Keep On Loving you (11 page)

“I remember getting the deep freeze,” Zan continued now, “for at least two days when I hid Curly.”

“I was
twelve
, Zan.”

Faintly smiling, he shrugged. “It was a teddy bear, Mac.”

She ignored his crack about the favorite stuffed animal of her childhood. “Aren't you going to invite me in? We have a job to negotiate.”

His expression turned serious. “You don't have to do anything for me to ensure I keep that promise I made you.”

Instead of waiting to be asked in, she pushed past him. “I'm not ‘doing anything' for you. I'm going to help you clear out this place and in return you're going to pay me a fair wage. Feel free to throw in a big tip.”

“Mac—”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I know you'll keep your promise.” Though she might not know what the Walkers would ultimately do about this new turn of events—was there anything
to
do?—she was certain Zan wouldn't break his word.

“Thanks.”

He followed her into the kitchen, where he poured her some coffee, and she laid out the hours she had to offer and they negotiated her rate. She allowed him to be generous without being ridiculous. They exchanged a heated word or two about that. “You're a prideful woman,” he finally concluded.

She thanked him for the compliment and he only shook his head.

“Are we ready to go upstairs and do a thorough survey?” she asked, getting to her feet.

He was staring at her. “What?” she said, alarmed. Looking down, she brushed at her jeans. They were her good black pair, which she'd worn with dressy-ish half boots and a V-necked lightweight knit top with an asymmetrical hem that swung about her hips. Okay, so she'd not gone the driving-to-the-dump route this time, but she also hadn't intended to do anything grimy today, so—

So she'd wanted to look nice for her ex. It wasn't a crime.

“That sweater...it makes your eyes look like blue ice.”

Her whole body warmed.

“Thanks,” she said, working to sound offhand. “I stole it from Poppy.” For just the exact reason he'd said, and—though she'd never admit it out loud—she'd worn it today in hopes that he'd notice. Then she cleared her throat. “Ready for that survey?”

“Almost,” he said, then hesitated. “Do we need to talk about what happened on the bed?”

This time her body flashed hot. “I think we shouldn't.” There was nothing to say. It had been a short loss of control. A brief aberration.

“Mac—”

“Actually, I
insist
we shouldn't,” she said, then started striding out of the room. When the faint
bock, bock, bock
of a chicken cluck sounded behind her, she pretended she was hearing things and stomped up the staircase. “Let's work from the top down.”

The third floor had the most number of empty rooms, but what was in them primarily appeared not worth saving or selling. “I'll come with boxes next time and we can dump this stuff in, cart it downstairs. The old pots and pans, those mismatched sets of dishes and the lamps we found we can deliver to the charity thrift store.”

On the second floor, they both contemplated the room with the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Mac pulled out a heavy, embossed volume. “I'm not sure anyone will want the
Encyclopedia Britannica
set published in—” she checked “—1955.”

Zan was perusing the tomes on the other side of the room. “Here's a paperback version of
The Lord of the Rings
trilogy that I think I borrowed from Brett, like, fifteen years ago.” When he pulled a book out, the pages separated from the cover and fell to the Oriental carpet. “Oops. I won't be able to return it in this condition.”

Mac strolled over to him. “What else is there? Are those graphic novels? Now, they could be worth something.” As she pulled a few free, the action loosened another item farther down the row and it fell from its spot, nearly landing at Zan's feet.

They both stared a moment, then dived for it at the same time. Zan won. Mac tried to wrestle the scrapbook away from him, but he forcefully yanked it out of her grip and held it over his head. She hated that grin of his.

“I want that back,” she demanded. “Give it to me.”

“Forget about it,” he said, still wearing that triumphant smile. “This was a gift to me.”

“That you clearly cherished so much you left it here stuffed between your
Archie Comics
and your—” she pointed at them “—
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issues.”

“Those were my grandfather's.”

“Right.” She rolled her eyes, then held out her hand, trying to appear calm and mature and not as if she was one second away from a teenage tantrum. “Please, Zan.”

Stepping away, he brought the book down to eye level. She'd made the whole damn thing, Mac remembered. From the pages cut from construction paper to the binding, which was cardboard that she'd wrapped in material cut from her old jeans. On the front cover she'd managed to place a back pocket and even without looking she knew inside there was a key she'd found at a flea market. With a red ribbon she'd tied a piece of tagboard to it that read, “The key to Mac's heart.”

How young, how trusting she'd been.

No less worse was the fact that in permanent pen she'd titled the scrapbook,
Mac and Zan: The Early Years
.

Their only years.

