Pucker Up (14 page)

Took
something worth stopping for.  To be honest, I ran a few million circles around
him before I figured out how to do it.  But he was always where I left him. 
Still is.

Photos
popped up on her phone.  The first was a candid of Trevor, sitting on her
veranda back home with the remnants of lunch and the paper in front of him.  In
the next one he’d noticed he was being photographed and made a funny face at
the camera that had Faith laughing.

The
last one Madison jumped into the frame.  Trevor was kissing her cheek and had
his hand on her belly, just barely visible in the photo.  She looked so happy. 
The caption read
You know where to find us when your feet get tired.
 

Had
Madison really been like Faith?  The understanding in her eyes suggested it was
true.  And she’d gotten her happy ending.  Maybe it was possible for Faith,
too.

She
got up from the steps and entered the house, her eyes alighting on Peter.  She sat
down at the kitchen table next to him and his piles of grading.  “You decided
to stay,” he said.

“Looks
like it.”

He
looked up at her with a relieved grin.  “Have you come to distract me then for
a much needed break?”

“I
think I have.”  She saw curiosity in his eyes and headed him off at the pass.  “Can
I ask you something personal?”

“Shoot,”
Peter said.

Faith
reached out and took his hand in hers.  “Tell me about your wife.”

A
wistful smile appeared on his face.  “Darcy was incredible.  She had this
amazing stare.  She’d look at you, and she could see right to the core of you. 
Scared the hell out of me at twenty-one.  Melody has it too and still has the
power to strike fear.” 

“What
was the scariest thing she ever told you?”

Peter’s
face sobered.  “That she was dying.”  Faith squeezed his hand, and he
continued.  “She was dying from the moment I met her, but it was always the
least interesting thing about her.  She had this irresistible spirit, this
spunk.  She was one of the most caring people I ever met.  She cared, really
cared, about everyone and was just the nicest person.”

“She
sounds perfect.”

Peter’s
eyes sparkled.  “Definitely not.  She was a bit of a menace in the kitchen. 
Frankly pretty surprised a fireman didn’t marry her before I did what with all
the fires she started.  She could swear like a sailor if you got her going. 
Stubborn as an ox and hated letting people help her.  It’s a wonder she ever
gave me the time of day.”

“Stubbornness
is no match for the Andrews charm.”

Peter
laughed and leaned back in his chair.  “I miss her voice the most.  The way she
said my name.  The way her tone could tell me exactly what she was thinking.” 
He shook his head, lost in thought, before his eyes refocused on Faith.  “She
would have liked you.”

“That’s
a nice thought.”

“It’s
true,” Peter said.  “I told her all about you.”

Faith
rolled her eyes.  “All horrible things, I’m sure.”

“East,
come on, you know that’s not true.” 

She
shrugged.  Peter’s words hit a chord in her.  The way he talked about his wife
was the way Madison talked about Trevor – deep and honest and pure.  Had Dustin
talked about her that way, a decade ago when their love was more than just a
mirage in the distance?

She
patted Peter’s hand and got up, feeling the need to run again.  “Do you want to
know?” he asked, his eyes already back on the grading in front of him.

“Know
what?”

“What
Darcy said was at the core of Dustin?”  She stopped halfway across the kitchen,
looking at the back of his head bent over the papers.  “You.  She told me it
was you.”

Dustin
turned off the band saw and dropped down onto a nearby bale of hay.  He didn’t
have any animals to feed, but he used it for the garden.  Also it made a
wonderfully uncomfortable place to sit when the world wouldn’t leave him
alone. 

He
looked at his equipment and laughed at himself.  He knew better than to try and
use the saw when he wasn’t a hundred percent present.  Usually he worked until
exhaustion, hyper-focused on the task in front of him so stray thoughts
couldn’t make their way in.  This was exactly the opposite, so much noise
already in his mind he couldn’t make room for anything but routine.  Blades
belonged nowhere near him right now if he wanted to keep all of his fingers.

What
had he been thinking, running to Faith and asking her to stay?  Stay for what,
for him?  That was laughable – they weren’t anything but strangers that sparked
when they touched.  And now she was here, in his house for another night, and he
had no idea what he wanted to do about it. 

He’d
grabbed her hand, placed it over his heart and drew her in close, and the
minute she touched him, he wanted to run in the other direction.  She made him
feel so uncomfortable in his skin.  Not because she didn’t belong, because she
felt too right.  She’d taken huge pieces of him with her the last time she left
– why the hell would he invite her in to take more?  The only foregone
conclusion was that she was leaving.  Why would he leave the door unlocked and
invite the thief to come and play?

His
eyes drifted to the unfinished porch swing in the corner of the barn.  He liked
to collect reasons not to work on it, store them up in the bank until he could
collect dividends on his apathy.  The truth was he had started it ten years
ago, the minute he found out he was going to be a father.  He wanted something
tangible for the baby.  He’d toyed with the idea of a rocking chair but settled
on a porch swing instead, something big enough for them all to use together,
here.  Roots. 

