Cedar Creek Seasons (8 page)

A smile that certainly appeared content eased across his face. “In many ways, yes. Most ways, actually. I have everything I need except …”

Someone to share it with?

His gaze rose to the Goliath-sized bellows. “… shop space on the third floor.” He grinned and slid his hand over hers. “Which brings me to the real reason for this dinner.”

Willow gulped.
Yes?

“It was Star’s idea to fill out the application for you, and I offered to write your essay because you do amazing work and people need to see it and you clearly need more space and”—he took a quick breath and his hand tightened on hers—“because I can’t think of a more deserving, kind, wonderful person to lose to.”

Her spine turned to jelly. “But you won’t lose. Not a chance.” Stealthily she took out one of the business cards she’d taken from his display and slid it under her saucer.
Not if I can help it
.

S
he hadn’t expected him to show up at the chili contest, but there he was standing next to her, appearing to hold his breath right along with her as the judges closed in on the Cedar Creek Chocoffee Chicken Chili.

What she really hadn’t expected was his hand encasing her tight fist.

Did he even know what he was doing, or was it a reflexive action brought on by the suspense of the moment? She eased the pent-up tension in her right hand the way she used to lift one finger at a time from Ralphy’s back when he was finally asleep. It took five judges tasting six pots of chili to completely relax. The moment she did, Wilson laced his fingers through hers.

Were her calloused hands irritating to a man who wielded an itty-bitty paintbrush all day? Was she gripping enough? Too much? Would he think she’d never held hands with a man before? She had. Eleven years ago, come Valentine’s Day. Pitiful.

The small crowd clapped. What had she missed?

He dropped her hand.

What had she done? Had he finally realized his hand was interlocked with hers? “Go.”

And now he was telling her to get away from him?

“Willow?” The head judge stared at her, head tipped to the side. “Do you want this or are you holding out for first?”

The room dissolved in laughter. She’d won second place.

Cheeks ablaze, she took the certificate and walked back to her spot next to the cheering man who painted pictures and framed canvases … and engulfed her in arms that apparently at times wielded more than a teensy paintbrush.

The beaver coat hadn’t had this much fun since Groundhog Day of 1925 when Grossvater and his frat buddies dressed a statue of Christopher Columbus in a chicken suit and got expelled for a week.

He and Willow had spent the morning tasting and voting on chili submitted by local restaurants then huddled together for warmth while they watched the parade. As they held hands and sipped hot chocolate spiked with cayenne pepper, Wilson had never been so grateful for the cold.

He blinked back into the here and now and secured a handhold behind the headboard of the rickety brass bed-on-skids. On the bed, dressed in a vintage paperboy outfit, Ralphy leaned on a pile of pillows, newspaper in hand, calling out, “Read all about it! Cedarvaudevillians performing live at Winter Festival Bed Race!”

Dressed in knickers, Del manned one side of the foot of the bed. On the opposite side, Star twirled knee-length pearls. Fringe jiggled on the way-too-big flapper dress flouncing over her jacket and jeans. To his right stood Willow in a yellow-and-black-striped suit topped off with a straw boater hat and cane. But the thing that undid him was the mustache painted on her top lip.

“Ready?” She reached out and spun the copter on his beanie cap and twitched her ‘stache. Once again he was reduced to laughter the likes of which he’d never, before Willow, experienced. If he ever found the alien responsible for sucking the common sense out of his normally practical brain he’d have to … hug it. “Ready.”

He’d attended many a bed race over the years—from the safety of the crowd lining the banks of Cedar Creek behind the old mill. Never from the frozen surface of the middle of the river. “One-two-three-
go
!” He pushed. The crowd cheered. The bed moved. To the left. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Green Bay Packer quilt on their rival’s bed slide out of sight. “Come on, Del!” He moved closer to the boy’s side of the bed. “Let’s give it all we—”

Del’s feet slid out from under him. As the bed slid past, Wilson snatched him in a football hold. “Grab on here!” He held him until the boy found his footing.

“Nice save!” Willow yelled as they rounded the barrel and got a full view of the Packer bed closing in on the finish line.

“We’re losing.”

“Are you having fun?” Willow panted out the words.

Wilson grinned. “Absolutely.”

“Then we’re not”—they slid over the yellow tape marking the finish line at a forty-five-degree angle three bed lengths behind their competition—“losing!”

This time, as the crowd cheered, it was Willow who initiated the hug.

Hand in hand they walked past ice sculptures of Aaron Rodgers, Elvis, and a squat troll then climbed the worn steps to the shop space they were fighting over. Willow smiled up at Wilson’s cold-pinked face. “I assume you have a game plan for working the crowd.”

“I do.”

Nice words
. “Is it a secret?”

“Yes. You’ll just have to watch me in action.”

She did watch. As live music drifted through the corridors and tourists filtered in and out of the empty shop, gapers gathered around Wilson and his painting-in-progress. One woman commented on his “folksy realism.” Many mentioned how wonderful it would be to see all of his work in one place.

