Home for Christmas, page 6
“Hello…Earth to Harper. I dipped. I salted. Now what do I do?”
With a sigh, she glanced at the oversized man dwarfing an undersized cookie in his man-hand and tilted toward the rows of parchment paper stretched across the marble island. “What do you think the parchment is for?”
“Drawing?”
“Just set the cookie down. We have about a hundred left to dip and sprinkle before we move onto the brownies.” Opening the door of the freezer, she lifted a tray of chilled swoon pies and set it beside Bennett’s tray. “Do you want to keep dipping or would you rather melt the chocolate?”
“Melting the chocolate requires the stove and time, right?”
She nodded.
He shook his head. “I’ll stick to the dipping and salting. Nothing can be burned dipping and salting.”
They’d worked in waves of companionable silence mixed with lively conversation and, yet she didn’t feel she knew Bennett Langston any better than the moment they collided in front of Sissy Jenkins. Of course, Mrs. Jenkins probably shared the juicy nugget of information twelve times before the first snowflake fell this afternoon. Knowing Mrs. Jenkins, she uncovered everything about Bennett from his height to his social security number, while Harper’s knowledge was limited to what she’d gleaned in casual conversation.
He lived in Tennessee and worked with people in the inner city—which explained his less-than-Ohio winterized wardrobe—but she didn’t know what he did. She didn’t know anything about who shared his workplace or what kind of snacks he had in his vending machine, or if he even had a vending machine. No vending machine at an American office seemed like a violation of some safe work environment law. The steady flow of chocolate covered, chewy nougat and barbeque chips often kept her sane.
Tossing a few more chopped pieces of dark chocolate into the double boiler, Harper continued to stir with the wooden spoon Mrs. Penhearst had convinced her was the only tool one should use when melting chocolate. “So, Ben…or do you prefer Bennett?”
“Ben is good.”
“So, Ben, why don’t you tell me a little about what you do?”
“I run a clinic in Nashville for people without easy access to proper medical care.”
The image of broad-shouldered Ben helping the needy did crazy things to Harper’s insides. From her belly to her heart, she felt as warm and gooey as the chocolate she stirred. “Are you a social worker?”
He shook his head. “Doctor.”
The wooden spoon dropped from her hand with a clank against the six-burner stove. “Doctor? As in medical professional? As in why you knew how to take charge at the hospital last night? As in…”
“As in?” He lifted his gaze to hers. The twinkle in his eyes confirmed he enjoyed her surprise.
Pivoting, she wiped the spoon with a clean cloth. With her jaw locked against words, she stirred the chocolate at a speed rivaling the best mixer on the market.
“Harper? Are you all right?”
“Yep.” She stirred faster, slopping bits and drips of chocolate out of the double boiler. The melted goo sizzled against the gas burner and set a slight flame.
“Harper! Watch out!” Bennett grabbed Harper by the shoulders and shoved her out of the way of the flame. Flipping the burner to OFF, he slid the double boiler to a cool side of the cook top.
“What are you doing? The chocolate will harden.” She moved to push him aside as she tried to ignore the solid wall of muscle.
“I’m saving my aunt’s house from fire.”
“It was just a little sugar sizzle. Nothing to worry your pretty head about.”
“Sugar sizzle? I saw flame, Harper. Flame translates to fire. Fire translates to the fire department—and all in all I don’t have the best record with baking and fire departments.”
Unlacing her arms, she felt the tension slip from her shoulders. “Now there’s a story there.”
His cheeks flushed pink. “Let’s just leave it at I shouldn’t be allowed to bake unsupervised.”
Lifting the top pan of the double boiler, she scraped the melted chocolate into his nearly empty dipping bowl. “How about I help you dip and salt for a while and you can tell me a fascinating doctor story.”
