“Well, if money grew on trees, then…” She got cups and put them on the counter, looking in the fridge for the Sugarfall box, which was…empty. “It would make the cream puffs reappear.” She turned and made a sad face. “Someone must have helped themselves to our dessert. It’s okay, I invite the guests to…” Her voice cracked and before she took a breath, he was up and had his arms around her.
“I don’t need a cream puff. I just need to hear your dream for this place.”
“My impossible dream,” she corrected.
“Pretend it’s possible.”
“Okay.” She leaned into his strong and glorious hug, then closed her eyes and envisioned her fantasy. “We’d be a wedding venue.”
“Really?”
She nodded, unable to fight the smile. “Yep, but it’s so…out there that I don’t even dare to dream it. Cindy stopped talking about it years ago, but I still think about our vision.”
“Tell me.”
She sighed, wanting to do just that. “In my imagination, we would knock out the whole suite where I’m living.” She gestured toward the mudroom and her suite. “And we could add on a beautiful space with a cathedral ceiling and a wall of windows to capture the view. It would be specially designed for small,elegant weddings. Less than fifty people, and if I had a better kitchen, caterers could come in. We’d have year-round weddings because that space could open to the big back lawn, and maybe we could build a gazebo?—”
“I love gazebos!” he exclaimed, his enthusiasm so sweet, she wanted to throw her arms around him again.
“So do I,” she said, a little embarrassed by the tears that threatened, so she turned to the kettle just before it whistled. “I sound like Benny making his Christmas list.”
“Nothing wrong with a dream.”
She snorted softly. “A dream that’s not happening, Matt. In fact, my sister wants to sell,” she whispered, not surprised, since her body, brain, and mouth seemed to have a will of their own tonight.
“No!”
She blinked at the firmness of his reaction, looking up from the kettle as she poured steaming water into the mugs. “No?”
He shook his head, and something in his face changed—not hardening, exactly, but setting. “You can’t sell Snowberry Lodge,” he said simply. “You said it’s in your DNA.”
She quietly finished the pour and returned the kettle to the stove. “Sometimes,” she said softly, “you have to do…what you have to do.”
“But a place like this?” he countered. “Built by love and history and family? All the guests? All the memories and traditions and meals and your dreams for?—”
“Stop,” she rasped. “You’re making it worse.”
“I’m sorry.” He lifted the mug of tea, letting the steam reach his face, then took a sip.
“Of course you’re right,” she said after a moment of staring at her own mug. “Selling is unthinkable. But it might be inevitable.”
“Nothing is inevitable,” he said, reaching across the island that separated them. “You have no idea what could happen. Look what Benny and Red did for this month.”
“We can’t count on those two forever,” she said, trying to make it sound light, but nothing felt light right then.
It felt good, though, to share tea and sympathy with this man. So, so good.
“Listen,” he said after a minute, cocking his head. “What don’t you hear?”
“A leak,” she confirmed, not really surprised that he’d fixed it.
“I should check the sock,” he said after finishing most of his tea. “And then I should let you sleep. I’m pretty sure you’ll be up at six making French toast.”
“Five,” she corrected. “And tomorrow is pecan pancakes.”
He just smiled at her, the light in his eyes so warm and real it nearly melted her like that calcium chloride on the roof.
He reached for her hand, then caught himself, giving a tight smile. “Thank you, Mary Jane, for a lovely evening.”