Willow engaged a steady flow of oohers and aahers. She handed out brochures and business cards and took three orders in the first hour but ended each conversation with, “Are you familiar with Wilson Woodhaus’s work?” and gestured toward his easels. Then she’d whisper, “Vote for him. I’m just here for the fun.”

Around four o’clock Wilson took a break and walked over to her. “How’s my favorite enemy? I didn’t ask if
you
had a game plan.”

“I do.”
Nice words
. “But it’s also top secret.”

“Judging by the number of lingerers, I think you and I are way ahead of the others and just about tied with each other.”

But not in the votes
. She smiled. “Time will tell.”

He straightened her business cards and opened one of her trifold pamphlets. She pointed to a cluster of potential voters gathering at his easels. “You have customers.”

“I’ll get to them. I was just wondering if maybe you’d like to come over to my place tonight. I thought we could sit by the fire and discuss strategies for winning.”

“Does that mean you’ll divulge secrets?”

His eyes held hers for a long, light-headed moment. “I think it’s safe to say some secrets will be divulged.”

W
illow curled up on one end of the overstuffed plaid couch and watched the fire in the potbellied stove through a clear glass cup of hot cherry cider. The flames seemed to dance to the music coming from tiny speakers on top of the antique buffet Wilson had turned into an entertainment center. “This music is so familiar. What is it?”

“Verdi.
The Force of Destiny
.” Wilson sat about ten inches away from her, arm resting on the back of the couch, stocking feet sharing a leather ottoman with hers. “Are you a classical aficionado?”

“Um. No. I’m actually more of an oldies aficionado. I like music I can dance to.”

His lips pinched, giving his profile a stern schoolteacher look. “I see.”

“Opposites are supposed to attract, you know.”

“That would explain it, then.” He shifted so he was facing her. “You’re spontaneous, I’m a planner. You cook, I microwave. You like playing in the snow and I like painting it.” The heat from his smile rivaled the flames. “What’s your favorite movie genre? I’m guessing romantic comedy.”

She laughed. “My life is a comedy. Not the romantic variety, but I live with comedians. I don’t need to pay to—” Her phone, sitting next to the tissue box, vibrated. She picked it up. “Hello.”

“Willi!” Star’s panic-filled voice brought every muscle to attention. “Ralphy stuck a bean up his nose!”

Willow closed her eyes for a second then held the phone out and pressed the
Speaker
button. “As I was saying …” she whispered then returned her volume to normal. “Cooked or uncooked?”

“Uncooked. From that bag you left open on the counter.”

So now it’s my fault?
“Okay. Good. Well, not good he stuck a bean in his nose, but good it’s uncooked and good it’s one of those. They’re small.” She held up one finger to Wilson and mouthed “Listen to this.” First, she had to swipe the smile from her face. “Put a tissue between your face and his nose then pinch the nostril without the bean in it shut. Now put your mouth on his like you’re doing CPR and—”

“
What?
Are you craaaazy? I am not going to put my mouth on—”

“Okay, try this first. Have him pinch the clear nostril shut and blow his nose. Gently.” As they listened to Star relaying instructions, she simply stared at Wilson’s smile.

“I envy you,” he whispered. “My life is so boring compared to—”

“Eeewww! Gross. It worked.”

“Okay. Thanks for watching them, honey. Get them to bed so you can have a little time to yourself.”

“How are things going with you? He kiss you yet?”

Willow’s face warmed. She reached out for the
Speaker
button. Wilson caught her hand then leaned closer to the phone. “Not yet, Star. Do I have your permission?”

“Yes. You have my permission. Just remember everything I told you.”

“I remem … ber.” His answer slurred as his lips touched Willow’s in a soft, tender, too-short kiss.

And Star laughed.

The secret he’d intended to divulge was that he liked her. A lot.
Not
that he’d told her daughter he liked her. Or that her daughter had given her blessing and had warned him not to hurt the most important person in her life. But now he’d gone and said it all. And Willow sat with a growing pyramid of crumpled tissues on her lap.

“You really told her that and she really said that?”

“Yes.” He ran the back of his hand along her soft, damp cheek. “All those thats.”

“You have no idea what those thats mean to me. Star and I have always been close, but life is difficult for her. All these years since her mother died she’s waffled between gratitude and being angry that I’m taking her mother’s place. To hear her say I’m the m–most imp–portant person in her l–life is just so …” Her eyes gleamed. “You’ve brought out good things in my girl.”

“Art can be amazing therapy, allowing someone to open up parts of themselves they’ve kept closed. But you and God and her mother put those things in her.”

“Artists can be good therapy, too.” Her lips tipped up at the corners and she glanced toward the little woodstove. “I’m not generally a relaxer, but you make me feel peaceful.”

“And you”—his fingers slipped through her hair—“have brought laughter into my life. I wake up every morning now wondering what adventure Willow’s going to drag me into. My life used to fit so neatly into the little boxes on my day planner. I thought I was happy that way.”