Cedar Creek Seasons (33 page)

Autumn in Cedarburg. Half her childhood and now half a decade post-college, and she’d still never tire of its exceptional grace. So soon the transition would bring a dusting of snow, brittle ice edging the creek, bare branches, and the reminder of a long winter and the reason God invented wool.

She tipped her watering can over the Yarn Shop’s window boxes of tenacious, frost-resistant marigolds, blue fire petunias, and nearly iridescent fuchsia geraniums. The vinca vines had barely peeked over the edge of the bright lavender boxes when planted in mid-May. Now they brushed the sidewalk—a decadent display.

Picture perfect.

She should get her

—

Click
.

—camera.

“That’s magazine-cover worthy.” Derrick seemed to admire the scene his camera’s viewfinder offered him.

Beth fingered a velvety geranium petal. “They are, aren’t they?”

“Oh. The flowers. Right. Yes. Done for the day?” he asked.

“This time of year, midweek, I’d rather close the shop a little early so I can catch up on projects before the next major event and pre-Christmas sales.”

“Or …”

“Or what?”

Derrick gestured “out there somewhere” with his camera. “I haven’t taken time to explore much of Cedarburg.”

“You’ll enjoy it. Have you been to the gristmill?”

“No.”

“You can see it from here.”

“Haven’t been yet.”

“You should stay at the mill until the lights come on. Impressive. The reflection of lights on the surface of Cedar Creek is inspiring.”

Derrick’s eyes looked as if they were already taking in the scene.

“I think the patio area is still open at the Anvil. They’ll turn on the outdoor heaters for these cooler evenings. You might want to have an early dinner out there. With the woolen mill in the background and that elegant sweep of the creek right at your elbow and the food—can’t go wrong.”

“You’ll show me?”

Beth set her watering can on the sidewalk near the shop’s door. She pointed east from where they stood. “Gristmill.” She pointed a couple of blocks north. “Cedar Creek Settlement Shops and the Anvil Pub and Grill. You can’t get lost. Can’t miss the creek. It runs clear through town. Not always in a straight line. It wanders.”

“Beth.”

“What?”

“Will you go with me?”

“As in …?”

“With. Me. Walking the town. Looking at the lights. Or the moon. Or both. Sharing dinner on a bistro patio beside the creek. Thinking about all the people—ancient and new—who make Cedarburg so unique.” His eyes stopped wandering the surroundings and landed on her. “Watching the leaves turn.”

Did he mean it as it sounded? Date-like?

A safer idea surfaced. “I know a couple of volunteers from the General Store Museum who give fascinating walking tours of the town. Both are Oompa’s friends. They know all the little tidbits of trivia that make a tour interesting. Let me give one of them a call.” She grabbed the door handle and thumbed the latch.

“No, thank you.”

“You’ll enjoy either one of them. Eli’s so knowledgeable. He recently got engaged, so you may hear the story of his romance, too. And Charlie—”

Derrick palmed the door and kept it shut. “I’m sure they’re great guys.” He dipped his head toward hers. “But they’re not you.”

Dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb. Unsmooth. As cheesy as the fabulous Brie crepe he’d had at that crepe restaurant in the Settlement Shops two days after he arrived. What a great collection of old buildings—so rich with history, he could almost feel the fingerprints of Cedarburg’s forefathers and fore-mothers in the handrails, sense their pleasure in how the old woolen mill buildings now housed such a variety of interests—vintage shops, artists, the candy shop, the high-end clothing shops for tourists and residents not satisfied with ordinary.

And how convenient of him to let his mind get distracted by a fancy cheese crepe so he didn’t have to think about how his less-than-clever closing line drew a curtain over Beth’s facial expression.

The delicate skin around her left eye twitched. She opened her mouth as if to speak then closed it. Opened it again. Took a deep breath then exhaled loud enough to pop the windscreen off a microphone. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll take you around to a few places. But I’m taking my knitting, too.” She entered the shop, grabbed the ever-present tapestry tote from behind the counter, and took one more glance at where Oompa sat with Sam Ulrich. “Every minute I’m not watching out for Oompa or customers or trying to balance the books and dodge plaster crumbs, I have to work on moebiuses, moebii, moebe—infinity scarves.”

“You are obsessed, aren’t you. I’ve heard that about knitters.”

“Excuse me?”

Derrick flinched. “Devoted. That’s a better word. One would think I’d be more agile with words.”

Beth scrunched her face, as if deciding whether to erupt or let it go. Her facial features calmed. Bless her.

“I’m not a knitter.” She pulled the door inward and walked into the shiny brass afternoon.

Derrick’s footsteps sounded inches behind her, rather than the few feet that would give him enough lead time in case she stopped suddenly. Beth walked at a good clip until she heard him say—loudly enough for all five blocks of Cedarburg’s historic downtown district to hear—“Not a knitter?”

She turned to face him, hoping the angle of her head communicated, “Do you mind if I … Would you hold it down back there?” A quick glance at passersby showed no one seemed interested in his reaction.

