Janice Johnson - What She Wants for Christmas

The jolt he’d felt in his gut when she opened the door that day last week had scared him a little. She was out of his league. He was lucky to have a high-school diploma. She’d finished God knows how many years of college. He was a small-town boy with no ambition to leave his home. She was a big-city professional woman who probably thought White Horse was pretty and peaceful. It was. But, unlike him, she’d be heading for Seattle every time she got bored.

He couldn’t afford to acknowledge his attraction to her or the spark of interest he’d seen in her dark eyes.

Sandwich, he reminded himself, before his glance strayed again to her kitchen window. He grunted and turned toward the driveway where his pickup was parked. Rounding the house, he walked right into her.

Joe reached out and grabbed her before she went tumbling. Eyes wide, she looked up at him. “I’m sorry! That was dumb. I wasn’t watching—”

“I don’t know who was dumb,” he interrupted. “I’m the one who almost ran you down.” Reluctantly he let her go. Her shoulders felt as fragile under his hands as she’d declared her psyche to be. “Did you come out to see our progress?”

“Well, actually—” her tongue touched her lips “—I came out to invite you and your men in for lunch.”

He had trouble not staring at her mouth. “They went into town.”

Damn, she was beautiful, tiny, with these huge brown eyes and delicate features emphasized by the severity of the French braid that confined her dark hair. But it was neither the tiny nor the beautiful that got to him; it was the defiance in her eyes, coupled with the smile that played most of the time at one corner of her mouth.

“Well, then.” She met his gaze boldly, though now her cheeks were touched with pink. “Can I talk you into lunch?”

“You don’t need to cook—”

“I already did. Homemade minestrone soup and fresh-baked bread.”

“I’m too dirty to come in.”

“You can take your boots off.”

What could he say? A moment later he padded in stocking feet into her bathroom to wash his hands. Waiting for the water to warm up, he frowned at his image in the mirror. What the hell did she see in him? All that met his eyes were dirty denim, callused hands and a haircut that was long on function and short on style. She’d discover soon enough that his conversation could be summed up about the same way.

But, by God, at least he was clean when he returned to the kitchen. She’d set the table there: two quilted place mats, a glass jar of spiky asters and late daisies, stemmed water glasses, silverware laid out properly, with an extra fork for some unseen dessert. It was pretty—and made him feel awkward. Only the sight of her black Labrador lying under the table belied the formality.

Her eyes touched his face and shied away. “You’re my first guest in this house. I thought I’d celebrate.”

He nodded and sat down while she ladled steaming fragrant soup into his bowl and offered him slices of crusty warm bread.

“Would you like a beer?” she asked, and he relaxed a little. At least she wasn’t pouring French wine.

“No, thanks. I don’t drink when I’m going to operate a chain saw or heavy equipment.”

“Oh. No, of course not.”

“I haven’t seen a woman blush in a long time,” he heard himself say.

That did it. Her cheeks were now as rosy as though a winter freeze were biting at them. But she also laughed.

“I don’t usually blush. I think it must be you.”

Him? What was she saying? If she’d been any other woman, he would have known, but her? Why him?

“I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable,” he said clumsily.

He almost thought he heard her sigh. “Are you married?” she asked.

His heart did a peculiar heavy-footed dance in his chest. “No.”

Her cheeks hadn’t faded one iota. “Engaged or…or…”

He helped her out. “No.”

“Oh.”

A slow smile was growing on his face. “Are you going somewhere with this, ma’am?”

“I’m just curious,” she said with dignity.

He laid down his butter knife and said quietly, “Good.”

Their eyes met and held for a long quivering moment. The breath of air he sucked in seared his chest.

“I know you’re not married,” he said. “Are you divorced?”

“Widowed.” Pain, or at least regret, twisted her mouth. “Five years ago. My husband was an idiot. He made an ultra-light from a kit. He was flying it when it drifted into some electrical wires. The day was windy—” She snorted. “But he had to go up.”

“You didn’t approve of his hobby, I take it.”

“I hated it!” He felt her tension. “I haven’t forgiven him yet.”

“I don’t blame you,” Joe admitted. “I’ve never understood why someone would risk losing everything—” a woman like you “—for some kind of momentary thrill.”

“It was what he did to the kids.” Her eyes appealed to him for understanding.

“Tell me about them.”

She did, while Joe had three bowls of soup and more slabs of bread than he wanted to count. The woman was not only beautiful, she could cook. And he’d better quit thinking this way.

Mark, he heard, was almost eleven, a fifth grader who’d taken the move philosophically and had already signed up for soccer.

“Boys,” she said, with an expressive shrug. “They always seem to play in mobs and accept one more kid without question. Girls, now…”

Her fifteen-year-old, whom Joe had seen over Teresa’s shoulder last week, was another story. When he asked about her, an odd expression crossed her face, half amusement, half exasperation.

“She had friends—although I didn’t like them very much. Moving is a lot harder at her age. I just wish she’d try.”

“With her looks, she won’t have any trouble getting dates.”

