Christmas in the Rink (3 page)

Judging by the dates from the stacks of newspapers he'd tossed in the recycling bin, his father was the culprit, but then, his mom had been dead a long time, so maybe his father had already pitched most of her belongings. He wouldn't put it past his father.

Brushing his hands, he made his way back into the family room. Nothing left in here but the furniture, a couple lamps, and the shabby area rug. Which room should he tackle next?

Since he didn't have to work a shift today at the automotive shop, he should probably start on the second floor unfinished room that his parents had used for storage. He grabbed a couple empty trash bags, trudged upstairs, and flicked on the light.

He scanned the room. Boxes, stacked almost as high as the rafters, covered most of the floor space. Maybe he'd finally find some of his mother's personal things in here. Pictures or jewelry or something to indicate that she'd lived here; tiny fragments of her life that he could hang onto.

He started in the first corner, slicing the tape holding the box tight, and lifted the lid. He reared back as if he'd been punched. Was that what he thought it was? Really?

He leaned in and peered at the fake silver tree. Its branches were all folded neatly towards the top, but yeah, this was the same tree his mom had put up in the family room faithfully every year, including the year she'd died.

But it couldn't be. He'd chucked it out on the street. Christmas day. The day she'd died.

Gulping down the weighty emotion crawling up his throat, he scrubbed a hand across his jaw, the heavy stubble making a scratching noise, filling the dead space in the attic room.

He shoved that box aside and reached for another, slid the blade through the tape, and lifted the lid.

What? His breath squeezed through constricted lungs as he picked up the miniature wood manger, and then the baby Jesus. He stared into the box. The rest of the nativity scene, the one his great-great-grandfather on his mother's side had carved, nestled inside.

So his dad had saved it after all these years? This, and the tree?

Air. He needed air.

With trembling fingers, he set the pieces on top of the box, making sure they were stable, and then stalked to the only window in the room and heaved it open. Late afternoon sunbeams warmed his chest as he stared at the snow covered yard and the bare limbs of the two white aspens reaching to the heavens. He lifted his gaze to the sky, untainted by clouds, azure and peaceful compared to the chaos from the storm of a few days ago.

God, is that what You're trying to tell me? That I'm finally past the storm and can rest in Your peace?

 

****

 

Chaney hit the button, shutting down the car's engine, and squinted through the darkness at the pickup truck in the driveway. It looked to be the same black pickup she'd seen parked outside the rink when she'd left with Annabelle the other morning. Conner must be inside.

She took a deep breath, willing up all her courage, and plucked the music player from the car seat. She'd seen Conner with one this morning. He'd left before class ended, and none of her students claimed it. It had to be Conner's. Not like she made a habit of visiting handsome men in their homes, but she was willing to make an exception for an old friend.

Stuffing the player in her pocket, she marched to the front door, her finger poised to ring the bell, but then the door swung open, and there was Conner. All six foot plus, glorious hunk of man, the firmness of his legs and arms clearly evident through the thin material of his workout pants and long-sleeved tee. His subtle fragrance, wood and some kind of fruit, drifted her way with the cool breeze. His head was bent, his fingers gripping a trash bag.

Why was she standing on Conner's doorstep at nine in the evening? This was a bad idea. Dangerous. Potentially hazardous to her heart. She gulped. The words she'd practiced in the car on the way here disappeared down her throat.

He plowed into her, pushing her backwards. She didn't have time to respond.

His long arm wrapped around her waist, tugging her around so that his back landed hard against the snow. He grunted out an “Uumph.”

She landed on top of him, his cinnamon scented puffs of air stealing her breath more than the fall. “You need a bit more practice on the ice,” she teased, shifting against an unexpected weight on her back.

“You offering to give me lessons?” His intense blue eyes, showing no sign of humor, pinned her in place.

Even if the pressure on her back slid off, she couldn't move away. “Would you like them?”

“Only if you're the teacher.” His words came out soft, matching the vulnerable expression on his face, but belying the strength of his body beneath hers.

Had she heard him correctly or had the stiff breeze that whipped strands of hair across her face mangled his words? “That can be arranged.”

His arm tightened and his head inched closer, his eyes darkening, as the cinnamon scent grew stronger.

Anticipation blossomed in her belly and tingled from her toes all the way to her head, blooming and expanding until…an empty gallon jug landed on his head and bounced off.

He grimaced then chuckled. “Well that's a first.”

The intensity of the moment shattered, she pushed away using his chest as a springboard.

Another “uumph.”

She stood, and all sorts of items tumbled to the snow. “What—”

“Cleaning out the house. I didn't realize Dad was such a packrat.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.” She picked up the trash bag and started scooping things back in, trying hard to ignore how he hoisted himself off the snow in one smooth athletic motion, but failing.

He took the trash bag out of her hands. “You don't have to do this.”

“That's OK. I'm responsible for this mess.”

He tossed some kind of ancient-looking metal contraption in the bag. “No. You're not. I should have been paying more attention. I could have hurt you.” His head whipped around to study her. “Did I? Hurt you?”

Her heart did a little cartwheel at the concern in his gaze. “No. You're the one who took the brunt of that fall. Just like…” Always. But she couldn't finish her sentence. He'd always been so careful with their intricate lifts and jumps on the ice, vigilant in protecting her if the element didn't go as planned. But “always” implied a future, didn't it?

“Let me add this to the collection at the road. Go on in. Make yourself at home.” If he noticed her lapse in coherent dialogue, he didn't mention it. He turned, trash bag firmly gripped in his hand.