A quartet of retired schoolteachers. She could always tell—they wore little red schoolhouse, ruler, and alphabet sweaters and seemed deliriously happy it was a school day and they were shopping—turned sideways to pass Beth and Derrick. From the other direction, two young moms pushed jogging strollers with cherub children whose outfits probably cost more than Beth’s entire wardrobe. Eli and his Claire waved from across the street but made no indication they’d heard Derrick’s comment. Beth watched Eli bend to catch something Claire said then break into an expression that looked like a face rumba.

Something tugged at her. Derrick. He held an edge of the robin’s egg moebius wrapped around her neck. “You made this, didn’t you?”

The way his fingers respected the wool rather than mangled it impressed her, as if he were protective of it. Or protective of her.

“You know I did.”

“And you’re not a knitter.”

“It’s not that I
can’t
knit.”

“Obviously.”

“I thought you wanted a tour of the town. The light is perfect. The weather’s ideal. There’s a lot to see. Let’s start at the Settlement Shops in the old woolen mill on the north end of the shopping district. History and charm combined. I’m sure Oompa’s told you some of the stories.”

Derrick fell into step beside her. His lack of response either meant he was deep in thought or thought little of her lack of response. She’d talk architecture and buildings made of Milwaukee Cream City bricks or limestone slabs and the plethora of historic landmarks and Cedarburg’s reputation as a haven for artists and the culturally inclined. Any subject was safer than the inner workings of Beth Schurmer and her too loosely knit life.

“Notice the displays of pumpkins? All from area farms. In the winter, you’ll see creative ice sculptures in their place. In summer, profusions of flowers. This downtown district likes to dress up.”

Derrick pulled a small leather journal from the pocket of his Columbia vest. His pen scritched as they walked.

A young couple clogged a narrow part of the sidewalk ahead. The pair—Seth and the choir director—refused to stop holding hands. They were, after all, a couple. So Derrick and Beth stepped onto the grass to let them pass.

Beth felt her cheeks warming. The sun showed it still possessed oomph this late in the year. The air hinted at icicles gearing up for their turn, but autumn in Wisconsin showed every petticoat of interest and would once again refuse to stop twirling until the chairs were turned upside down on the tabletops of the season.

Beth slowed her pace. She hadn’t soaked in the charm for a long time. She’d only taken quick showers rather than a long, soaking bath in which she could feel every bubble of Cedarburg’s effervescence.

Whap! Python thick, a low-hanging branch whacked Derrick across the forehead. He ducked, too late, while the branch rebounded into place.

“Derrick, are you okay?”

He touched the welt tenderly. “Ouch.”

“Oh ye of quick reaction time.”

“I can see you’re broken up over my pain.”

“No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Since I’m decidedly shorter than a refrigerator, I can’t imagine living in danger of getting clotheslined by a tree.”
Stifle the smile, Beth. Totally inappropriate
.

“And I can’t imagine going through life unaware of the dust on top of the refrigerator. You should see me in a ceiling fan store. Saves on trips to the barber shop, I must say.”

Derrick’s forehead welt formed a capital L. How unfortunate. His comfort with his discomfort was something to admire. If Derrick offered tutoring, she’d probably be smart to sign up.

“Could we eat on the patio?” Derrick’s eagerness seemed all the more boyish with that red L on his forehead.

“I believe I suggested it. Right along the creek. One of the best views in town.”

A young woman with perfect, satiny chestnut hair, perfect bisque skin, and perfect cocoa bean eyes handed them each a menu as they settled themselves into the wrought iron chairs at the table for two, creekside.

“Nice,” Derrick said as the woman left the table.

Beth looked up from the paragraph about her favorite Greek salad, ready to toss pepper in his eyes, when he added, “The way the sun filters through the trees here. It adds even more colors to your hair.”

My hair? Did you miss the future Alice in Dairyland or Miss Universe or at the very least the cover girl for the next Cedarburg Chamber of Commerce publication?
“Some people think it’s a little ‘out there.’”

“It’s perfect for you.”

What word did he use? Perfect? The man’s delusional. Must have been the bump on the head
. “Thanks.”

“You look like my dog.”

Derrick Hofferman. Even God won’t give you grace to cover that one
.

“I mean, my dog is … she’s a mutt, yes, but …”

“A mutt?”

Derrick paused long enough to gulp the hot cider just delivered.

Beth watched his eyes widen. Surprise, surprise. The cider was hot. Tongue-scalding hot. Word-warping hot.

His mug landed on the tabletop with a clunk. “Thee’s justh the mosth adorable little puppy you’ve ever theen.”

Beth pushed her untouched glass of ice water toward him.

“Thanksth.”

She vowed not to mock an injured man, no matter how comical.

“I have a picthure of her.” He dug in his pants pocket and produced his cell phone. “You’ll thee. Thee lookth juth like you. I mean …”

Beth snatched the phone from His Bumblingness. There on the screen was the canine version of her.