Christmas In Snowflake Canyon (12 page)

She gazed at the boxes, her stomach rumbling a little at the realization that she hadn’t eaten since a late breakfast.

“How kind,” she exclaimed. Her insides completely dissolved into soft, gooey warmth—whatever hadn’t already melted from three hours with a wallpaper steamer. “You know, I would marry your father if he were a few years younger.”

His mouth quirked just a little. Not quite a smile, but close. “Apparently, he’s quite fond of you, too. Who knew? He might even marry you back, if he wasn’t already head over heels in love with Katherine Thorne.”

“Katherine? Really?” She thought of the elegantly proper city councilwoman who used to own Claire McKnight’s bead store.

Katherine’s granddaughter Taryn had been severely injured in a car accident a few years ago, a passenger in a truck driven by Genevieve’s brother, Charlie. Charlie had been drinking when he climbed behind the wheel, and the ripple effect of that one decision had affected countless lives.

Even before the accident, Genevieve had always had the vague feeling Katherine disliked her. Perhaps she was someone else who only saw her as a brainless, snobbish debutante.

“I hadn’t heard they were dating,” she said now to Dylan.

“Oh, they’re not. As friendly as he might be to customers at the café, Pop is actually on the shy side when it comes to women. He might get around to asking her out before they’re both in their seventies.”

She smiled. These little flashes of Dylan’s sense of humor always seemed to take her by surprise.

“If it doesn’t work out between them, I’ll be waiting to snatch him right up,” she said. “I’ll just take this in the kitchen for dinner later. Leave your coat on the chair there.”

He obeyed with a faintly amused look and followed her into the kitchen. As she placed the takeout containers in the refrigerator, he took a good look around at the harvest-gold, severely outdated appliances, the cheap dark cabinets, the orange-patterned carpeting— ew!—on the floor.

“Didn’t I warn you it was hideous?”
“It’s not so bad.”
She stared at him. “To somebody used to living out of a tent in the desert, maybe.”
He again had that faint smile, that tiny easing of his harsh features. She found it amazing how that slight shift in his expression could make him so much more approachable.

“It has four walls and a window, anyway,” he answered. “And electricity.”

“Don’t forget running water. I guess you’re right. Why would I need to change a thing?”

This time his smile was almost full-fledged. That smile was a dangerous thing, only because it made her want to wring it out of him, again and again.

“If I had my way, I would like to gut the whole thing and start over. Travertine countertops, stainless-steel appliances, custom cherry cabinetry. Unfortunately, my budget for this entire house project is minuscule to nonexistent. I can afford new paint for some of the rooms but that’s about it.”

“Don’t you have some designer purses or last season’s clothes you could sell online?”

As she hadn’t expected to be forced to live here for weeks on end, she had left most of her things at her apartment in Paris. She supposed she could have a friend ship them over or liquidate there but she would need them when she was ready to return to her life in Le Marais.

Of course, she did have her little side business nobody knew about, the purses she had started sewing for fun.

She had started making them as a bit of a joke. Her friends in Paris had loved them and on a whim one night she had had a few extras delivered to Maura McKnight’s bookstore, just to see if she could sell them.

To her shock, the first order of a half dozen had sold within a week and Maura had written a letter to her mystery supplier, seeking more.

Gen had sent her ten more and they had also sold out. She had decided she should stop there, though Maura had sent multiple letters to the PO Box she had forwarded to her in Paris, requesting more.

She would have to sew all day and all night for weeks and sell everything she made in order to earn enough profit to even afford a square yard of travertine countertop.

“I’m going to have to be content with doing what I can to freshen the place up on a shoestring. I really don’t know why I’m bothering. Whoever buys it will probably tear the whole place down to build some mega vacation house anyway.”

She looked around at the kitchen, so familiar to her from her childhood, and a little sadness seeped through her. Despite the aesthetic affront, she had many pleasant memories of her grandmother here.

When she was young, she used to stay overnight with Pearl. Her grandmother would make her luscious hot chocolate with whole milk and chocolate chips— oh, the calories!—and they would watch game shows and try to beat each other to the answers.

