Let It Snow, page 7
Chuckling, Slade’s hands compressed around her shoulders, and spontaneously he lowered his mouth to her cheek. “Have I told you how much fun you are?”
“No, but I’ll accept that as a compliment.”
“It was meant as one.”
Shelly continued to play, hitting a wrong note every once in a while and going back to repeat the bar until she got it right. Soon Slade’s rich voice blended with the melody. Shelly’s soprano tones mixed smoothly with his again, although her playing faltered now and then.
Neither of them heard the front door open. “Merry Christmas Eve,” Don announced, looking exhausted. His pants were caked with mud and grit.
Shelly rested her hands above the keys. “Welcome home. How’s the Adlers’ horse?”
Don wiped a weary hand over his face. “She’ll make it.”
“What about you?”
“Give me a half-hour and I’ll let you know.”
“There’s a sandwich in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”
“All I want right now is a hot shower.” He paused to scratch Ol’ Dan’s ears. “Keep playing. You two sound good together.”
“I thought we were scattering the mice to the barn,” Slade teased.
Don scratched the side of his head with his index finger. “Say that again?”
“He’s talking about my piano playing,” Shelly reminded her father.
“Oh, that. No, by herself Shelly doesn’t appear to have much talent. I don’t suppose you play?” He directed the question to Slade.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“You do?” Shelly was stunned. “Why didn’t you say something earlier? Here.” She slid off the bench. “Trade places.”
Slade claimed her position and his large, masculine hands ran over the keys with a familiarity that caused Shelly’s heart to flutter. His hands moved with deep reverence and love. Stroking, enticing the instrument until the crescendo of the music practically had the room swaying. Music, wrapped deep in emotion, so overwhelmingly breathtaking that Shelly felt tears gather in the corners of her eyes. Slade didn’t play the piano; he made love to it.
When he’d finished, he rested his hands in his lap and slowly expelled his breath.
Shelly sank into the cushioned chair. “Why didn’t you tell me you could play like that?”
A smile brightened his eyes. “You didn’t ask.”
Even Don was awestruck and, for the first time in years, at a complete loss for words.
“You could play professionally. You’re magnificent.” Shelly’s soft voice cracked with the potency of her feelings.
“I briefly toyed with the idea at one time.”
“But…”
“I play for enjoyment now.” The light dimmed in his gaze, and the sharp edge of his words seemed to say that the decision hadn’t come easy. And it certainly was not one he was willing to discuss, even with her.
“Will you play something else?” Don requested, not moving.
From his look, Slade appeared to regret admitting that he played the piano. Music was his real love, and he’d abandoned it. Coming this close again was pure torture for him. “Another time, perhaps.”
There wouldn’t be another time for them. “Please,” Shelly whispered, rising and standing behind him. She placed her hands on his shoulders in a silent plea.
Slade’s hand covered hers as he looked into her imploring gaze. “All right, Shelly. For you.”
For half an hour he played with such intensity that his shoulders sagged with exhaustion when he’d finished.
“God has given you a rare and priceless gift,” Don said, his voice husky with appreciation. He glanced down at his mud-caked clothes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take a shower before I start attracting flies.”
Shelly could find no words to express herself. As Don left the room, she moved to Slade’s side, sitting on the bench beside him.
Lovingly, her fingers traced the sculptured line of his jaw as the tears blurred her vision. The tightness in her chest made her breathing shallow and difficult.
Slade’s hand stopped her. Lifting her fingers to his lips, he gently kissed the inside of her palm. Shelly bit her bottom lip to hold back all the emotion stored in her heart.
A lone tear escaped and trickled down her pale cheek. With his thumb, Slade gently brushed it aside. His finger felt cool against her heated skin. He bent down and found her mouth with his. Without speaking a word, Shelly realized that Slade was thanking her. With her he’d allowed his hard exterior to crumble. He opened his heart and revealed the deep, sensitive man inside. He was free now, with nothing more to hide.
Wrapping her arms around him, she kissed him in return, telling him the only way she could how much she appreciated the gift.
* * *
—
“Merry Christmas, Shortcake,” Don greeted on the tail end of a yawn.
Shelly stood in front of the picture window, her hands cupping her coffee mug. Her gaze rested on the sunrise as it blanketed the morning with the bright hues of another day. She tried to force a smile when she turned to her father, but it refused to come. She felt chilled and empty inside.
“Where’s Slade?” Don asked.
“The snowplows came during the night,” she whispered through the pain. “He’s gone.”
Chapter 8
“Gone? Without saying good-bye?” A look of disbelief marred Don’s smooth brow.
“He left a note.” Shelly withdrew it from her pocket and handed it to her father. The message was no more than a few lines. He thanked them for their hospitality and wished Shelly and her father much happiness. He said good-bye. Without regrets. Without second thoughts. Without looking back.
