Cedar Creek Seasons (19 page)

“What do you do here all day?”

“I’m not here all day. I work at the church—”

“But that’s just on Saturday and Sunday, right?”

Chesca gritted her teeth. Zoe wasn’t the only one who underestimated her job. “No, I work there almost every day, especially during holidays. Plus, I work at the music box store.”

“You own it?”

“No, Mrs. Metzger, who owns this house, also owns the store.” Friends with everyone, her landlady would be far more adept at fourth-grade conversation than Chesca. But a note on their message board said Mrs. Metzger, despite her age, was checking on their elderly neighbor. Chesca fought a sudden surge of tears. If only Mrs. Metzger would come home. If only Zoe would disappear. Chesca could cry and cry, and those ample arms would hold her close. She opened a kitchen cabinet so the girl couldn’t see her face. “You want some hot chocolate while I make sandwiches?”

“Is it powder or syrup? Do you have marshmallows?”

Chesca held up the packets. “Dutch chocolate or raspberry crème. No marshmallows. Sorry.”

Zoe fell back with a sigh of resignation. “Dutch chocolate, I guess.”

Chesca shoved mugs of water into her microwave and glanced at the time. One o’clock. Seven, maybe eight hours before this girl’s bedtime. Chesca wouldn’t ask. She’d just turn off the electricity, if necessary. She slapped turkey sandwiches together. Bananas and granola bars completed the menu. She scanned her shelves. No brownie mix. Chesca didn’t like to bake, but it might have kept Zoe occupied.

Thankfully, the girl seemed too hungry to critique their meal.

“You want half of mine?” Chesca’s sandwich felt like lead in her stomach.

“Sure.” Zoe brightened.

After lunch, however, the interrogation resumed. “You don’t have a TV?” She acted as if Chesca had disowned gravity.

“I usually watch television with Mrs. Metzger—when she’s home.” Chesca emphasized the last word.

“Where’s your computer?”

“I use the ones at work.”

Zoe rolled her eyes and pulled her iPhone from her red satin jeans pocket. For the first time, Chesca understood why adults let technology babysit their children. But as she cleaned up, nagging empathy reminded her that Zoe hadn’t chosen their togetherness, either. This storm had wreaked havoc on everyone.

Her thoughts turned toward her landlady. Even a walk from next door posed risk of a nasty fall. “I’m going downstairs to see if Mrs. Metzger’s home yet.”

Zoe nodded, her eyes glued to the phone’s screen.

Chesca toured the lower story and peered out windows. No one. She called their neighbor’s.

Yes, Mrs. Metzger had decided to stay put. If the storm let up before nightfall, she’d return. Chesca made her promise to call first so she could walk with her.

Chesca hung up, relieved, but a wave of loneliness sent her back upstairs, where Zoe raised a finger in answer to her “hi.” Grabbing a library book, Chesca dropped into a chair. She jumped when the “Hallelujah Chorus” reverberated from her pocket.

“So, you
do
have a cell phone.” Zoe sounded relieved.

Indoor plumbing, too
. Chesca almost said it. Instead, she checked her phone’s ID.

Seth.

Zoe’s thumbs stopped moving. “I bet that’s Mr. Amundsen. He said he would call.”

Since Mrs. Metzger might call, Chesca set the phone on vibrate and stuck it back into her pocket.

Zoe resumed tapping.

Ten minutes later, the phone vibrated against Chesca’s hip. She checked it. Stuffed it back into her pocket. Ten minutes later, it happened again. Then again.

Seth, leave me alone
. If she heard his voice, she would fall apart.

The ice played a mad
rat-a-tat
on the bay window. Zoe’s thumbs tapped unmercifully on her iPhone. Chesca’s cell buzzed like a hornet. She wanted to grip her head and scream. Instead, she took refuge in her bedroom and tried to think logically.