Pearl had taught her how to sew at this very kitchen table, on her old Singer. She’d made aprons and hot pads and even a few wraparound skirts that had been quite cute.

She pushed away the memories that clung like cobwebs.

“Come on. I’ll show you where I need help.” She led the way to the dining room next door.

He looked around at the section she had worked on and the curls of wallpaper scrapings that littered the floor. “This looks fun.”

“I don’t know why Grandma Pearl was compelled to change her wallpaper every other week. And of course, she didn’t bother to take off what was underneath— she just slapped up another layer. I swear, every time she changed her hair color, she decided to change the walls, too.”

He chuckled a little, and the rough sound sizzled along her nerve endings.

“So where do you want the buffet?”

“I just need to push it a few feet from the wall into the middle of the room so I can work behind it. The two of us should be able to manage it, don’t you think?”

He looked a little doubtful and held up his empty sleeve. “Keep in mind, one of us has a little bit of a liability.”

She frowned. “Why do you always feel as if you have to point that out?”

“I don’t,” he said. A little defensively, she thought.

“You’ve mentioned it twice since you showed up on my doorstep five minutes ago. Do you think I’m going to forget? I know you lost an arm, Dylan. That doesn’t mean I think the rest of you is worthless.”

As soon as she said the words, she wished she hadn’t. His eyes widened and he looked as if she’d just smacked him in the back of the head with the wallpaper steamer. He must think she was an idiot. She really, really hoped he didn’t pick up the signs that she had developed a serious crush on him.

“If you take that side, I’ll try to move it from here.”

He complied. Even with one arm, he had far more strength than she did and was able to push his side several feet to her six inches—and then he moved over and pushed her side, as well.

“That should be far enough. If I have to shove that thing another inch, I’m afraid I’ll have a heart attack.”

“Or at least break a nail.”

She held up her hands. “I’ve got no nails to break right now, courtesy of all that Christmas decorating we did. I’m going to be in serious need of a manicure if this keeps up.”

“Yeah. Same here.”

“Thanks. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up. I probably would have left a buffetshaped square of wallpaper right there and painted around it. I can’t believe how heavy that thing is. It must be solid oak.”

“Or maybe your grandma Pearl hid gold bricks in the bottom.”

“Wouldn’t that be the answer to my prayers? Don’t think I haven’t gone through every drawer and cupboard in the house looking for old bond notes, hidden cash bundles, gold doubloons. Whatever. So far, no luck.”

“I guess that means you’re stuck in Hope’s Crossing for a while.”

She wasn’t quite ready to look at the reasons why she didn’t find that prospect as depressing now as she might have a week ago.

He looked around. “So what color are you painting the room?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” She was surprised he asked and had a feeling he was, too. “Hey, I can show you the paint cards and you can help me choose.”

“No, really. That’s okay—”

She ignored him and grabbed the samples she had picked up from the paint aisle of the hardware store. “I think I’m painting neutral tones through the rest of the house but I wanted something with a little more splash here. I’m thinking a neutral on three of the walls and then something rich on the big one where we moved the buffet.”

Though he looked as if he would rather be painting his own fingernails, he dutifully looked at the chips. After a long moment’s scrutiny, he pointed to one on the edge of the pile.

“I like this one. Cocoa Heaven. A nice warm brown.”

Remarkable! She grinned at him. “You have good taste, Dylan Caine. That’s exactly the one I was going to choose. Why did you pick that one?”

He shrugged. “It just reminded me of my dog. He’s got a spot on his back exactly that color.”

She laughed hard at that; she couldn’t help herself. He smiled, too, and the moment seemed to pull and stretch between them. Her heart seemed to give an almost-painful squeeze.

“I should probably go,” he said after a pause.

She looked away, flustered at these ridiculous feelings she couldn’t seem to control. “Oh. Right. And I’ve got hours of steaming off wallpaper ahead of me.”

He started for the door, stopped for a moment and then turned back around. “Do you need help? I can probably spare an hour or so for you. It might help the work go a little faster with two of us.”

She stared at him, shocked by the offer. He looked as if he wasn’t quite sure why he had made it—and perhaps was already regretting it—but she didn’t care. She was deeply grateful, both at the help and that he seemed to want to spend more time with her, or at least wasn’t in a big rush to hurry away.