He
never touched it and rarely looked at it, but it felt right that it was there,
a constant if unvoiced reminder.  Not like the lemon tree that screamed at him
every day.  Dustin walked to the corner and removed the tarp.  He sat down on
it, closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath.  He ran his hand over the
arm rest, still smooth to his touch. 

He
made this for his little girl, he thought, tears welling up his eyes.  He took
out his pocketknife and ran the blade over the wood.  It’s time it got her
name.

Faith
had lain on the grass, staring up at the meandering clouds, and couldn’t stop
the tears from running down her face.  Gosh, she was becoming a neurotic mess. 
She’d needed fresh air and thought wandering along the property would be a good
idea – get her legs past the gazebo and into the beauty of the landscape.  But
her feet had been on autopilot and she’d ended up on the cute little patch near
the mighty oak tree.  The one Dustin had always said would provide them cover
on rainy days.

He
said he’d build them a house there, build her a quiet oasis where they could
shut out the rest of the world and just enjoy being alive.  She still
remembered when he’d said it to her.  He’d wrapped a big yellow ribbon around
the tree, and they’d had a picnic right under it, still dressed in their
wedding clothes.  He’d carried her from the car so she wouldn’t get mud on her
new white heels, and they’d shared their only meal as husband and wife.  She
hadn’t thought about that moment in years.

 
She’d grabbed a spare twig, and her fingers tried to strum it, the closest
thing she could get to a guitar.  Words formed in her mind, writing a song as
she wept.

The sorrows of tomorrow
have slowly slipped away

and I’m mired in
the trials of all those yesterdays.

Simple, those
decisions that chased my course away

from the path you
find yourself on, where I wish I had stayed.

Regretful – things
could have turned out right

Regretful – there
weren’t any more nights

Regretful – like a
sinner on their knees

Regretful – apologies
stolen by the breeze

Faith
felt freer walking back up to the house, like she always did when the words had
come out.  The angst, the fear, the doubt, it all seeped into the song, her
steps lighter, the smile not so hard to keep, not so adverse to being reminded
of better days.

She’d
spent quite a few of those days in this house, at that dining room table, just
being content with the moment she was in.  It had been hard for her then, the
planner trying to see five steps ahead; it was even harder for her now when her
future hadn’t turned out anything like she thought it would.  But she’d managed
it with an Andrews man by her side and an apple tart.

Faith
entered the house, and her stomach grumbled in agreement.  She could use both
of those things right now; one option seemed a whole lot safer than the other. 
The kitchen was pristine – tarts couldn’t be that hard to find. 

“What
are you doing?”  She jumped at the sound of Dustin’s voice so close, unable to
look anything but guilty as she turned.  He was looking at her quizzically as
he leaned, one forearm braced against the fridge, one hand on his hip.

“Looking
for the famous apple tarts,” she murmured with a sheepish grin. 

“Ahh,”
he said, a half-smile tugging on his lips, “most people are.”

“So,
are you going to point me in the right direction?”

He
smacked a hand against his stomach.  “I finished them off this morning.  We’re
all out.”

“Well,”
she said, slowly crossing the kitchen, “could you make me some?”

“Me?”
he murmured in an incredulous tone.  “What makes you think I’m the one that
makes them?”

She
shrugged, stopping right in front of him to lean against the fridge door, their
bodies almost touching.  “I figure both the Andrews boys can make them.  Might
be the only thing you can make, always a holy terror in the kitchen.  Teach me
how.”

Dustin
smiled.  “I was the holy terror, was I?  I believe it was you, Ms. West, that
almost burnt down Bea’s kitchen at the ranch, wasn’t it?”  He straightened away
and moved to the counter.

“That
was years ago,” Faith said, waving the comment away.  “And I’ve picked up a few
things since then.”

“Such
as?”

“How
to order take-out when my chef has the night off.” 

Dustin
let out a full laugh at that.  “I’m sure Bea wishes you had learned that trick
just a tad earlier.”  She remembered all too well the fire.  They’d already spent
a handful of nights looking after the lemon tree, her and Dustin, and she’d finally
suggested they grab a bite to eat.  It was late, and the place had been
deserted, but Dustin had a key to the kitchen, he had a key to everywhere, so
they snuck in.  He thought she just wanted to grab a handful of picnic food,
but she had other ideas.

Tara
had always said the way to a man’s heart was his stomach.  Her go-to meal was
bacon and eggs – guys loved bacon, and eggs were easy to make for the
unskilled.  Faith had seen her make them and thought it couldn’t have been all
that much harder to man the pan.  She’d been very wrong. 