Sooner or later, she and Seth would have to talk. A miniscule voice whispered that maybe—just maybe—there might be an explanation for what she saw in the kitchen. But the scene rewound and replayed a hundred times in her head: the traitorous kiss, the shock on Seth’s face, the triumph in Taryn’s eyes, not only in the kitchen, but throughout the whole tortuous rehearsal … an explanation? The meaning seemed all too clear.

Let him suffer her silence awhile. Besides, if they talked, Zoe would hear every word.

How could she make this unbearable day endurable—for her and for Zoe? Her eyes lit on the basket of pisanki on Babcia’s sewing machine table. Of course. She rose from the bed.

“Zoe, would you like to color Easter eggs with me?”

A few weeks before, after he surprised her with the donkey, Chesca wore down, finally answering her cell. But today? He could fill up her voice mail, and she wouldn’t answer.

The plateful of Cajun shrimp pizza rolls Seth had microwaved steamed invitingly, but for once, he passed on them and his playoff reruns.

Letting things fester between Chesca and him wasn’t the answer. And how could the cantata—if it happened—bless his friends and their families, with Chesca wanting to murder him? Not that he was feeling charitable himself …

Again he wandered to a window and stared outside. Still the usual streetlights and twinkles from neighboring houses. No power outage. The sleet definitely was dwindling. He checked The Weather Channel. From all indications, the storm was on the wane. He could already hear the rumble of good old Wisconsin snowplows. They’d probably salt the streets all night.

The cantata would happen. He felt it in his bones. Seth re-microwaved and ate the pizza rolls. A man needed a full stomach to be at his best, whether directing a drama, playing football, or fighting with and for the woman he loved.

He bowed his head briefly then went out into the night.

“What a beautiful egg.” Mrs. Metzger held Zoe’s psychedelic pink-and-turquoise creation with proper reverence.

Zoe’s eyes shone. “You can have it. I made a blue-and-yellow one for Mom and Greg.”

Chesca, sitting beside her in front of Mrs. Metzger’s fireplace, stifled a sigh. Decorating pisanki had transformed the impossible afternoon and helped keep her pain within reasonable bounds. Answering Zoe’s questions about egg sessions with her mother and Babcia made Chesca miss them even more, but it somehow soothed the loneliness Easter always brought. And it helped her ignore her quiet phone.

Their truce almost broke that evening when Zoe pronounced Chesca’s lentil soup “hot snot.” But Mrs. Metzger’s phone call and subsequent homecoming—and her chocolate macaroons—apparently made up for the supper.

Mrs. Metzger’s mantel clock chimed nine o’clock. Eight whole hours, and neither she nor Zoe had committed homicide. “Time for bed, Zoe. It looks like the cantata will happen tomorrow, so we’ll be getting up early.”

Joy mingled with annoyance on the girl’s face. “But I don’t have a toothbrush—”

“I have extras. Tell Mrs. Metzger good night.”

To Chesca’s surprise, Zoe seemed to like her landlady’s hug.

“Come down afterward, Chesca, if you’d like a little company.” Mrs. Metzger’s x-ray eyes had missed nothing.

Knowing she wouldn’t sleep, Chesca nodded wearily.

Nested in quilts on Chesca’s sofa, Zoe resembled a baby bird. “Will you leave a light on? And the door open if you go downstairs?”

So Zoe wasn’t a miniature CEO, after all. She needed reassurance. What to do? No, no good-night kiss. They’d achieved semipeaceful coexistence, not warm fuzzies. Chesca patted her back awkwardly. “I’ll stay awhile, if you’d like.” She sank into a chair.

Whatever other virtues Zoe lacked, she fell asleep fast. Chesca watched the child’s even breathing, her cheek pillowed on her hand. For the first time, Chesca wondered what it would be like to watch her own little girl sleep….

But that seemed a remote possibility, especially tonight. The tears she’d fought all day flowed. Chesca made her way downstairs.

Halfway down, she halted. And choked.

By the fireplace, a tall male figure wearing bunny ears wiggled a poofy white tail attached to the posterior of his jeans. He turned around.

Seth.

“Happy Easter!”

