'Tis the Season Read online

  “Nah. It was a challenge.”

  “Still, I—” She stumbled on a rock, and for one horrible, slow-motion moment, thought she would fall and drop her end of the loom. She didn’t.

  Sam paused until she regained her balance. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, taking a deep breath, “but my life just passed before my eyes. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to this loom. Maybe my price for being your designer is too high.”

  “Anna, nothing will happen to this loom, so quit worrying. Now, easy does it up the steps and we’re home free.”

  Despite his matter-of-fact tone, she didn’t believe for a minute that her stumbling hadn’t scared him. She’d seen the flash of concern and could imagine his heartbreak if the loom had been damaged. Thankfully, it hadn’t been.

  “Where do you want it?”

  “Right here in the parlor is fine.” She hadn’t thought about where she would put the loom, but she was ready to set it down and end the risk of dropping it. She nodded in the direction of the bay window. “Over by the light.”

  Sam helped her position the loom so that she would be able to weave and glance out at the wooded area of the nature preserve. Then he surveyed the rest of the room. “You weren’t kidding about not decorating this place, were you?”

  She laughed. “Nope. Looks a little bare, I guess.”

  “I’ll say this, it’s uncluttered.”

  “Considering that the loom is the only piece of furniture so far, I suppose you could call it uncluttered.”

  “Shouldn’t you at least put up curtains or something?”

  “Why?” She said the first thing that came to her. “I don’t run around the house naked.”

  The moment froze as they stared at each other. She watched Sam’s throat move in a convulsive swallow. “Would you…would you like some coffee?” she managed at last.

  His tone was strained. “Sure.”

  “Anything else?” Her face grew hot. “I mean, like breakfast? I have eggs and bacon and some—”

  “Coffee will be fine,” he said, the tightness still in his voice. “The bench for the loom is still in the truck. I’ll get it while you pour the coffee.”

  They each bolted from the room in different directions. In the kitchen, Anna held her hands to her burning cheeks. Had her comment about running around naked been a Freudian slip? Was she trying so hard to hide her attraction to him that her interest surfaced in other ways?

  * * *

  Out at the truck, Sam paused to take several long, steadying breaths. Anna had made herself clear last night. She didn’t want to start a relationship on the rebound. He didn’t want her to do that, either. So he had to control himself around her and keep everything light and friendly.

  He’d managed well until she blurted out that insane comment about running around naked and followed it by asking him if he wanted anything besides coffee from her. Hell, yes, he wanted something besides coffee.

  But he didn’t relish the idea of becoming the guy she used to forget her old boyfriend. Her own doubts about her attraction to him had to be cleared away before anything more happened between them. In the meantime, he hoped she wouldn’t make any more statements that sent his imagination into dangerous territory. He opened the passenger side of the cab and took out the bench he’d propped upside down on the seat.

  When he brought it into the house, Anna met him in the bare parlor with two mugs of coffee. To an observer, they might be newlyweds moving into their first house. He quickly banished the thought, and focused instead on placing the bench in front of the loom and accepting the coffee with a smile of thanks.

  “I still can’t believe the loom is here, in my house,” she said, caressing the polished wood with her free hand. “Look how the light from the window makes the wood glow.”

  Fool that he was, he noticed how the light from the window made her fiery hair glow. “I had it back in a corner, covered with dust,” he said. “I’m glad it’s not still there.”

  “Wait until you see it with a weaving in progress. Oh, wait, you probably have.”

  “I have some great memories of watching my grandmother make something on that loom.”

  “I’ll bet. I don’t know which I love more, the beauty of a loom or the colors of the yarn.” She sipped her coffee and gazed at the empty loom, as if imagining the wonders she would produce on it.

  “The way you talk about weaving, I’m surprised you haven’t bought your own loom by now.”

  “I should have. I surely should have.” She glanced at him. “Have you ever been around someone with a personality so forceful that you lose track of who you are, what you want from life?”

  “No, can’t say that I have. Your boyfriend?”

  She nodded. “Maybe it happens to women more than men. When Eric came into my life six years ago, he took over everything. His work crowded into every corner of my apartment. There was no room for any­thing else, and he was so good—a genius some said—that I didn’t feel I had the right to protest.”

  “So now you live in a nearly empty house in the country. There’s space all around you.”

  She gazed at him. “Space for a loom. Finally.”

  “Sounds like it’s about time.” He wondered if there was space for him, as well. “I guess this was all a happy accident.”

  “I think it was. And we mustn’t forget the rest of the bargain. When you’ve finished your coffee, I’m ready to tour your house and begin planning the redesigning project.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather buy some yarn and get started on the loom? Tessie Johanson has a yarn shop in town, and I think she’s open Saturdays.”

  “I’ve noticed that shop, and I’ll go there this afternoon, but a deal is a deal. The sooner we go over what needs to be done with your house, the more time ideas will have to ferment in my brain. I can think while I weave, once I know what we’re up against.”

  He drained his cup. “Then let’s go. We’ll take my truck.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll follow in my car. Then I can go on from there into town.”