As he opened it, her heartbeat went crazy. Pasted to the first page was a photo of them before they'd become an item. Zan was mugging for the camera, all teen hotness, while she was looking at his face, yearning written all over it. Why the hell had she put that front and center? she thought, mortified by it now.

Because, secure in his feelings for her, deep in sticky, sticky love, she hadn't been afraid to let him know how she'd always felt about him. Mac had felt it safe to love Zan.

Looking away, she could hear him turning pages and it felt as if he was peeling layers from her heart. She remembered attaching more photos of them and gluing pictures from magazines that reminded her of things they did together as well as lyrics from music that communicated all that Zan had meant to her.

Country songs. Rock ballads. Top 100 singles from the top boy bands.

Yeah. How young, how trusting she'd been.

She was gearing up to attempt another snatch-and-grab, when he spoke again. “I'd forgotten about the poem.”

Kill me now
, came the silent whisper straight from her raw heart as she squeezed shut her eyes.
Kill me right now.

Unfortunately, she was still alive when he decided to share once more. “How could I have failed to remember that
Zan
rhymes with
lamb
?”

“Don't do that,” she said in a low whisper.

“What?”

“Don't do that.” She opened her eyes, met his. “Don't laugh at that scrapbook or that poem. Especially, don't laugh at
me
.”

His eyebrows rose and she could see there wasn't a hint of humor left on his face. “Mac...”

“That girl—” she gestured toward the book in his hand “—can't we just let her be?”

Slowly, he folded the cover over the pages. “Sure, Mac. No problem.”

The way he was watching her so carefully made her want to kick herself. The mature Mac had almost come to begging and tears over a stupid scrapbook she'd poured her emotions into when she was seventeen years old! Great. Such a professional.

Shoving her hands in her pockets, she addressed the toes of her boots. “Maybe I should go.”

“Or maybe we should take a different trip down memory lane,” Zan said in a casual tone. “I could really go for a chocolate malt from the Shake Hut. Is it still there?”

Yeah, it was still there, and she was not a fan of running from him again. She reminded herself she was tough. Mature. No longer that heart-open-wide, defenseless young girl. “A malt sounds good.”

The Shake Hut was off the main road that ran through the tiny town of Cedar Creek, a few miles from Blue Arrow Lake. As she had dozens of times before, she rode shotgun with Zan driving, her nose nearly pressed to the glass as she took in the snowy woods on her side of the car.

It calmed her to look at the pristine white and suddenly she had a different idea. “Shake Hut second,” she said, then pointed. “Turn off here first.”

He glanced at her and she knew he understood the place she wanted to visit. So there was no further need to provide directions, and she sat back as he drove along smaller and smaller roads. Finally, they were at the bottom of the long steep drive that led to the cabins and surrounding property.

Zan slowed. “It's plowed.”

“Brett keeps it that way. He and Angelica live in one of the cabins.”

When he grimaced, she put her hand on his arm, squeezing it briefly. “Don't worry about kicking them out—”

“I wouldn't.”

“They bought a cozy bungalow house closer to the village. The move-in date is coming up.”

At that, he directed the car up the driveway and gave it gas. The powerful vehicle had no trouble making the steep grade and in no time they reached the main cluster of cabins. The rest were scattered in the surrounding forest. Above them rose the mountain, its slopes cleared of trees long ago. It had been a sweet little place to ski, a favorite of families.

“Cabins look in good shape,” Zan said.

“It's been a group effort,” Mac said, then admitted, “except for me.” She felt a little ashamed about that now, especially when they did appear in good shape, thanks to the many hands that had contributed to refurbishing them over the past months.

She pointed to the nearest, with wood stacked high on the porch. “Brett and Angelica live there. They'll be at work now, though.”

“I don't think we should pay newlyweds an impromptu visit, anyway.”

Mac shot him a quelling look. “My brother, remember? Don't put that in my head.”

But other things found their way in as they remained in the warm car, gazing upon the fruit of her siblings' labors. Making the cabins a retreat for visitors wasn't something Mac had cottoned to when Poppy came up with the idea. In her mind, the place had carried a curse. There'd been the fire that had swept through years ago. And she'd been sitting right on the porch of the cabin that now housed her brother and his wife when Zan broke the news that he was leaving the very next evening.

As if that memory had the power to affect the weather, at that moment it began to snow. The flakes drifted down, large fluffy ones, and they brought with them other remembrances of the past, those, too, falling softly into her consciousness.

Running through the trees playing hide-and-seek with her siblings.

