Читать книгу The Christmas Wedding Quilt: Let It Snow / You Better Watch Out / Nine Ladies Dancing - Sarah Mayberry - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

HOLLYMEADE STILL LOOKED much the same. After a breakfast of cold cereal Jo wandered the rooms, a cup of tea from the only tea bag in the house warming her hands. Some things had changed, though. The walls in the living area were a different color now, a silvery sage, and the sofas were new. The armchairs, though? Those she remembered from afternoons curled up with Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree or Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time, even if the chairs now wore slipcovers.

The kitchen had newer appliances, and someone must have decided that updated laminate countertops were a worthwhile investment. But the pot rack with its copper-bottomed saucepans still hung near the stove. And while the curtains had to be new, they mimicked the ones she remembered, gauzy white and tied back to let in the light.

She was home.

Outside the snow continued, and now it was nearly as high as the windows. Of course there must have been snow on the ground already. Western New York was famous for the stuff. Jo couldn’t believe she had gambled on reaching the grocery store today. But there would be no road trip, not until the skies cleared. While she was still in bed she’d heard a plow on the main road, but she doubted it was easy to travel.

Before breakfast she had inventoried the pantry shelves, hoping Brody had exaggerated, but embellishing wasn’t his style. She could heat a can of chicken noodle soup for lunch, snack on a candy bar midafternoon and eat the remaining hash from the can she had opened last night for dinner. If she followed that pattern, she would be okay for two more days, although she wasn’t looking forward to cream-of-broccoli Tuesday. She supposed if the snow continued longer, she might be able to make pancakes without oil or eggs and eat them with sugar sprinkled on top.

She wrinkled her nose. Of course she could always call Brody to rescue her again.

When hell froze over.

Since she prepared for everything, she’d made plans in advance if she happened to run into him. A chance encounter at the grocery maybe, a few sentences of greeting and catch-up, then both of them heading off to their separate lives. Their relationship had ended a decade ago. They were hardly the people they had been. Through the years she had erased memories of him the way she routinely wiped away outdated files on her computer.

But unless a hard drive was reformatted, old files still left traces. And how did a woman reformat her heart?

As she stared outside at the winter wonderland, snow clinging to evergreen branches and icicles dripping from the roof of the boat shed, she remembered.

After her father’s death, Jo’s mother had resettled herself and her preteen daughter in Hollywood, using a generous life insurance payment. Sophie, darling of their town’s little theater, had decided to bury her grief in an acting career. When that proved impossible, she devoted herself to making the unenthusiastic Jo into a star.

Jo, who preferred auditions to her mother’s handwringing, found work in a few commercials, but when it became clear her daughter didn’t have either drive or talent, Sophie sought work as a makeup artist. Unfortunately money dribbled through her fingers. The rental house gave way to a furnished room, and on the afternoon their landlord threatened to break down their door to collect three months of rent, Jo took over their finances.

As Sophie spiked between elation and despair, Jo covered all the other bases and kept her grades high, because by then she knew that an education and a good job would be her saving grace. Luckily her father had made sure to establish a college fund that Sophie couldn’t tap, and Jo vowed that when the time came, she would use every penny to pursue a degree that promised a job at the end.

Hollymeade and her father’s family faded into the background, because Sophie, fiercely possessive, refused to let her visit the lake house.

The year Jo turned sixteen, a miracle happened. As she powdered the leading man’s nose on the set of a low-budget film, Sophie caught an associate producer’s eye, and three weeks later they were married in Vegas. Since his next project was in Italy, Sophie and her new husband headed for Milan to spend the summer, and Jo was packed off to Hollymeade.

Jo had been thrilled to fly back to New York and settle into a room in the old house to reconnect with her father’s family and disconnect from her mother. Her grandmother had been thrilled, too, and their quilting lessons had resumed. Unfortunately her cousins, whom Jo hadn’t seen in years, couldn’t join them. Rachel was living in Australia, Ella in Seattle, and Olivia was enrolled in a special summer language program in Salzburg. Members of the larger Miller family came and went, some with children younger than she was, but after the thrill of reunion wore off, Jo began to feel lonely.

Until Brody Ryan showed up.

Brody was seventeen to her sixteen, ready to head off for Cornell in the fall, where he planned to study viticulture. He arrived one afternoon to deliver and split a cord of firewood for the coming winter. Jo was immediately drawn to the serious young man with the golden-brown hair and the fabulous smile, so she stacked as he chopped.

They talked about everything, then as the wood chips flew, and later as they found more excuses to be together.

Jo knew better than to draw attention to their budding relationship. Word might get back to Sophie, who was perfectly capable of flying home from Italy to interfere. Brody, too, was reluctant to share with his family. The Ryans were thrilled he had received a scholarship to Cornell, but finances were tight, and they knew he had to earn enough money to supplement his financial aid. A romance with a high school girl would have made no sense to them. So as Jo and Brody fell in love, they decided to keep their feelings to themselves.

Now she realized how successful they had been. Because when Jo graduated from high school at seventeen and had her pick of colleges, no one guessed that she chose M.I.T. because it would be easy to visit Brody at Cornell and rekindle their romance.