“Well…there was this one case…” Bennett began to talk about a little girl whose mother brought her into the clinic in a panic. The daughter had discovered the father’s razor and decided to ‘be like Daddy’ and shave herself: from head to toe. He chuckled as he recalled the bevy of names the mother had for the father when he rushed in from his construction job. Ben told her about the vaccine program for inner city students and the drug take back program the clinic started to help curb the epidemic of opioids in the city. Through all the stories, her embarrassment over not knowing he was a doctor waned as her astonishment over what someone so young had accomplished grew.
She noticed, he always said, “the clinic” never “my clinic,” but it was clear to Harper the man dipping swoon pies was as big hearted as he was broad shouldered. And her gooey center was getting stickier by the minute.
16
Bennett normally would rather work the hours of a resident than talk about himself. The experience tended to leave him feeling a little burned from the spotlight and uncomfortable in his oversized skin, but sharing stories from his life with Harper felt natural.
Almost calming.
He shared the hilarity she felt in some of the more outlandish clinic stories. Her visible compassion seeped through him with the heartbreakers. In his life, he had only ever felt this comfortable talking to his mom or Darcy. Even though in their family dynamic, Darcy was typically the one telling, his mother was the one asking, and he was the one trying to balance the two or at least he had been. Their mother’s death had destroyed the bond between him and his sister. A bond he would have sworn was made of titanium, but it hadn’t been any stronger than the parchment paper where he now laid cookies. God granted him this strange turn of events to rekindle his relationship with Darcy and he wouldn’t waste it. Even if he had to bake until the New Year, he would do anything to regain her trust and love.
Harper’s giggle shifted to a snort, snatching him from the spiral of twin drama. “How does one get a dart stick in the middle of one’s hand?”
He dipped a swoon pie in chocolate and shrugged. “Well, one offers to be the bulls-eye as a pay-off to a bet.”
“Seriously? Who could possibly think that was a good idea?”
“A graduate student who was extremely intoxicated and didn’t want his parents to know what he’d done so he came to our clinic instead of going to the university hospital.”
“Do you get many of those? Stupid frat boys?”
“Well…I don’t know if they are stupid…over-served and under the influence, but not stupid.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it. My mouth tends to move faster than most politically correct language can run.”
“Good to know.” He glanced at her. She moved the last of the swoon pies from the freezer to the counter and began dipping them in the remaining chocolate. Her blonde curls were tucked under a kerchief. She had a few smudges of flour on her cheek with matching chocolate streaks on her chin. A pink glow seemed to hover around her like a hazy cloud, lighting her with an inner loveliness he couldn’t quite understand.
She was simple beauty. There was a kind of ethereal quality to her demeanor. He couldn’t explain his instant attraction. He’d never experienced anything remotely like it. What he did want was to know her more.
Where did she grow up? Go to college? Live? How serious was she with the pastor? Did he have a chance? Was she as perfect as she appeared? What were her dreams? The big ones. The small ones. Harper Jessup was an unexpected spark of excitement and he hoped the spark might grow to a flame.
“Enough of my stories,” Bennett said. “Fair is fair. Tell me a little about yourself.”
Her head shot up and he registered her panic.
“Why would I tell stories when mine are all about fabric swatches and paint colors. You’re saving lives. The only saving I do is old ladies from poor pattern mixing choices.”
“Doesn’t mean fabric swatches and paint colors don’t have an interesting story to tell. Most of my time is paperwork and giving shots. Not exactly glamor.”
Glancing from one end of the island to the other, she sucked in her bottom lip. “Ummm…I think we need a little more chocolate to finish out the swoon pies. Then we have to track down the mint chocolate brownie recipe. I didn’t see it in the recipe box.”
“If it’s not in the recipe box, where do you think it could be?” He was willing to change the subject. For now.
“Did you look through the entire cupboard?”
“The cupboard was made for someone Lulu’s size. Not my size.”
Stripping off her apron, a broad smile stretched her lips. “Well, it’s a good thing I took after my mom and not my dad. You keep dipping. I will find the brownie recipe.” Tossing her apron on the table she disappeared into the hall.
Interesting.