Riding high on her father's shoulders on a tramp through the woods, as she spoke to the curious squirrels and the scolding blue jays.

Sledding and skiing and making snow angels.

Hiking to the top of the Walker mountain with Brett and Zan in the summer season to lie in the dry grasses and dream up a spectacular lodge. Brett would talk about teaching snow sports and leading hikes. Mac would be in charge of the day-to-day doings at the lodge. They picked out other tasks for their two little sisters.

Zan had added his bit to the design of the place, but he'd never assigned himself a job. Even then, she realized now, he'd mentally had one foot out of the mountains.

Really, she shouldn't have been so staggered that day, perched on those porch steps, when he'd opened his mouth and released the words that had struck her heart like a steel-headed mallet.
I'm leaving, Mac. It's time for me to go.

The pain of that memory on top of the other, happier ones was why coming back to this land had been bittersweet to her all these years. Mostly bitter.

She'd
been bitter, she saw now.

And blind.

Because, though she might have lost her first love here, she'd never lost her love for this place. It was so beautiful. But now this legacy was lost, too.

“Mac,” Zan called softly.

She looked over at him. There was concern on his face and an undeniable tenderness in his eyes. Squirming on her seat, she had the uncomfortable sense that he was reading her mind.

“I'll sell it to you,” he said, proving what she imagined was true. “I should have said that right away. I intend to make sure you get repaid for the property taxes and insurance as well, but I'll get the lawyer to draw up a bill of sale—”

“No.” Mac shook her head. It was worth a fortune. “The Walkers don't have near the cash—”

“I'll sell it to you for a dollar.”

“No.”

“Fifty cents. Fifty dollars. Whatever works.”

“No.”

His hand shoved through his hair, a frustrated gesture. “Why not?”

“Because that's absurd.” Fifty cents! She wanted to get angry with him for even suggesting something so outrageous, but she didn't have the energy. “Because—”

She broke off and dropped her head to the back of the seat. Couldn't he see?

Life had moved on. Times and people had moved on. Changed.

The child in her remembered how good it had all once been. The adult in her had to accept things could never be that way again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
ILDA
HAD
A
HABIT
of bracing for the worst...something that came naturally when the worst had a habit of turning up in her life. No father, beloved grandmother gone too soon, mother taken out fast and furious by an infection of unknown origin.

Never any spare money.

But when it came to the date she had made with Ash Robbins, she'd made a complete mental turnaround. Instead of dreading it, she'd come to her senses and decided to view it as an opportunity, not a mistake. Over the past several months she'd built him into something much greater than reality warranted. Yeah, he was good-looking. His smile could make her belly flutter.

But he was just a guy, one with whom she didn't have any particularly special connection. He'd appeared at her elbow on her twenty-first birthday, when she'd been a little low over the recent loss of her mom, and she'd gone to bed with him for that and other reasons. Okay, for one big, hairy reason.

Still, it didn't have to be such a major deal.

And neither was he.

So their late-afternoon meet-up—her idea, because it was too early for drinks and shouldn't last as long as dinner—would give her the chance to see that he wasn't anyone she needed to avoid.

Or anyone she was interested in, either.

Though she did do her best with the looks and the clothes she had to work with—because that was only polite, right?

The dark jeans she'd bought on deep discount at the village boutique where she was usually only a lookie loo. A green sweater with a deep V neck that had been her mom's, but that matched Tilda's eyes. One of her roommates lent her a scarf in greens and blues hand-knit by the girl's crafty mother. The other roomie let her borrow her black medium-heeled boots. They'd taken a Sharpie pen to the scuffs on the toes and the “leather” appeared near-perfect now.

Flat-ironing her hair had been considered, then abandoned as trying too hard.

So it had been her usual waves and a little heavier eye makeup plus a swipe of pretty gloss a scant shade darker than her natural lips.

She'd even walked through a spritz of perfume that had been her mother's also—and Tilda didn't let herself think about who had bought her mother the stuff as a present—that was part of the big, hairy reason. No matter what, it smelled nice.

Ash had agreed to meet in the village and so she climbed into her car and headed in that direction, leaving plenty of time to arrive but not so much that it would appear she was overeager for the date.

But she was eager. Eager to be over the way he'd been hovering in her consciousness. And her conscience.

While her mother had often made bad choices when it came to her relationships with men, in May it was Tilda who had been the wicked one, which wasn't usually her way. If Ash ever found out, she was afraid he'd think—know?—she'd used him.

The day was bright and cold and she hummed because Roger Roper's miraculously low-miled car had a big hole where the sound system was supposed to sit. But the heater kind of worked and its low rattle combined with her wordless singing couldn't completely cover up the first sputters of her vehicle's engine.