They were two private people, with little else that they hadn’t already been forced to share with their families. As love grew stronger, they nurtured the flame carefully, secretly.

Until the flame went out.

As she had stood at the window Jo’s tea had grown cold. These days the house had a microwave, and now she crossed the kitchen to set the mug inside. As it heated she decided to think about something else. She had faced Brody, and both of them had survived the reunion. It was time to move on.

She was just summoning the energy to unwrap the fabrics for Olivia’s quilt when she heard a familiar roar. From the window she watched as Brody jumped off his snowmobile, unhooked something from the seat behind him and started toward the door.

Before she could stop it her hand went to her hair. Then, realizing what she’d done, she straightened her shoulders and went to let him in. She was dressed. Her hair was probably combed. She had covered all the bases for polite society.

When she opened the door he was standing on the threshold clutching a picnic basket in his arms. He held it out to her but didn’t relinquish it.

“It’s heavy. Maybe I should set it down in the kitchen.”

“I work out.” She held out her arms.

He thrust it forward, and she realized he was right. It was heavy. She shifted so part of the weight rested against a hip.

“Come in while I put this on the counter. What is it?”

“A care package.”

She couldn’t help herself. “I didn’t know you did.”

“Did?”

“Care.” She smiled to let him know she was teasing. “I would refuse, of course, to show what an independent woman I am, but I might starve.”

She started toward the kitchen, and in a moment—she guessed he was slipping off his boots—he followed her. She set down the basket and opened the lid to peek. Inside were at least a dozen cans, also rice, pasta, packaged mac and cheese, two jars of sauce, more cereal, half a carton of eggs, two sticks of butter, and half a small bottle of cooking oil.

Despite all internal warning signals, she was touched. “Brody, did you clean out your cupboards?”

“I split the contents.”

“Bachelor food, huh? Beef stew, beans, tuna, fruit cocktail? What happened to the hot dogs?”

“Ate them last night.”

“Darn.”

He grinned, and only then did she realize he’d been worried about her reaction. “Don’t tell me you cook gourmet meals for yourself every night,” he said.

“Not every night.” She closed the lid. “This was thoughtful. Thank you. Of course I’ll replace everything once I can drive to a store.”

“That wasn’t the only reason I came. I thought you might like a ride over to the Grants’. To look for that box of baby stuff. But I warn you, it’s going to be freezing in their attic. We won’t last long.”

She gestured to her corduroy jeans and waffle henley. “I’m not dressed for a snowmobile.”

“I brought gear for you. It’s on the sled, if you’re game.”

She considered. Wasn’t this opening up a door best left closed? They had proved they could be polite, and she was in no hurry to look for Eric’s things. She almost refused, but then she reconsidered. Brody was trying to help, and if she didn’t say yes, she would be cooped up all day. Plus he would wonder why she’d refused, and that might be dangerous.

She kept her tone casual. “I’m not doing anything else, if you have the time.”

* * *

NINETY MINUTES LATER Jo took off the snowmobile helmet and shook out her hair. She was dressed like a pro in Brody’s sister’s gear, all of which had fit, the bibbed pants, jacket, gloves, everything except the boots, which were a size too large. That hadn’t mattered since she had worn them with three pairs of Kaye’s wool socks and removed the boots before entering the Grants’ house.

The ride had been glorious. Brody’s snowmobile held two, and she had wondered if she would be required to put her arms around his waist. But there had been a handlebar to hang on to, and the ride had been as smooth as sailing, with no surprises.

They hadn’t talked a lot, not even in the attic, which was a pack rat’s dream. Brody said that Mrs. Grant had inherited the contents from her husband’s mother, who had inherited them from her mother. Unlike her predecessors, she was trying to sort, then toss or label, but Brody thought she was having problems getting rid of much.

“Sentimental,” he’d said. “That’s why she kept Eric’s baby things.”

“My gain.” Jo had given up after that day’s search turned up nothing of Eric’s except old school notebooks, one box of wooden blocks and another of 4-H trophies. By the time they’d started back to Hollymeade her teeth were chattering.

Once there, she swung her legs over the side and stepped down. She realized how much fun she’d had. The ride, the attic search, the ride home. When had she ever jumped on a snowmobile or a motorcycle or a speedboat just for fun? When had she had time to simply be young?

Snow was falling again, a light dusting this time, but the landscape sparkled. Beyond the house she saw a cardinal, bright red and Christmassy in the branches of a spruce tree.

“Let me make you lunch,” she volunteered, before she even knew the words would emerge. “It’s the least I can do.”

He didn’t hesitate. “It would be nice to warm up.”

She was surprised he had accepted so readily. That seemed to say a lot, although she knew better than to dissect a simple sentence.

Inside they perched on a bench in the entryway and stripped off their snowmobiling clothes. She realized that until now she hadn’t seen him without at least a stocking cap, not even last night by the fire. His hair was longer than she remembered, as if he hadn’t found his way to the barber in a while, but the color was still the same bronze, with just a hint of curl.

He still looked so much like the boy she had fallen in love with.