  “I’d be glad to take you into—” he began, and caught himself. Not twenty minutes ago he’d vowed to go slow. Now he was on the verge of taking her shopping for yarn, and next he’d suggest threading the loom together, sharing supper again, sharing…. He had to get hold of himself. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “It would be simpler if you followed me in your car. Ready to go?”

  “I’ll get my jacket.”

  * * *

  As Anna followed Sam’s truck down the country road bordering their properties, she reminded herself that he was a client, the same as her customers in New York, and she owed him her professional best. A great deal was on the line for him. Not many of her clients faced national television coverage of their redecorated home.

  She didn’t feel like a professional this morning, perhaps because she was traveling to this consultation dressed in lavender sweats rather than a beige business suit. Instead of the slim briefcase that usually rested on the seat beside her, she had a legal pad and ballpoint pen. To make matters even more informal, she’d bartered her services for the use of a floor loom. Good old-fashioned Yankee trading, she thought with a smile.

  Nevertheless, she couldn’t treat this job any differently from all the others she’d taken on through the years. She’d give Sam his money’s worth, or his loom’s worth, in this case. After parking her car, she walked over to where he waited by his truck.

  “How much of the house will we be concerned with?” she asked as they crossed the small covered porch and he opened the unlocked front door.

  “I think all of it, unfortunately. Bedrooms, kitchen, parlor, dining room, maybe even the bathroom, for all I know. I could close a door or two, I suppose, but that would look—”

  “Tacky,” she finished for him. “I agree. If cameras will be snooping everywhere, let’s make sure we cover every detail. If you don’t mind, let’s start ups
tairs with the bedrooms and work down.”

  “Fine with me.” He led the way through the parlor and started up the creaking wooden stairs to the second floor. The stairway had been built in two sections, with a small landing in between. “There are three bedrooms and one bathroom,” he explained, pausing on the landing and turning to make room for her there. “About like your upstairs, I guess.”

  “It’s similar,” she agreed, “except that my stairs aren’t constructed this way. They just go straight up.”

  “Ah, too bad. This was my favorite spot as a kid. Let me show you something.” He squatted next to a door about two feet square set into the narrow wall next to the landing.

  “What is it?” Anna leaned down as he opened the small door.

  “My cubbyhole.” He reached inside and pulled out a dusty rectangular box. “Here’s Parcheesi.” He set the box on the floor in front of him. “And here’s Kentucky Derby.” He placed another box with taped corners on top of the first. “I loved that one. You roll the dice and move the horses along the track.” He lifted the lid and one corner split through the tape.

  “Did your grandparents build this into the wall for you, or was it always here?”

  “I think it’s always been here, but not necessarily for toys. I can still remember the day my grandmother took me by the hand and showed me this little door. The old toys were already in there, but from time to time she’d add a new one, like this, for instance.” He held up a detailed model of a hook and ladder truck. “She bought that when I announced that I wanted to be a fireman.”

  “Your grandmother was really something, wasn’t she?”

  “She taught me what love is,” he said, looking up at her.

  “I can see that.”

  He held her gaze for a moment longer and then broke the contact. “I suppose we’d better put these back. We have things to do.” He put the boxes inside. “Unless I can interest you in a game of Kentucky Derby?”

  “I’d like that sometime. How long since you’ve played?”

  “At least twenty years.” He closed the door and got to his feet. “But that doesn’t matter. There’s no skill involved. Winning depends on the roll of the dice. It’s pretty simplistic.”

  “That could be a relief.” She remembered how Eric had insisted games had to be tests of intellect. When she lost, she felt diminished. When he lost, he sulked.

  “Then it’s a date,” Sam said. “One evening soon we’ll take Kentucky Derby down by the fire, pop popcorn and act like kids.”

  She smiled softly at his enthusiasm. “We’ll see,” she said. “We’re both going to be very busy in the coming months.”

  “True.” He gestured toward the next set of steps. “Ready to go on?”

  Nodding, she followed him up the stairs.

  “My grandfather told me these two houses were built around 1820 by a couple of brothers,” he said over his shoulder. “And supposedly twenty years after that the brothers sold out, packed up their families and headed west.”

  “I wondered if the real estate agent was making that up, but the houses look to be about the same age.”

  “Well, I hope the story’s true, because the TV people wanted to know how old my house was, and when I said almost a hundred and seventy years, they went nuts.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “I explained that I lived alone and hadn’t paid much attention to how the place looked.” He stopped in the hallway and waited for her to join him.

  “And what did they say to that?”

  “They patiently suggested that because I had a chance for free national coverage that would put my Christmas tree farm on the map, that maybe I’d be smart to pay some attention to how the place looked.” He grinned at her. “I saw their point.”

  “Smart fellow.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder and uncapped her pen. “Then I guess we’ll start with this hall. It’s pretty dark and dingy, and the wallpaper….” She paused, remembering that she had to be careful. “Did your grandmother choose this wallpaper?”

  “Yep.”

  “How much do you love it?”