Familiar with the adrenaline spike of potential impending disaster, Tilda breathed through the quick moment of panic and silently encouraged the tires to keep rolling. But then the engine hiccuped again and at the subsequent loss of power she directed the nose of the car to the side of the road.

For a moment, she allowed misery to wash over her as she continued to grip the steering wheel and stare straight ahead through the cracked windshield. “Buck up, Tilda,” she muttered, then reached for the lever to pop the hood.

Once outside the car, she huddled in her coat, boots to the asphalt as she stared into the mysterious inner workings. She knew a little something about living organisms, thanks to her biology courses, but clearly her car was dead, dead, dead.

She glanced around at the deserted side road. Her apartment's rent was cheap because the building was tucked in an out-of-the-way location. Pulling her phone from her pocket, she wasn't surprised to see she was without cell coverage. The out-of-the-way location also meant shoddy reception.

Her only choice, since she was now closer to town than to home, was to hike in that direction. Once she could make a call, the first would be to cancel her date with Ash. The second would be to a car mechanic buddy. Since she couldn't afford a tow, she could only hope he was free at some point to drive her back to her car, where she could also only hope that he could fix it on the spot.

If he couldn't...

She decided not to brace for the worst until she had to.

Five minutes later, her trudge turned onto one of the more trafficked access roads to the village. Three minutes after that, a car passed her, braked, then reversed.

The passenger window slid down and through it she saw Ash.

Her heart leaped, then dropped to the pit of her belly. “Oh, hey,” she said, raising a hand.

“You're walking to our date?”

Tilda grimaced. “I was planning to call you about that once I had some reception,” she said, pulling out her phone. It still lacked bars. “I, um, have to cancel.”

He beckoned her closer. “Get in.”

She got near enough to hold on to the window frame. Bending a little, she breathed in the scent of expensive leather seats and the faint whiff of an aftershave that smelled subtle and salty and fresh. A shiver overtook her body.

Ash frowned. “You're cold. Get in.”

No way would she tell him it wasn't the January breeze that made her tremble. “I can't. I have to track down a buddy instead of having a late lunch with you.”

“Will you consider me an insufferable, spoiled prig if I tell you how unhappy that makes me? I've been looking forward to this ever since coercing you into saying yes.”

She ignored the little thrill that wiggled through her when he said he'd been looking forward to seeing her again. “You didn't coerce me.”

“It feels like I twisted your arm.” His expression turned serious. “Did I push too hard?”

“I don't know,” she said, teasing him a little. “You only asked me three times.”

“Four. Once at that diner, then three times in my mother's kitchen.” He frowned. “I
did
push you.”

“Ash...” She was supposed to be losing interest in him, not interested enough to set him at ease. “I don't say yes when I mean no.”

He seemed to relax. “Good to know. Now, get in the car.”

It would get her faster to Lee's garage, she supposed and yanked on the door handle to slide in. “Just drop me off by the coffee place.”

“You want caffeine? We can go to Oscar's before the café.”

“Ash, I mean it. I have to cancel.” She glanced out the window. “I have a car issue.”

“A what?”

It embarrassed her to share when problems came up. How could a wealthy guy like Ash understand that having transportation problems in her life was like losing one leg of a three-legged stool?

“Car issue.” She squared her shoulders. “As in, it stopped on the way here.”

Instantly, Ash braked. “What? Where is it?”

“On the side of the road back there.” Her gesture was vague. “I'm hoping my buddy Lee—he's a mechanic—can give me a hand.”

Ash spun the wheel to make a quick U-turn. “
I
can give you a hand.”

She stared at him. “It's a car.” If she had to guess, he didn't even lift a hand to wash his.

But she didn't say so, figuring there was no need to shame the guy during the last few minutes they'd ever be together. That didn't stop her from feeling shamed for
herself
when she caught sight of her car on the side of the road and took a look at it through his eyes.

It was a total beater. The silver paint was oxidized, every corner had been crumpled by previous drivers—or just one, if Roger Roper was to be believed, which he wasn't—and hanging from the rearview mirror was a small stuffed squirrel wearing a glittery scarf, which she'd thought was cute when a friend gave it to her, but now just appeared tacky.

Ash parked his fancy sedan nose to nose with the beater. “Did you run out of gas?”

“No.” She'd put nine bucks in just the day before.

“Did the battery die?”

“Uh...I don't know?”

He grinned at her, then hopped out of his car when she handed over the keys. Moving more slowly, she climbed out as well and stood there while he studied the engine.

