Cedar Creek Seasons (11 page)

“Everything. You said your business wasn’t doing well and mine is going okay so I decided not to enter the contest because I wanted you to have the shop space and then you went and—”

“Wait. When did I say my business wasn’t going well?”

Um
. When had he? “You don’t have any food in the house and your closet’s practically empty and you got that phone call from another starving artist and you talked about begging for wood.”

A smile altered his profile. He pressed his lips together as if trying to restrain it. “That’s what this is all about? Did you really think I put all my clothes and toys in storage just to give you the impression I was hard up so you wouldn’t enter the contest I entered you in?”

Absurdity piled on top of irony.
Willow Miles, you’re a moron
.

“No. But …”

His smile widened. His fingertip trailed to the tip of her nose, lingering for a brief moment. He turned, folded his arms, and leaned against the railing. “About ten years ago at an artists’ retreat, two buddies and I got to talking about our lean years and agreed the Lord had used that time to stretch us. Our careers were taking off and we were all afraid of losing our dependence on God. So we made a pact to live on a set percentage of our income and give the rest away. We still call ourselves starving artists. Now it’s just kind of a reminder of where we’ve been.”

He lifted his head and seemed to scan the silver-rimmed split in the clouds. “The challenge completely altered my priorities. It wasn’t easy at first, but the blessings were astronomical. As I started making more money and that percentage became a comfortable income, I was able to travel a bit, but I couldn’t see the sense in changing my everyday lifestyle—even when it came to building my dream studio. I bartered for masonry and electrical work and I asked for leftovers at construction sites and did the carpentry work myself.”

“Oh.” Humiliation lowered her eyes to the snow under their feet.

“I’ve never told anyone about our pact. It’s not something I talk about, but I never intended to deceive you. I didn’t show you the studio, because I thought it would be more fun to let people see it after it was all done, and the main reason there’s no food in my house is because my sister cooks for me.”

Willow stared down at a narrow trickle of water cutting a path through the snow. “So I’ve spent the past two weeks thinking you were a con artist but you’re really”—she wiped a tear before it had a chance to freeze—“just a
kind
artist.” She sniffed and wrinkled her nose, wondering if he’d thawed enough to appreciate her corniness for the apology she meant it to be.

He reached out and cupped her face in his hand. “I’m really just a
con
fused-in-love artist.”

A second tear fell, rolling over his glove.

“Do you want to hear about my plans for the store?”

She nodded.

“It’s such a big room.”

Her pulse tripped. She nodded again.

“So I thought I’d ask my starving artist buddies to help fill the walls.”

“That’s generous of you.”

“But that still leaves a lot of empty space, so I started brainstorming. Would you like to see one of my ideas?”

“Yes.”

He picked up the trash bag. “Reach in.”

Her brow furrowed as she pulled out a lavender potty chair with her brand on the bottom. “What does this have to do with—”

“Turn it around.”

Across the back and arms, butterflies in rainbow colors flitted around flowers like the ones he’d painted on the little girl’s cheek.

He took the chair from her and set it down. “I thought maybe I could give you a hand with furniture making and you could help fill up some of the space in the shop”—he lifted her hand and placed it on his chest—“the way you have in here.”

Her breath caught in a sob. “I’d l–love that.”

“Just that?” He took her hand from his chest and wrapped it around his back. His lips hovered so close she felt the warmth of his breath.

“And you. I love that and you. Not in that order.”

His eyelashes skimmed her face. “I thought of a name for the store.”

“You did?”

“Yes. How does Willow Wood House sound?”

She bit down on her bottom lip. He’d paused between “Wood” and “House,” hadn’t he? Willow. Wood. House. Not Willow Woodhaus. “I …”
I don’t know how to answer because I don’t know what you’re asking
.

Does it matter?

She gazed up at eyes the color of moonlight.
No, it doesn’t
matter
. The answer to either question was the same. “I like it.”

“Good. I thought the dual meaning might”—his cold nose brushed her cheek—“you know”—his lips teased hers—“come in handy sometime.”

Becky Melby is a Wisconsin resident. She and her husband Bill have four married sons and eleven grandchildren. Becky has coauthored nine Heartsong Presents titles and written two novellas for Barbour Publishing. In her spare time Becky loves riding on the back of her Honda Gold Wing or making trips to see grandkids in the RV.

To my parents, Betty and Aaron Oglesbee, uniquely designed individuals who sing beautifully in tune with God and each other.

“‘Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.’”
J
EREMIAH
33:3

Spring

C
hesca Appel recognized the words to “Jingle Bells.” But the flat, wandering tune—that was anybody’s guess. Why would someone sing it in early spring? This sun-starved morning, she was trying to think Easter.

Stopping before Christ the King Church, she peered in every direction. No one.

“Oh, what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh—AAAY!”

She cringed. Torture for a choir director. Odd scraping sounds split Cedarburg’s early-morning silence. The jolly, off-season, off-key elf was ice-skating?

Maybe if she closed her eyes, she’d find herself back in her apartment, swaddled in her quilt, with the alarm Saturday-silent. The raucous baritone now assaulting her ears would fade like a passing car’s radio. She could sleep instead of facing this way-too-early meeting with her pastor.