“I could definitely use a hand.”

“Good thing I’ve only got one, then.” He winced. “Sorry. Habit.”

Grandma Pearl got a cat from the animal shelter once who hid under the bed and hissed and lashed out a paw, hackles raised, if anybody tried to get close. Her grandmother had explained the cat had been badly abused by a previous owner, and as a result, attacked instinctively before anybody could strike first. Gen wondered if Dylan pointed out his disability in the same sort of protective mechanism.

With love and care, Mr. Fuzzy had eventually learned to trust Grandma Pearl enough that he lost his bristly ways with her and even most of the time with Genevieve. She had to wonder whether Dylan might ever do the same.

“Do you mind if I bring in my dog?” he asked now. “He’s out in the truck, since I only thought I was running in for a second.”

She wasn’t a huge fan of dogs, but what could she say after he’d offered to help her? “Um, sure.”

“I’ll be back in a second.”

She watched him go, pretty certain he wouldn’t be lured to her side with a little catnip and a mouse toy.

“you’ll have to be on your best behavior, Tuck,” Dylan said to his dog as they walked toward Gen’s door. “No scratching at fleas, no jumping up on anybody, no leghumping. I have a feeling Genevieve hasn’t had a lot of experience with a couple of mongrels like us.”

Tucker gave him a doleful look out of those big droopy hound-dog eyes and then gave the musical
wooowooo
bark his breed was famous for, the song some compared to a choir of angels and others found the most annoying sound in the world.

It was all a matter of perspective.

If he had a single brain cell left in his head, he would just start the truck again, back out of her driveway and head up the canyon. He had no business manufacturing excuses to spend more time with Genevieve Beaumont.

He had no idea why he had. One minute, he had been ready to walk out the door, the next the offer to help had gushed out of him.

Gen made him do the craziest things. Again, no idea why. Bar fights, decorating Christmas trees, stripping wallpaper. What the hell was wrong with him?

He didn’t understand any of this—he only knew that she seemed to calm the crazy. He had the strangest feeling of peace when he was with her, as if all the chaos inside him, the anger and bitterness and regret, could finally be still.

She must have been waiting for him to come back. The door opened the moment he rapped on it.

Her eyes grew wary as she looked at the big dog, who reached past her hip. She reached a hand out to offer a tentative pat on Tuck’s head. Sensing a sucker, his dog turned those sad, please-love-me eyes in her direction and nudged at her hand as if he hadn’t just spent two hours at Pop’s getting attention from all the girls.

Gen scratched behind one floppy ear and Tuck’s eyes just about rolled back in his head.

“Wow. He’s…big. I’m used to smaller dogs. My mom has a bichon frise.”

He wasn’t quite sure what that was, though an image of a little white ball of fur stuck in his head. His dog was big and brawny, with broad shoulders and that morose face.

“Don’t worry. He’s a big softy. Aren’t you, Tucker?” At his name, the dog barked a little, nothing too prolonged, as it could be, but Genevieve still looked startled.

“What kind of dog is Tucker?”

“A black-and-tan coonhound. It’s quite an honorable breed. George Washington actually had many of them, including the most famous—Drunkard, Taster, Tipler and Tipsy.”

“A proud heritage indeed,” she said. “Do you, er, hunt raccoons?”

He barely managed to keep from snorting. What kind of good old boy did she think he was? On the other hand, he drove a dilapidated pickup truck and his coat had definitely seen better days.

“No. I actually got him when I was stationed in Georgia. Somebody dropped him and a couple others in his litter by the side of this little backwoods road. I just about hit him one night driving home from visiting a friend but managed to swerve just in time. Instead, I hit a mile marker post and scraped up the fender of a really nice Dodge Ram pickup truck, too. I found homes for the other puppies, but by then Tucker and I were pretty good friends.”

He gave the dog an affectionate scratch. Maybe he did have a bit of good old boy in him. His favorite moments were long, lazy summer evenings on the porch of his house watching the shadows stretch over the mountains and the world go dark while Tuck dozed at his feet.