“Happy
Easter?
” She almost hissed the last word. “How can you say that after—”

“Care to bunny hop?” He pranced to the foot of the stairs.

They vibrated under Chesca’s feet. How could such a big man look so—so ridiculously
cute?
“I certainly do not.”

“Then come down and talk to me.”

“I don’t want to do that, either.”

“No matter how you try to get rid of me, I will always be there.” He was grinning, but his jaw set as if he meant it. “In one way or another.”

Would he show up at Christmas Eve service in an elf suit? On New Year’s in a diaper with a bottle? With infinite possibilities scrolling through her mind, she decided to end the nonsense. “All right. But stop hopping. You’ll wake Zoe. And—and—”

“And what?”

“Remove those ears. And that absurd tail.”

“Why? I thought I looked rather fetching.”

Grrrr
. Fighting the impulse to laugh and cry and throw something at him, Chesca descended and sat on Mrs. Metzger’s sofa. Where
was
Mrs. Metzger? Chesca heard a few faint bars of Mozart coming from her landlady’s bedroom.

Seth wiggled his tail again, and she smothered a traitorous laugh.
Stop it. I want to stay mad at you
. If only she could pretend the scene with Taryn had never happened, snuggle into those strong arms, feel the rumble of his laugh deep in his chest …

“Let’s cut to the chase, Chesca.” Bunny ears flopping with each word, Seth struck a lawyer’s stance. “What exactly did you see when you entered the kitchen?”

Fresh anger armed her for battle. “You were kissing your ex-fiancée.”

“Wrong.
She
was kissing me.” He glowered. “Which I would have told you, given half a chance.”

That brought her to her feet. “Oh, so I’m the bad guy here.”

“No, you’re not the bad guy.” His voice softened. “You’re not a guy at all.”

“Neither is Taryn.” She almost spat the name.

Seth’s eyes shot blue sparks. “Yes, Taryn is an attractive woman. But please give me some credit, Chesca. I want more than looks—”

“So it was my great personality you liked?”

“No. I mean, yes.” He threw his hands up. “Why do women always ask impossible questions?”

“Why are you yelling?” Zoe, hugging her pillow and rubbing her eyes, had descended halfway down the stairs. At the sight of Seth, her jaw dropped. She rubbed them again.

Go ahead, Seth. Explain
.

“Um, I decided to play Easter Bunny and bring treats for you and Miss Chesca.”

Pretty good. Chesca hadn’t noticed he’d carried a basket of chocolate eggs.

“I’m too old for the Easter bunny. But thanks, anyway.” Zoe gave the candy an affectionate glance, but she repeated her question. “Why were you yelling?”

Shame heated Chesca’s cheeks. No doubt, they were keeping Mrs. Metzger awake, too. She walked to the bottom of the staircase. “I’m sorry we woke you, Zoe. We were having a discussion—”

Zoe snorted. “Yeah, my mom and Greg have discussions, too.”

“I was yelling. I’m sorry.” Seth ducked his head.

Zoe descended until she almost looked Chesca in the eye. “It sounded like you thought Mr. Amundsen kissed that big blond lady in the kitchen. But he didn’t.”

Their eyes on her, Zoe assumed her stage persona. “I was reading in the corner. The blond lady followed Mr. Amundsen and was all over him before he could say a word.” She eyeballed Chesca. “Then
you
showed up. He pushed her away and ran after you.”

Blunt Zoe usually told the truth. She certainly wouldn’t lie in order to make Chesca feel better. Chesca didn’t dare look at Seth. She closed her eyes and wished she could disappear…. “It’s late. I’ll tuck you in again. And I promise we won’t have any more loud discussions.”

“Why don’t you both tuck me in?” Zoe had them where she wanted them. “But Mr. Amundsen?”

“Yes, Zoe?”

“Please take off that stupid bunny outfit.”

He complied. Together they ascended the stairs. After requests for drinks of water and stories—stories Zoe wanted to tell—they left the light on, the door open a crack, and headed downstairs. Chesca wondered if Seth would simply walk out. Exhausted, she dropped onto the settee.