Rounding bony forsythia bushes near the church’s entrance, she saw a brawny young blond guy, still roaring “Jingle Bells,” sliding on the icy parking lot. Suddenly he somersaulted, landing on his back.

No more singing. Or movement.

Dashing toward him, Chesca started to call 911 when a rumble rose from the motionless figure.

Laughing. The guy was laughing.

She stopped and checked her own vital signs. Heartbeat? A blimp above the flat line. Breathing? Sort of. Outrage levels? Spiking into the danger zone, because his eyes twinkled like a fourth grader’s, as if he’d put a frog into her backpack, not caring if he was sent to the principal’s office.

“I couldn’t have done that if I’d practiced. What a rush.” Grinning and grimacing, he sat up.

“You’re bleeding.” Concern replaced annoyance. She pulled a tissue from her bag. “Have you broken anything?”

“Nah. I’ve taken worse falls. Part of my job.”

Was he a stuntman? The guy didn’t grab the tissue. Should she dab the cut on his cheek? She wouldn’t mind. He was the best-looking guy she’d met in a while. She reached toward him—

“Where are my glasses?” He patted the ground around him.

She retrieved them from a few feet away. “Here.” She hoped if he were that blind, he couldn’t notice her blushing.

He stuck them on his nose and stood. “Thanks for your help, Ms.—”

“Appel. Chesca Appel.”

“Pretty name. Never heard it before.” For the first time, he looked directly at her.

Wow, his smile seemed even bigger than his voice.
Fortissimo
. She took a step back and modulated her tone to friendly polite. “Chesca is short for Francesca. I was named after my ancestor, Princess Franciszka Urszula Radziwill.”

What was wrong with her? She wasn’t in the habit of blurting out family tree facts to strangers.

Her embarrassment faded to disbelief when he removed his Green Bay Packers cap with a flourish and bowed low. “Please pardon my lack of polish, Your Highness. I’ve never met a real princess before. Seth Amundsen, at your service.”

She stared, sure his surprise Shakespearean-accented speech was designed to deflate her apparent aristocracy complex. But the big jester turned prince’s face held nothing but courtesy, even admiration.

Until he glanced at his cell. “Late for my meeting. Hope to see you again, Princess.”

The man slid across the parking lot again, belting out a final awful chorus of “Jingle Bells” as he disappeared around the church.

Her mother always said she possessed an overactive imagination. But Chesca had never, in her oddest fairy-tale dreams, invented a Seth.

She sighed. Even if he was real and she encountered him again, a guy that handsome had to be attached. If not, every girl in Cedarburg was after him.

It was just as well. She didn’t relish the prospect of wearing earplugs on a date. A choir director with sensitive ears—

Oops. She was also a choir director with an appointment to discuss … what? Pastor Hoke seemed uncharacteristically vague about their agenda. Something about Easter. She’d chosen a cantata,
Holy Lamb of God
, which the choir really liked. Had Pastor Hoke changed his mind? Had he also received complaints about the service music?

She was thinking the worst, as usual. How long had she been lost in la-la land? She glanced at the cell in her cold hand, still poised to rescue the irrepressible Seth. Ten minutes late for her meeting! She clumped through tired gray snow surrounding the parking lot. As she approached the church office door, her chilly bones ached for a hot cup of tea. Surely if Pastor Hoke, a fellow tea drinker, wanted her to face the music, he would put the kettle on first.

She cast a longing eye toward the sanctuary doors. If only she had time to pray in its stained-glass quiet. But Pastor Hoke’s door creaked open.

“Morning, Chesca.” His lined face beamed like the absent sun should have. He offered her a steaming black mug. “You like vanilla chai, right?”

“Good morning. Sorry I’m late.” She sipped the velvety brew. This meeting was looking better already.

But as she entered Pastor’s office, she almost dropped her mug.

There, holding a Windex-blue sport drink, sat a grinning Seth Amundsen. “Chesca! So you’re the choir director!” He leaped up and took her hand in his huge ones. She noticed he didn’t wear a wedding ring.

“You’ve met?” Pastor looked delighted. “Because the choir only sings for early service and Seth attends the later one, I assumed you might not have.”

“Just this morning, out in the parking lot.” Chesca took a chair. One part of her wanted to throw confetti. It wasn’t every day a small-town girl met a churchgoing hottie like him. But why did Pastor Hoke call a joint meeting with her and the Jingle Bell Prince?

Pastor and Seth bantered about sports, which rated seven-billionth on her list of concerns. Then a thought occurred that almost sent her drink out her nose: Did Seth want to join the choir?

She choked. Seth, sitting nearest her, pounded her back as if she were a bass drum.

Pastor rescued her. “Seth, would you please get Chesca some water?”

Seth tore out the door.

“I’m okay.” The possibility of Seth’s choir membership still clogged her brain. By the time he returned, however, her Seth-insanity began to subside, especially as his eyes met hers in genuine concern. Still, why did he make her feel as if the laws of gravity had changed?

“I’ll pull up the church calendar, and let’s try this again.” Pastor tapped his computer’s keyboard. “I can’t wait until your Easter program, Chesca.
Holy Lamb of God
promises to be even better than last year’s cantata.”

Relief swelled in her like a Bach organ piece. The music she’d prayed over and studied would not grow dusty in a closet.

“But I think our people need visuals that will help them really experience Christ’s passion and resurrection.”