nightmares about missing tablecloths all month. I’ll stay for one more.”
Alfred got to work on the cork. I kissed them each on the cheek and said good night.
• • •
It had snowed every third night since Martin had taken me on the sleigh ride. The woods between the inn and the sugarhouse were knee deep in snow, but the sleigh had packed down a path to travel on. I loved to walk the path in the mornings with Salty, who bounded through the fresh snow face-first, leaping like a deer through the high banks.
The moon was hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds, and as I approached the cabin, a layer of tiny flakes covered my shoulders. The snowdrifts that hugged my cabin were bathed in an unusually rosy glow. Salty came to meet me as I opened the door, wagging his tail in greeting. The cabin was warm, a fire in the woodstove blazing. “Oh my God,” I gasped. Standing tall and full in the corner of the cabin was a giant tree, its outstretched branches draped with chunky colored lights, each bulb as big as an egg and glimmering softly. The tree shook from side to side as Martin emerged from underneath and brushed his hair out of his eyes.
“The season’s winding down, and we had a good number of trees left. It seemed a shame that you didn’t have one,” he explained, looking at his boots. He glanced over at my bed. “You can see it from anywhere in the cabin,” he offered.
“You can,” I said, looking around the tiny space, “even the bathtub.”
“I didn’t know what to do for ornaments.” He shrugged, looking lost. “Do you like it?”
“It’s perfect. I love it,” I said, and without thinking I kissed him.
It was a light kiss. Just a soft brush of my lips against his.
My first thought was His lips are chapped.
Then I looked up at his face. He looked wide-eyed and nervous, like an owl.
His back went rigid. My heart sank. My hands slid down his arms and back to my sides.
“Olivia,” he breathed quietly, “We should . . .”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, feeling lost. “I shouldn’t have.”
Martin took a step forward, closing the gap between us. I raised my gaze, daring to look into his eyes. They still held a nervous spark, but his expression had softened. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead into mine. I closed my eyes and breathed him in. He smelled green and new, like the tender grass that sprouts on a muddy riverbank in earliest spring. His hands traveled to my shoulders, and I felt his lips press against my temple. His rough cheek glided against my own, and his lips brushed the tender spot in front of my ear, his nose grazing the delicate outer shell. Then his mouth found mine. A tiny sigh escaped from the back of my throat as his lips moved against mine. He moved slowly, each kiss deliberate. I wrapped my arms around his waist. I could feel the muscles in his back work as he wove his fingers into my hair. One hand moved down to my shoulder blade as his tongue parted my lips. He tasted like cinnamon Tic Tacs and tobacco. I rose up onto my tiptoes, wanting him closer. Martin made a sound like a harmonium and moved his hand down to my lower back, pressing us together.
Someone knocked on the cabin door. Martin drew back and nestled his face into the crook of my neck. I could feel heat radiating from his cheek. I pressed my face to his chest, listening to his heart pound a steady, quick beat.
“One minute,” I called.
I felt the cold air on my neck before I heard the door knock against a bookcase. Martin took a quick step away from me, as if we were teenagers caught necking on the couch. Margaret stood in the doorway and looked from me to Martin.
“It’s your father.”
Martin’s face lost all color. He walked past me and began tossing pillows off my couch, looking for his jacket.
“What happened?” he asked, his voice panicked.
“They took him to the hospital. Your mother is with him.” Margaret picked Martin’s gloves up off the kitchen table. “I have the car running at the bottom of the hill. I’ll drive.”
I stood in the corner by the Christmas tree, frozen.
“Get your coat, Olivia,” Margaret said quietly as Martin pushed past her. “Now.”