Don’s gaze lifted from the note and narrowed as he studied his daughter. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He slowly shook his head. “I’ve never seen you look at a man the way you looked at Slade. You really liked him, didn’t you?”
I love him, her heart cried. “He’s a wonderful man. I only hope Margaret and that computer firm realize their good fortune.”
“They don’t, you know,” Don whispered, coming to her side. He slipped an arm over her shoulder and hugged her close. She offered him a feeble smile in return.
“He might come back.”
Shelly knew differently. “No.” He’d made his choice. His future had been charted and defined as precisely as a road map. Slade Garner was a man of character and strength. He wouldn’t abandon Margaret and all that was important to him for a two-day acquaintance and a few stolen kisses. He’d shared his deepest desires and secrets with her, opened his heart and trusted her. Shelly couldn’t have wished for more. But she did. She wanted Slade.
* * *
—
Christmas day passed in a blur. She flew back to San Francisco the following afternoon, still numb, still aching, but holding her head up high and proud.
Her tiny apartment in the Garden District, although colorful and cheerfully decorated, did little to boost her drooping spirits.
Setting her suitcase on the polished hardwood floor, she kicked off her shoes and reached for the phone.
“Hi, Dad.” Taking the telephone with her, she sank into the overstuffed chair.
“How was the flight?”
“Without a hitch.”
“Just the way you like them.” Don chuckled, then grew serious. “I don’t suppose—”
“No, Dad.” Shelly knew what he was asking. Don seemed to feel that Slade would be in San Francisco waiting for her. Shelly knew better. Slade wouldn’t want to think of her. Already he’d banished any thought of her to the furthest corner of his mind. Perhaps what they’d shared was an embarrassment to him now.
Shelly spoke to her father for a few minutes longer, but neither had much to say. When they’d finished, she sat with the telephone cradled in her lap, staring blindly at the wallpaper.
For her part, Shelly worked hard at putting her life back on an even keel. She went to work each day and did her utmost to forget the man who had touched her so profoundly.
Her one resolution for the New Year was simple: Find a man. For the first time since moving to San Francisco, Shelly was lonely. Oh, there were friends and plenty of invitations, but nothing to take away the ache in her soul.
* * *
—
Two days before the new year, Shelly stepped off the bus and on impulse bought flowers from a vendor on the street corner. One of her shoes had caused a blister on her heel, and she removed the offending pump once inside her apartment building.
The elderly woman who lived across the hall opened her door as Shelly approached. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lester,” Shelly said, pulling a red carnation from the bouquet of flowers and handing it to her neighbor.
“Now, isn’t that a coincidence.” Mrs. Lester chuckled. “I’ve got flowers for you.”
Shelly’s heart went still.
“The delivery boy asked me to give them to you.” She reached back inside, then handed Shelly a narrow white box. “Roses, I suspect.”
“Roses?” Shelly felt the blood drain from her face. She couldn’t get inside her apartment fast enough. Closing the door with her foot, she walked across the room and set the box on a table. Inside, she discovered a dozen of the most perfect roses she’d ever imagined. Each bud was identical to the others, their color brilliant. They must have cost a fortune.
Although she went through the box twice, she found no card. It would only be conjecture to believe that Slade had sent them. Unlikely, really. He wouldn’t be so cruel as to say good-bye only to invade her life again. Besides, he’d claimed roses were expensive. She couldn’t argue with that. They were.
The thought had just formed when the doorbell rang, and a delivery boy handed her a second long narrow box, identical to the first.
“Sign here.” He offered her his ballpoint pen.
Shelly scribbled her name across the bottom of the delivery order and carried the second box to the kitchen table. Again she’d received a gift of a dozen red roses, and again there was no card.
No sooner had she arranged the flowers in her one and only tall vase when the doorbell chimed a third time. It was a delivery boy from another flower shop with a dozen roses.
“Are you sure you have the right address?” she questioned.
“Shelly Griffin?” He read off her street and apartment number and raised expectant eyes to her.
“That’s me,” she conceded.
“Sign here.”
Again Shelly penned her name. And for a third time there was no card.
Having no vase to arrange them in, she emptied her jar of dill pickles onto a plate, rinsed out the container, and used that. These she carried into the living room.
Whoever was sending her the roses was either very rich or else extremely foolish, she thought.
Hands pressed against her hips, she surveyed the small apartment and couldn’t decide if it resembled a flower shop or a funeral parlor.
When the doorbell chimed again, she sighed expressively. “Not again,” she said and groaned aloud, turning the dead bolt and opening the door.
But instead of opening it to a delivery boy as she’d expected, Shelly came face-to-face with Slade. He was so tall, dark, and incredibly good-looking that her breath became trapped in her lungs.
“Slade.”
“Hello, Shelly.” His eyes delved into hers, smiling and warm. “Can I come in?”