  Sam laughed and stuck his hands in his back pockets. “I don’t. She got the stuff on sale, and my grandfather and I put it up one summer, telling her the whole time that maroon wallpaper with pink peonies would look awful in this hall. Once we’d finished, she hated it, too, but none of us were in the mood to peel it off again.”

  “I can understand that. Wallpaper is no fun to take off.”

  “Especially if you don’t care that much. As my grandparents grew older, they minded less and less that the wallpaper was ugly or the furniture didn’t match. They both were great readers, and their focus shifted away from their surroundings, except for my grandmother and her loom. That was sort of a spiritual thing for her, too, in a way. She claimed that weaving helped her think.”

  Anna remembered the peaceful times she’d spent in front of a loom and had to agree. “You don’t care much about your surroundings, either, do you?” she asked.

  “Will I be in trouble if I say I don’t? After all, we’re talking about your profession.”

  She shrugged. “If I had a choice between someone who’s unconcerned about their surroundings and someone who demands that the washcloths and towels all match, I’ll take the first type.” She smiled at him. “Besides, just because you don’t feel like tackling the job yourself doesn’t mean you won’t enjoy the finished product.”

  Sam leaned against the wall and gazed at her. “It won’t be the same house, though, will it?”

  “Not really,” she answered honestly. “We’re dealing with change in a very personal part of your life, the rooms where you live.”

  “I’m beginning to understand that. After you’re finished, I’ll be living with the results of your work. Your influence, your presence, will be all around me.”

  “Well, I—” She felt the heat in her cheeks once more. “No one’s ever put it quite that way before. Most of my clients like to think the final effect will reflect their tastes, not mine. I just bring their tastes into focus.”

  “But I don’t have any particular tastes.”

  “Yes, you do. You only think you don’t. The wallpaper, for example. We’ll have to strip it. What would you like in its place?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Come on, Sam. Use your imagination.”

  “Well, a light color, maybe. Pale yellow or cream, to make the space bigger.”

  “Exactly. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “Nope. I’ll strip the wallpaper and repaint the hall myself, if that helps.”

  “It’ll help your budget, for one thing.” She scribbled a few notes on her legal pad. “Then let’s move on to the bedrooms, master bedroom first.”

  “Okay. At the end of the hall.” He gestured for her to precede him to a half-open door that faced the stairs.

  “Is it your room?”

  “Now. Used to be my grandparents’.”

  “And there are things in here that are more important to you than maroon wallpaper,” she guessed, stepping inside the light-filled room.

  “That’s right.”

  “A sleigh bed,” she murmured, walking over to run her hand along the footboard railing. The bed and matching double dresser, which she suspected were walnut, had been covered with a layer of deep blue paint. An ivory spread that had seen better days was tucked in around the double mattress and box spring nestled into the curving side rails.

  “The bed stays,” Sam announced from behind her.

  “Oh, absolutely. Sleigh beds are wonderful. I’ve always loved them.”

  “And never owned one?”

  “No.” She turned toward him with a self-deprecating smile. “Once again, by the time I could afford it, I was involved with someone who insisted we have a futon.”

  “There’s quite a difference between a futon and a sleigh bed.” He leaned in the doorway, watching her.

  “I know. Futons are comfortable an
d practical, but I longed for something more encompassing, more solid.” She hadn’t meant to say that. She hadn’t meant to get into this conversation at all. The discussion about toys had softened her up, and now they were trading ideas about beds.

  His blue eyes were warm with thoughts that probably echoed hers.

  “Okay fine, I’ll admit it. I’m attracted to you, okay?”

  He grinned. “And you’re furious at me because of it.”

  “That’s silly. Of course I’m not.”

  “Of course you’re not,” he said mildly.

  “I’m just having trouble trying to keep my head when you’re so charming, and you show me your childhood toys, and we discuss the merits of sleigh beds.”

  “Then I take it you don’t want to hear about the hours of fun I had as a kid playing pirates in this bed?”

  “No.”

  “Or pioneer, and the bed was my covered wagon?”

  “Stop it, Sam. I don’t want to like you so much, so fast.”

  His smile was infectious. “Too bad for you.”

  “Probably.”

  Had he moved toward her then and taken her in his arms, she might not have been able to resist him. Seduced by his teasing, she was losing the grip on her resolve to keep her distance. But he remained leaning in the doorway. Gradually the moment passed.

  “Who painted the furniture blue?” she asked finally.

  “My grandmother. When we check out the other bedrooms, you’ll see that she went through a blue phase. Why?”

  “I think the bed would look better refinished in its natural color.”

  “We can do that. No problem. Tom Carey down at the hardware store refinishes antiques on the side. He’s always told me to holler if I wanted any of my grandparents’ stuff restored. I don’t think he’ll charge too much, either.”

  “Good. Then we may as well have him do the dresser, too. I’m not going to suggest refinishing everything, because it would be very expensive, but these two pieces will make a strong statement.” She glanced at him. “You may have to sleep with the mattress on the floor for a while.”

  “I can bed down anywhere. That’s one thing I learned in all my moving around as a kid.”