Something about sharing her story with him made her nervous. He had to discover a way to get her to relax. To understand there was nothing she could say that would make him like her less. All he could see were ways he would like her more.
17
“The play is based on a Christmas book? A children’s book?” Darcy asked, before allowing another smooth sip of Finn’s hot chocolate to slide through her system.
“Sort of. My cousin writes children’s books. Specifically, Guard-Ann and Shelby books.”
“And I’m supposed to know these characters?”
“Guessing there aren’t a lot of children’s books lying around the research library.”
She shook her head. Finn outlined the characters’ story, beginning with the first book, The First True Adventure of Guard-Ann and Shelby Grace. Darcy tried to take in the elaborate backstory of Guard-Ann the guardian angel—correction snow angel—who comes to life with a fresh dusting of powder and the artful swooshing of the arms and legs of her faithful charge, Shelby. After setting the foundation, he outlined the Christmas story angle. The play was to be based on the story of a town that lost Christmas.
The town needed Shelby and Guard-Ann to rescue them by reminding the town folks of the true meaning of Christmas through the story of the Nativity. The story was clever, but her brain was struggling to follow the plot’s sticky sweetness coming from the lips of the hotty pastor.
She really needed to stop thinking about him in terms of hot quotient. She had to remember he wasn’t a man. He was a pastor. Pastors shouldn’t—as a general rule—fall into the outdoor magazine hunk-o-rama, but unfortunately Pastor Finn broke the rules.
Pastors were supposed to light holy fires—not sizzle by walking into a room. Her brain understood. Pastor equaled off lust-limits. But her heart and the fireflies in her stomach were having a hard time catching up.
“And then the whole town remembers Christmas.”
“Huh.”
“You didn’t hear a thing I said, did you?”
Hoping the heat she felt burning her cheeks wasn’t visible in the fluorescent light, she shrugged. “I’m sorry. My heart’s just not in it. I’m sure the story is nice.” Remember the cousin wrote the play. “Clever, but are you sure enough people know who these characters are? I mean, maybe we’d be better off trying something more well known. Or even just the plain old Nativity. Mary. The baby. No room at the inn. It’s a classic. Been working for pageants for, like, two thousand years. Give or take.”
He chuckled. “Well, Dr. Langston, maybe you do have a sense of humor.”
A chill raced up her spine and her neck stiffened to steel straight. “I wasn’t joking. And please don’t call me that.”
“Dr. Langston?”
She nodded. Even hearing the two words together—her identity for the last six years—formed bubbles of acid coursing through her stomach with the power of a 747.
“I don’t understand.”
Twisting away from their makeshift picnic of cocoa and cookies, she stretched her legs toward the door. “Do you think the snow’s let up? I’d really like to spend some time tonight researching how quickly I can get a proper hospital bed installed at my aunt’s. We can always figure out the play tomorrow. Maybe when Lulu’s home she can help us strategize. You must know by now how Lulu always has a strategy.”
She felt him step behind her without even a touch.
His presence was warm and welcoming, imploring her to turn. And, despite the magnetic pull, she couldn’t face his lake blue eyes with the questions that floated around unanswered.
She didn’t want to talk about why. She wasn’t able to explain to herself why the two words she responded to most, ‘doctor’ and ‘Langston’ coupled together made her want to simultaneously spew her lunch of a peanut butter sandwich and hide in a closet until late February.
Deflect.
Avoid.
Escape.
Find a new project.
Projects gave her focus, purpose, and structure. From writing a play to developing a research plan, projects had been her escape whenever life became more challenging than she could handle. In the last forty-eight hours, she’d been shoved into the biggest crisis of her life since her mother’s death. She needed a project. She thought she had the ideal outlet in Lulu.
Project “Rehab Lulu” was perfect. She could map out a plan of action with a distinct beginning, middle, and end. She understood the medical needs: proper care, therapy, and rehabilitation. But despite the clear outline she made in her head, and on a magazine subscription card while waiting during Lulu’s surgery, Darcy couldn’t seem to get her feet settled on the path. Project Rehab Lulu was perfect, but the pieces were eluding her grasp.