She realized she was clutching Kaye’s outerwear as if it might shield her from old emotions. She thrust the clothing out for Brody to take home again, but he suggested she keep everything, just in case she wanted to tramp around outside or shovel more snow.

She wondered if he was planning more rides and just didn’t want to announce them yet. And in true Jo style she attempted to analyze whether she had really loved the ride or the ride-with-Brody.

Inconclusive.

In the kitchen she emptied the basket and took a better look at what she had to work with. She settled on a menu, filled a large pot with water and set it on the back of the stove to boil. Then she set the oven to 350 degrees before she took out a smaller pan and began a béchamel sauce, flour stirred into melted butter, milk whisked in, a pinch of nutmeg from the spice drawer. When she was happy with the consistency, she drained a can of tuna and mixed it in.

Brody perched on a stool and watched. “What can I do?”

“Would you get brown sugar out of the pantry? And if I’m not mistaken, one of the smaller canisters contains what’s left of a bag of coconut. Would you check to be sure it’s okay and bring that, too?”

Fifteen minutes later they sat down to a lunch of creamed tuna on egg noodles, and hot baked peaches topped with brown sugar and coconut. Brody looked as if he’d been invited to dine with the Iron Chef.

“Where did you learn to do this?”

She tried to ignore how wonderful it was to see appreciation in his eyes. She tried to ignore the fact that his praise seemed to be about more than a good hot lunch.

Unsuccessful.

“As a teenager I learned to make meals out of next to nothing. Sophie didn’t cook, so I had to learn or grow up on peanut butter sandwiches. Once I was out on my own I thought I would probably never cook again, but I discovered I missed it. So now I take lessons for fun, whenever I have the time.” She paused. “Which isn’t often.”

“I’d love to see what you could do with real food.” He looked up, as if he realized that sounded like he was asking for an invitation and wanted to hurry on to something else. “If the Millers get wind of this, you’ll be asked to cook every meal whenever you visit Hollymeade.”

“No telling when I’ll get here again.”

He took a second helping of peaches. “You must be incredibly busy, because I know you love this place.”

She found herself telling him about her job, and then about the trip to Hong Kong, where she had carefully inched her way through negotiations for a whole new technology system that she still believed would have ramped up the corporation’s productivity by more than ten percent.

“I missed my aunt’s funeral so I could bring that deal to conclusion, and after all that, I failed,” she finished.

“You failed, or the deal failed? Because those are different, right?”

She realized how relaxed she was and, despite everything, how easy it was to talk to Brody. “You’re right, the deal failed. Basically they used us, mainly me, as consultants, with no intention of buying our services. I didn’t give anything away, which is a victory of sorts, I guess, but I left empty-handed. I’m not used to losing, and my boss is making it personal. So I decided to come here and wait him out. When he’s done ranting and raving maybe he’ll see how valuable I am and apologize, or at least stop blaming me.”

“If he doesn’t?”

She shrugged, because getting this far had been the first hurdle. She wasn’t quite ready for the next one. “Tell me about the vineyards.”

“We still grow grapes for juice, but I’ve managed to expand into wine. Reisling first, then several others. Now I’m working on a boutique ice wine made from Reisling and Vignoles grapes, but it’s not ready for market. My Reisling won an award last year, but I can’t produce enough to make enough money to produce more.”

He said the last as if it was a joke, but she thought it probably wasn’t. Brody had dreamed of making wine all his life. He had planned to start his career at a large California winery and learn from the wine cellars up. Then he had planned to come home and establish his own vineyard.

“Did you get a job outside New York after college, the way you’d planned?” she asked.

“I decided to come home.”

She wondered why. Had there been a girl waiting, someone she hadn’t known about? A local girl ready to settle down and have his children? Because he had wanted a family. She remembered that all too well.

If there had been someone, apparently the relationship was over.

“I’d better get back.” Brody got to his feet and carried his dishes to the sink. “Thanks for lunch, Jo. It was great.”

She walked him to the door and waited while he shrugged back into layers of warm padding, finally slipping on his boots.

“Once the roads are clear you can just give me the key to the Grants’ house,” she said once he stood. “Mrs. Grant said she would see about getting me one.”

“It looks like this system’s on its way out, so I’ll be plowing like mad for the next couple of days. I won’t get to their driveway right away, so you won’t be able to drive over. Let’s just plan to go again later this week on my sled, if that suits you. I don’t mind. I’m keeping an eye on a possible leak in their roof, anyway.”

At the Grants’ house she hadn’t noticed Brody looking skyward even once, but she nodded. “I’ll see you then.”

“Unless the snow keeps coming, I’ll plow your drive tomorrow or the day after. I’m in the phone book if something comes up.”

“In the meantime at least I won’t be rationing candy bars. Thanks again.”

He smiled. They couldn’t seem to break eye contact. Jo’s heartbeat quickened, and her temperature seemed to rise despite her proximity to the door.

“You never said when you’re planning to leave,” he said at last.

“I haven’t decided.”

He lifted his hand and lightly touched her cheek. “There aren’t many places prettier at Christmastime.” Then he turned, and in a moment he was gone.

She could manage only one intelligent thought. Hollymeade suddenly seemed much too large and rambling without him.