“Thank you.” Teresa flashed him a grateful smile. “She is pretty, isn’t she?”

“Looks a lot like her mother.”

A shadow crossed Teresa’s face. “I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse.”

He heard a car out in the driveway and assumed his men were back, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Because you have trouble being taken seriously?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.” Her faraway expression faded and she jumped to her feet. “Listen to me. And I tell my kids not to whine. Will you have some apple pie, Joe?”

He ran an internal check and decided he could squeeze in a slice.

While she cut it, she chattered some more. “We have four cats and the two dogs—you’ve met them. Most vets have even more animals than that. It’s an occupational hazard. I keep encountering ones that need homes. At least they’re happy here.” She set two plates of pie on the table.

“From our own trees,” she said with satisfaction, lifting a forkful to her mouth. “This is the life.”

For how long? he wondered. About as long as he’d interest her? Or was he misjudging her?

If he was smart, he wouldn’t bother finding out. But he’d never been accused of belonging in any program for the intellectually gifted, now had he? He told himself he’d hurt her feelings if he didn’t ask her out. They’d made too many spoken and unspoken acknowledgments to each other for him to drop it here.

He insisted on carrying his dishes to the sink. There, he turned to face her. “Any chance you’d have dinner with me Friday night?” he asked casually enough that she wouldn’t feel pressured if he was reading her wrong.

She smiled saucily. “I’d say there’s a chance.”

“You remind me of my sister,” he said without thinking.

“Jess?”

“No, the other one. Rebecca.”

“Looks? Or because we’re both mouthy?”

He hesitated a little too long. Sooner or later she’d meet Rebecca and discover they didn’t look anything alike. Sure enough, it was the smart mouths they had in common.

Apparently unoffended, Teresa laughed. “I’ll look forward to meeting her. Tell me her husband is a dairy farmer.”

“Nope. Owns a string of rental stores.”

“I’ve been in the one here in town. His?”

“Mmm.”

“Is there any pie your family doesn’t have its finger in?”

“Not many,” Joe admitted. “My brother, Lee, owns an auto-body repair place on Third. Rebecca sells wallpaper and blinds out of Browder’s Flooring. Jess—but you know her. Her firm cleans the veterinary clinic, as I recall. Our father sold insurance until his heart attack a few years back.”

“You must have a heck of a grapevine.”

He grimaced. “You have no idea.”

“Your men are peering in the windows,” she said suddenly.

He turned and waved, hoping he wasn’t blushing. He could imagine how they’d razz him if they got a good look at his stocking feet and the pretty table set for two.

“Six o’clock?” he said.

She blinked. “Why does that remind me of five hundred dollars?”

He stared at her. “I have no idea.”

“Six,” she agreed, and he nodded.

“Thanks for lunch.”

He got another one of those impish grins. “Thanks for not dropping a tree on my house.”

“Bad for the insurance rates,” he said laconically, and let the screen door slam behind him while he sat down on the porch to lace up his boots.

WHEN JOE HAD ASKED about Nicole, the very mention of her name had been enough to prick Teresa with exasperation, amusement, puzzlement, frustration and even reluctant admiration. She’d no doubt gotten an odd look on her face. There was a good reason for it. In the past week, Nicole had obviously changed her tactics. Teresa wasn’t foolish enough to think she’d given up.

For example, last Wednesday Nicole had gone along sweetly and willingly to register at the high school. When Teresa stared doubtfully up at the building and said, “Gee, it’s kinda ugly, isn’t it?” Nicole didn’t jump right on her mother’s minor criticism and try to make something major out of it.

Instead, she gave a dainty shrug and said, “It probably doesn’t matter, as long as the district has spent their money where it counts.”

What kid ever thought of a school district in terms of a limited budget and priorities? Not Nicole, that was for sure. Wary, Teresa trailed her up the wide stairs and in the double doors.

Sounding sanctimonious, her daughter whispered, “Don’t they have handicapped access?”

“I’m sure they do,” Teresa returned dryly.

The guidance counselor in the office was friendly. She agreed to put Nicole in third year French even though the class was technically full. Nicole’s face fell with exaggerated disappointment as she examined the offerings.

“Oh, I was really looking forward to taking song writing this year.”

“Maybe you should worry about bringing your algebra grade up, instead,” her mother suggested.

The counselor had a twinkle in her eye. “Perhaps you’d like to try drama, Nicole. You look like acting might come naturally.”

“Only if it’s in the form of melodrama,” Teresa muttered.

Her daughter gave her a glare. “Yeah, okay,” she said to the counselor. “Why not? There isn’t anything else.”

“It’s too bad you missed new-student orientation,” the counselor concluded brightly, “but there’s no reason you and your mother can’t wander around the building right now. Here’s a map, so you can find your classrooms—”

“Are the rooms unlocked?” Nicole sounded so earnest Teresa was immediately suspicious.

“Why, yes, I think so. You’ll probably find some of the teachers—getting ready for the onslaught tomorrow.”