They visited for a few more minutes, and when he hung up, Elise lifted a brow.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Fine, actually. That was my mom,” he said. “They might come out and spend Christmas Day with us. No promises. The weather has to be good enough for them to fly.”
Her eyes went wide, and she smiled. “I would like that,” she said, then added in a rush, “If you would.”
He tried not to show his relief when he answered. “I would.”
The days ticked through December, and with each one, the house shifted. Garlands braided with dried oranges, pine boughs, and cranberries softened the beams. A simple nativity stood on the mantle, hand-carved and slightly awkward, and the awkwardness made it perfect. They’d found it at the same second-hand store where she’d found so many other things for the house. She sewed linen covers for the couch cushions and tugged a soft wool throw across the arm. It was an annoyance that always caught his shoulder when he sat. But she liked it there, so it stayed. He mended a squeak in the bedroom door,planed a lip on the pantry shelf so glasses wouldn’t slide, and built a narrow bench under the front window. She sat there in the late mornings with her knees tucked up and wrote longhand.
“What are you working on?” he asked as he worked on the leg of the table that was at least a half-inch shorter than the rest. Again, it was a second-hand find, but it fit perfectly in the alcove just past the fireplace.
She looked up from the notebook and smiled, as if embarrassed. “Nothing, really.”
He cocked his head. “Looks like something.”
She rolled her eyes. “A book. That horrible book we read when we first came here, do you remember it?”
“Ah, yeah. The ninja slayer book.” He held a block of wood to the glue of the short leg. He’d run a nail through it to ensure the anchor, trim it down, carving it to match the other legs once it was secure.
“I can do better than that drivel.” She shrugged. “And if it’s any good, it could be a career change. I’ve been thinking a lot about what I can do other than being a reporter.”
He smiled at her. “Only change if you want to, and I know it’ll be good. You wouldn’t let it be anything else.”
One evening,with the air dipping into the subzero territory, they set up the chessboard on the coffee table. He’d found it at their most recent visit to an antique store about two counties over. It was expensive, heavy, and made of ivory. He shouldn’t have purchased it for that reason, but it was at least a hundred years old, so he couldn’t have protected that elephant if he’d tried. Rationalization at its finest. Besides, Elise had fallen in love withit when she’d seen it. But after looking at the price tag, she’d abruptly turned and walked away.
Their first game was a polite exchange of one-for-one. By the second, she had his patterns. She rested her chin on her hand and kept her eyes on the board. Cut-throat and determined. He liked this side of her. Games were competition, pure and simple. He agreed, so they had lively competition that usually saw him as a winner.
“You never talk about what scares you,” she said, moving a pawn.
He moved his knight and took a breath. “Losing control,” he said, honestly. “Losing you,” he added, and the second truth was easier than he expected once the first had opened his mouth.
She slid her queen and looked up, finally, eyes steady. “Then don’t do that,” she said. She lifted her fingers from the piece, and her voice softened. “Besides, I don’t plan to be easy to misplace.”
He smiled at the simplicity of her bravery in speaking her truth. She checkmated him three turns later and crowed without mercy. And … he could live with that sound in the house for a long time.
Snow came again,this time lighter. It was a covering that made the world new in the morning. Elise baked a tray of cookies that tasted of cinnamon and butter, with a hint of orange. She tucked half into a tin stamped with a crooked star and tied the lid with twine. The other half she piled on a plate and carried to Blake, where he crouched by the fire, laying kindling like a masterpiece puzzle. He looked at the plate and then at her.
“For trade,” she said. “Cookies for a story.”
He rocked back on his heels and wiped his hands. “What story?”
“Tell me one where you were not the sharpest blade in the drawer,” she said, eyes bright.
He huffed and leaned his shoulder against the stone of the hearth. “Once,” he said, “My dad and I were hanging out playing paintball; actually, he was teaching me, but it was fun, so I thought it was cool. I was supposed to find him before he found me. We were in the Black Hills on the Wyoming side. He and Mom used to own a cabin there before it was blown up.” He laughed and held up a hand, “That’s a whole other story. Anyway, I thought a small shed at the edge of the property was empty. I was maybe fourteen, maybe fifteen. Damn, I was cocky. I knew the old man couldn’t have beaten me to the location. It was too quiet. The birds and animals weren’t startled; nothing had been by the area recently. I was positive he wasn’t anywhere close, and I was going to use that shack to hide until he showed. Iwantedit to be vacant. It was not.” He took a cookie and bit into it. “Dad won. I still don’t know how in the hell he beat me to that shack. Anyway, I learned not to want. I learned tolook. Coming out of the shack after he blasted me with a dead-center hit, I saw his footprints. I could’ve been ready and shot him with my paint gun. But nope.”
She listened the way she always listened, until the last word had landed and the small silence after it had, too. Then she touched his jaw with two fingers. The stubble of his late afternoon beard was addictive, dark, and sexy. “You learned to look,” she said. “But never forget how to want.” She lifted the plate until he smiled and took a cookie. She took one, too, and bit into it.
He licked the sugar from around her mouth. “I like this sugar better than this one.” He lifted the cookie. She took anotherbite of the cookie he held up, swallowed it, and leaned in an invitation. “I do, too.”
By Christmas, the lake had frozen to solid glass, a dark mirror with white seams where stress had cracked the expanding ice. Blake went out to check the western camera, which had dropped a bit from the position he wanted, and came back with snow on his shoulders and news.
“Tire tracks in the snow on the lower drive,” he said. “They took the hard turn like they knew it.”
Elise wiped flour off her hands and looked up. She was in the middle of cooking Christmas dinner. She’d turned the cabin into something festive and warm. The real pine garland threaded over the mantle, a wreath hung at the window, and paper stars dangled in the doorway. The smell in the air was a mix of cinnamon, woodsmoke, and a turkey cooking in the oven. For a moment, a quick flash of nerves shot through her. She smoothed it with a deep breath.
“Your parents?” she asked.