Tilda studied Ash.

Dark wash jeans sat just right on his lean hips. His shoulders and wide chest were encased in a thin, soft-looking knit. A steel-colored watch was strapped to his wrist and he wore loafers. Honest-to-God black loafers that did not call attention to themselves in any way except in the way that they didn't call attention to themselves.

Like his subtle aftershave.

His perfectly cut hair.

And it struck her, actually struck her like a real blow that took her breath away, that Ash Robbins had got up that morning and dressed himself like this—beautifully—knowing he was going to meet her.

Meet Tilda Smith.

She was still not breathing when she came to the swift conclusion it didn't look right that luxury denim and sumptuous wool and those sleek, elegant loafers should be anywhere near her crappy car. To be anywhere near
her
, in her discount clothes and her borrowed boots, polished by their best efforts with an indelible ink marker.

Sometimes her life made her just so...tired.

“We should go,” she said, her voice weary. “You can drop me at Oscar's. I'll find Lee.”

“We don't need Lee,” Ash said, turning his head to send her a grin. “I've got just what you need.”

With a screwdriver he pulled from his glove box, he proved he was not just a pretty face by scraping some crud off her battery terminals—she learned that's what they were called—which seemed to solve her car issue. Sooner than later, he was following her into town. Ash had insisted that she lead, so he'd know first thing if she had any further trouble.

The last time anyone had so thoughtfully taken care of her was when she was five years old and there'd been an outbreak of lice in kindergarten. Her grandmother, doubting her mother would take the proper precautions—and she'd been right—had combed through Tilda's long hair every day with a special comb, looking for signs of the pests.

Of course, she didn't share that personal story with her afternoon date. Instead, overwhelmed by relief that she'd dodged a bullet and her car was running again as well as being more than a bit intimidated by the elegant beauty of the guy sitting across the table from her, she'd gone quiet.

Until Ash had made her laugh.

This time, it wasn't over his first, clumsy attempts at the two-step. Instead, he told her about his initial days at his internship in England and how he'd been bewildered by British slang.

She found herself laughing with
Ash Robbins
, so hard that she had to hold it back with the palm of her hand, because he'd discovered telling a coworker some assigned task was a “biggie” didn't mean it was monumental or important.
Biggie
was a child's term for poo.

Or Brit lingo for an erection.

After that, his coworkers—and later, friends—loved to toss out any Britishism they knew would throw him for a loop.

If he wore a new tie to work, he was dressed like “dog's dinner,” aka nicely.

They'd invite him to a wild “knee's up”—dance party—on the weekend, where they planned to get “legless”—meaning drunk.

They'd hand over a tissue and claim he had a “crusty dragon”—a booger.

When he'd figure out the meaning of one of those foreign phrases on his own, they'd crow, “Bob's your uncle!”

She had to smile at him. She had to say, “You liked them very much.”

And he responded, “Bob's your uncle!” which only made her start laughing again, so hard she didn't remember her car or her crappy shoes or the million years it would take to finish her bio degree or that she so often felt alone in this big, big world.

And he was smiling at her as if he was glad to make her laugh, as if that was the only thing on the agenda for the day of rich, smart, great-looking Ash Robbins.

Then he caught her hand in his. His eyes turned serious, even though his beautiful mouth was still smiling. “Say you like me, Tilda.”

But she wasn't supposed to! She was supposed to be proving she had no interest in him!

The truth slipped out instead. “I like you, Ash,” she whispered.

Probably too much.

* * *

Z
AN
HUNCHED
OVER
his beer in the darkest corner of the bar at Mr. Frank's, occasionally checking out the football game playing on the TV. The place wasn't busy—it was a weeknight—so he wasn't terribly surprised when the mostly idle bartender wandered his way not long after delivering his cold draft.

“So,” the young man said, using a rag to wipe the bar top. “What're you doing here?”

“Drinking?”

“I mean in Blue Arrow.” He stepped back, his gaze assessing. “Doesn't look like you're here for the snow.”

Zan thought he might hit the local slopes one of these days, but he hadn't gotten around to it yet. “I lived here as a kid. With my grandfather. He passed, so I'm here to sort out things.”

“Oh, sorry, man.”

“Appreciate it.”

The bartender wasn't done with him, however. The night, apparently, was that slow. “Then you're going back to...what?” he asked, swiping at the bar again.

What
was
he going to do after this? Zan had come back to town sick, which had taken a few days to clear. Then he'd been caught up in his grandfather's business, but that wasn't going to last forever.