“Oh, of course.” Flustered, she stepped aside.
“Do you realize you only have on one shoe?”
She looked down at her nylon-covered foot. “I forgot. You see, they’re new and I wore them for the first time today, so when—” She stopped abruptly. “Why are you here?” she demanded. With her hands behind her back, she leaned against the closed front door, desperately wanting to believe everything she dared not even think about.
“I’ve missed you.”
She closed her eyes to the tenderness that lapped over her in gentle waves. Few words had ever been sweeter. “How did the meeting go?”
“Fine. Better than expected.”
“That’s nice.” Her gaze studied him, still unsure.
“I got a hefty bonus for my part in it, but I may have offended a few friends.”
“How’s that?”
“They were hoping I’d accept a promotion.”
“And you aren’t?” This sounded like something Margaret would love.
“No, I resigned this afternoon.”
“Resigned? What did…Margaret have to say about that?”
“Well”—he took a step toward her, stopping just short of her but close enough to reach out and touch her if he desired—“Margaret and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms.”
“Oh?” Her voice went incredibly weak.
“She didn’t take kindly to some of my recent decisions.”
I’ll just bet, Shelly mused. “And what are those decisions…the most recent ones?”
“I decided to postpone the wedding.”
Shelly couldn’t fault his fiancée for being upset about that. “Well, I can’t say that I blame her. When—when’s the new date?”
“Never.”
“Never?” Shelly swallowed tightly. “Why not?”
“Why?” He smiled. “Because Margaret doesn’t walk around with one shoe missing. Or haul sourdough bread across state lines or laugh or do any of the things that make life fun.”
Speechless, Shelly stared at him, love shining from her eyes.
“Nor does she believe I’ll ever make a decent living as a pianist,” Slade continued. “Hell, I’m over thirty now. It could be too late.”
“But…?”
“But”—he smiled and reached for her, bringing her into the loving circle of his arms—“I’m going to give it one hell of a try. I’m no prize, Shelly Griffin. I don’t have a job, and I’m not even sure the conservatory will renew their offer, but for the first time in a lot of years, I’ve got a dream.”
“Oh Slade,” she whispered, and pressed her forehead to his broad chest. “I would consider it the greatest honor of my life to be a part of that dream.”
“You couldn’t help but be,” he whispered, lifting her mouth to his. “You’re the one who gave it to me.”
For Joyce Beaman
Fellow author, fortune cookie collector,
and, above all, dear friend
BALLANTINE BOOKS BY DEBBIE MACOMBER
Window on the Bay
Cottage by the Sea
Any Dream Will Do
If Not for You
A Girl’s Guide to Moving On
Last One Home
Rose Harbor Inn
Sweet Tomorrows
Silver Linings
Love Letters
Rose Harbor in Bloom
The Inn at Rose Harbor
Blossom Street
Blossom Street Brides
Starting Now
Christmas Novels
Alaskan Holiday
Merry and Bright
Twelve Days of Christmas
Dashing Through the Snow
Mr. Miracle
Starry Night
Angels at the Table
For a complete list of books by Debbie Macomber, visit her website at debbiemacomber.com.
About the Author
DEBBIE MACOMBER, the author of Window on the Bay, Cottage by the Sea, Any Dream Will Do, If Not for You, and the Rose Harbor Inn series, is a leading voice in women’s fiction. Thirteen of her novels have reached #1 on the New York Times bestseller lists, and five of her beloved Christmas novels have been hit movies on the Hallmark Channel, including Mrs. Miracle and Mr. Miracle. Hallmark Channel also produced the original series Debbie Macomber’s Cedar Cove, based on Macomber’s Cedar Cove books. She is also the author of the cookbook Debbie Macomber’s Table. There are more than 200 million copies of her books in print worldwide.
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Window on the Bay
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Prologue
“We need to talk,” Maureen said, as we walked across the Quad at the University of Washington’s main campus. The cherry trees were in full bloom and the fragrance filled the air.
Maureen and I had met in college as freshmen while taking French classes. We started out as study partners and soon became fast friends. By the end of our sophomore year, we’d made it a goal to travel to Paris after graduation.
Paris. We were dying to see Paris. I’d fallen in love with the city as a young teen after watching Casablanca for the first time. When Humphrey Bogart looked deep into the eyes of Ingrid Bergman and said, “We’ll always have Paris,” I was captivated.
The City of Love had beckoned me. It was the very reason I’d taken six years of French classes—four in high school and now two in college. I couldn’t wait to see Paris. I wanted to walk in the moonlight along the Seine, tour the Louvre, and see the view of the city from the Eiffel Tower.
We’d spent countless hours together planning for the trip over the last two years, and we’d each worked part-time jobs to pay for it. We’d sacrificed our weekends and saved every penny. Finally, here we were in our senior year, and our dream was going to come true.