The
bacon grease had spit at her.  Dustin had pulled her across the kitchen, under
the faucet to run water over her burn, and the pan had stayed on the burner. 
As they shared a moment, a fire started on the stove.  She’d grabbed for a cup
of water but, thankfully, he’d stopped her from throwing it.  He’d snatched the
pan, moved it to the sink, and covered the flames with baking soda to smother
them.   She’d been so impressed they’d had their first kiss on the spot,
surrounded by smoke and the smell of bacon.  Bacon still reminded her of him;
having a vegan chef cut down on his memory floating up over breakfast.

“I
know it now, so that’s progress, right?  And there wasn’t that much smoke
damage, really.”

“You
weren’t the one that had to explain to Bea about the mess in the sink the next
morning.  I was mighty damaged.”

Faith
moved to perch against the island right across from him, mirroring his laidback
posture so the tips of their shoes almost touched.  “I think I paid you well
for your heroism,” she said.

Dustin
pushed himself away from the counter and came towards her.  “Did you now?” he
asked, placing his hands on the tile beside her, boxing her in.  “No,” he said
with a shake of his head, “no, I’m not sure I remember that.  Care to remind me?”

She
studied him for a moment before grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling him
down towards her, bringing their faces closer together.  She leaned forward to
whisper in his ear.  “Gonna have to put out another fire first.”

He
inched backwards, and his gaze took in the length of her, slinking slowly down
her body.  She felt her breath hitch in her throat as her pulse quickened. 
“Nowadays, I think I’m much better at starting them,” he murmured, his eyes pausing
at her lips.  She couldn’t stop her tongue from darting out to moisten them as
he stared.

“Well
then, you can teach me how to do that, too,” she whispered.

He
grinned suddenly, the sight of his full white smile all the more dazzling
because of its rarity.  “Ahh darlin’,” he said, “I don’t think you need any of
my help with that.”

Dustin
lowered his face towards hers, bringing their lips within inches of each
other.  But Faith blanched and let go of his shirt, pushing him away from her. 
Every other time their lips touched this weekend had ended in disaster.  She didn’t
want to keep descending into madness and anger.  She used to enjoy his company;
she just wanted to enjoy it again.

“Tarts
not forest fires,” she said.  He was still leaning over her.  “You can stand
over there and show me how to cook.”

“Can’t,”
he said, his eyes alight with humor.  “Have to stay close for this lesson.”

“You
have to hover to show me how to use a mixer?”

Dustin
took a step back at that comment.  “Mixer?!” he said, looking aghast.  “You
want to use a mixer on my two-hundred-year-old pie crust recipe?  We believe in
tradition around here.”

“What
do you use then?  A wooden spoon?”

“These,”
he said, grabbing her hands and pulling them to him, forcing her away from the
counter.  He ran his thumbs over the palms of her hands, trailing down her fingers. 
“We’re gonna use these.”

Dustin
liked the slight look of panic on Faith’s face as he stroked her hands. 
Walking into his kitchen and asking for a cooking lesson had been bold – she
just didn’t know how much.  Reminding him of their first kiss hadn’t been the
best idea either; he could see her struggling with maintaining an emotional
distance, and that was not the right way to go.  He’d been the one that asked
her to stay, needed her to stay for reasons he didn’t want to examine, and he
was tired of fighting.  Getting hands-on sounded like the best way to use it.

“Doesn’t
easy as pie mean making pie is easy,” she murmured, snatching her hands back. 
“That does not sound easy.  It sounds messy.”

He
laughed and turned from her to grab a bowl.  He had actually made tart dough
earlier, and it was chilling in the fridge, but he wasn’t about to tell her
that.  “It’s easy once you know what you’re doing.  And messy and easy aren’t
mutually exclusive.  In fact they usually travel together.”

“Around
you I’m sure they do.”

He
grabbed the butter from the freezer and turned.  “Which would you rather be – messy
or easy?”  She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest.  “Ahh,” he
whispered as he leaned around her to place the bowl on the counter, “who’s regretting
asking for a lesson now?”

“Not
me,” she said in her breezy tone of voice.  “I’ll endure a lot of things for an
apple tart.  You included.”

“You’re
going to regret saying that,” he said as he spun her around to face her
workspace.  “Let’s tart it up.”

“God,
what am I going to do with you?” She sighed in exasperation.

“I
have a few ideas,” he said suggestively before his tone changed.  “Now, the
best crusts are flaky because of butter.  Butter is the answer to everything. 
Not sure that’s something you’ve had in a while now that you’re vegan.  Did I
mention these tarts are not exactly vegan friendly?  Vegetarians would be all
over them though.”    

“I’m
vegan by convenience not necessity.”

“Who’s
vegan by convenience?” he asked as he emptied a canister into the mixing bowl,
all the dry ingredients already measured out.  The Andrews house made a lot of
tarts.  “What’s convenient about not using butter or milk or eggs when
cooking?”

“Well,
since I’m not the one doing the cooking I yield to the one with the chef hat.”

“Oh,”
he said, reaching over to grab the chef’s hat his nieces bought for him, “well,
today that’s me.”  He leaned down to whisper in her ear.  “Can I expect you to
yield?”