The Christmas play could be a small project to divert her worries, but the story didn’t make sense to her. And the lack of clarity coupled with her unending school girl fascination with her co-director was a recipe for chaos.
She needed order.
Precision.
Order and precision were how she survived her nomadic childhood, graduated magna cum laud from college and within the top ten from medical school.
Order was crucial for Darcy to keep the tender grasp on her sanity. Children’s Christmas pageants, uncertain life goals, and an unhealthy unrequited romance were not a recipe for finding structure.
She drew in a deep breath. Deep breaths. Clean minds. Clear Focus.
“Darcy?” His voice held the question his eyes would reflect. Warm paths streaked from her eyes, over her cheeks and dripped from her chin.
Breathe. Just breathe.
“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” The tone was more question than statement. Uncertainty from a man who was simply trying to offer human kindness. And the fireflies responded with burning delight in her belly.
“I’m fine.” Swiping her cheeks, she sighed. “That’s not true. I’ve been a far cry from fine for the better part of the last forty-eight hours.”
Leaning against the counter, he laced one arm through the other and lifted an eyebrow.
She stifled the urge to fan herself. One brow-lift and the room felt twenty degrees warmer.
Honesty. Nothing hurt more than honesty; particularly self-honesty.
“OK. Maybe, it’s been more like forty-eight months. Probably longer.” She stretched her legs and swiped his uneaten snickerdoodle cookie. Chomping a quarter of the cookie in a single bite, she paced. “I mean I thought I wanted to be a researcher.” Despite politely covering her mouth, her words spewed out with the cushion of cookie. “Research was…is a perfect sanitary life. Order. Routine. Check Lists. No messy emotions. No pediatric rotations. No dying patients. No one ever really cries over a mouse.”
Matching his pose, she leaned against the opposite counter. “But now my perfect, straight-edged life is gone. The life I fought so hard to have over the last fourteen years is over. Poof. One phone call. Done. ‘Dr. Langston it’s not us, it’s you.’”
She lifted her cloudy gaze to his. “And now what? Hundreds of thousands of dollars of education. Countless hours of research. All of it tossed in the trash with one call. What am I now? Unneeded nursemaid to my aunt? A volunteer director of a children’s Christmas program?”
“Ahem. Correction. Co-director.”
“Excuse me, Pastor Funny.”
He slid forward and met her gaze. His wide hands gently squeezed her shoulders, oozing warmth through her limbs. The intensity of his focus bored into her, twisting her heart. Salty tears tangled with the tang of the snickerdoodle on her lips. Everything in her being screamed at her to run, to get away from him before he could see who she really was.
A fraud. A pretender. A weakling. The real Darcy Langston.
And yet, the connection seemed unbreakable.
“Can you remember yourself at five years old?” he asked.
She nodded. The heat from his touch seemed to burn her tender flesh, slipping under her skin and awakening every cell in her body. His presence was like a cloak, drawing her further into him. The formation of audible words became unimaginable.
“I’m guessing five-year-old Darcy liked to play with her dolls.”
She nodded.
“She liked to tell stories. Make up scenes. Create dramas. Maybe even comedies?”
How could he know her? How was it possible to know so purely a person—a person he met only a day ago?
Finn gently stroked her shoulders. “Five-year-old Darcy had worlds only she knew.” His low murmur, ricocheted through her mind. “Worlds that were safe. Worlds that were free. Worlds where she could be exactly who she wanted to be?”
Who was this man?
A pastor? A mind-reader?
“Tell me, is being a researcher really what you wanted to be? What five-year-old Darcy wanted to be?”
Unseen ice water crashed over her head. Puffing out a breath, she spun from his grip and stomped back down the darken hallway.
The fear of the blackness shattered. Who needed light? The path ahead of her was lit with the fire of her righteous indignation. Shoving the heels of her hands against her eyes, she stemmed the tears.