“OK.” She didn't argue. She hadn't come dressed to frolic in the snow, and she surely wasn't prepared to deal with any more intimate moments like that. She pushed the front door open and stepped inside the family room, the warmth blasting her cheeks, the soft music playing in the background calming her still-racing heart. She shrugged out of her coat and hung it on the rack beside the door, and then glanced around.

A sad-looking artificial Christmas tree, rather bare and sickly with only a few strings of lights draped around its silver branches, stood in one corner of the room. A couple boxes of ornaments cluttered the floor nearby. A Nativity scene, made up of antique hand-carved wood pieces, nestled on a table near the glowing fireplace, the only light in the room besides a tiny lamp. Cozy.

Maybe she'd have been safer staying outside. Her boots clomped against the hardwood as she made her way to the table and scooped up the manger with the baby Jesus, cradling him in her palm. Someone had painstakingly carved—

A stiff breeze gusted into the room, and Conner stomped his shoes on the mat and closed the door behind him.

She twisted around, the manger in her hand. “Someone made this set. It's absolutely beautiful.”

“Yeah. My mom's great-grandfather.” He came near and picked up the wooden Mary. Appreciation gleamed from his eyes. “I can't believe my dad still had it.”

“Why not? It's an heirloom.”

“He wasn't exactly sentimental.” Shaking his head, he set the piece in his hand on the table. “Where's Annabelle?”

“Home. In bed. My mother's there with her.”

“Well, I knew you wouldn't leave her there by herself.” He grinned, his blue eyes dancing with humor and reflecting the flames from the fireplace. “Want some hot chocolate or coffee?”

“Coffee sounds divine. Thank you.”

“You got it.” He vanished, and suddenly the family room seemed ginormous and…cold.

But then he'd always had that effect on her. She gave her arms a brisk rub and stole another glance at the pathetic tree. He must have discovered that, as well. She attached a few more ornaments to the tired looking limbs and stood back. Yeah. It was looking a little…revitalized.

She knew the second Conner stepped back in the room. His warmth and energy preceded him.

“Wow! That tired old tree looks way better now. Must be the feminine touch,” he said, handing her a mug with steam hovering above the top.

“Thanks.” She blew on the hot liquid and sipped, peering at him over the rim.

He set his mug on the fireplace ledge and continued with the decorating. “I surely didn't think I'd ever see this tree again.”

She took another sip, and then set the cup down, joining him by the tree. She picked up a bulb and attached it to a limb, waiting for him to continue.

“I chucked it out by the curb on Christmas day that year.”

“The day your mom died.” Her fingers stilled against the prickly limb as she twisted towards him.

“Yeah.” He gulped. “My dad must have dragged it back into the house.”

She smiled and resumed decorating. “Must bring back memories then, seeing the tree up and…” Alive. No, she couldn't say that. The poor tree was barely hanging on by its threads, but she didn't want to dash his memories.

He plucked up another fragile ornament in his giant hands, hands capable of catapulting her into the air, and then catching her at just the right second. He cradled the glass, a wistful expression on his face, as he stared at the tree, almost as if he'd disappeared back in time. Then, with a little shake of his head, he attached the ornament. “Yeah. I wanted to put it up again. For her.” The last two words were spoken so quietly, they were almost lost in a swell of the music.

They continued working together in silence, occasionally sipping their coffee.

Finally, the last adornment, the angel, finished the tree.

“Done,” Conner said, glancing sideways at her. “Thanks for helping.”

“My pleasure.” Decorating had given her more time with him, and it was…safe. “Oh. I almost forgot why I came by.” She scrambled to the coat rack and dug into her pocket. “I think this is yours.” She held out the player.

He chuckled and took it from her, the slight brush of his fingers doing a number on her tummy. “Yeah. I wondered where I left it.”

“Well, it's late. I better be going.” Not that she really wanted to leave, but this cozy nearness to Conner was starting to frazzle her heart.

He held her jacket while she slid her arms through the sleeves, his fingers squeezing her shoulders before wrapping around the doorknob, blocking her exit. “Thanks for all your help tonight. I probably wouldn't have finished until sometime next week if it weren't for you.” His voice came out husky.

Maybe it was the soft crackles that came from the fireplace, or the subtle fragrance that settled over her, all male and woodsy, that set her on edge. Whatever. She had to get out of here before she did something stupid like stand on her toes and lift her face for a kiss. She moved away from him and the warmth his body generated, edging right up to the doorframe, waiting to slither out through the tiniest of cracks like the coward she was. “You're welcome.”

He smiled, a knowing look teasing his lips, and opened the door.

She squeezed by, not breathing until her boots landed on the snow covered driveway. She glanced back.

The dim light coming from the family room cast Conner's bulky frame in shadows as he blocked the doorway, watching her. A moonbeam highlighted his face, all remnants of humor dissolved, replaced by a sadness, so painful and raw, and a rigid stance as if it was him alone against the world.

Oy. Seeing him like that, so vulnerable and exposed, was even more dangerous to her heart.

 

 

 

 

4

 

Chaney pushed the heavy door open and flicked on the lights to the pitch-black rink. Sunday mornings she had the ice all to herself thanks to her mom and good old Pete.

It didn't take long to lace her skates, and the cool breeze fanned her cheeks as she glided across the ice, breathing in—she sniffed— yeasty pretzels, apparently last night's concession stand food of choice, and beer and sweat. But even better than that…solitude. With a two-year-old to care for, private moments like this were sparse, and she intended to enjoy every second. No music. No students. No—

“Good morning.” A deep masculine voice echoed through the cavernous space, and blades cut through the ice with a precision and skill that only came from years of practice.

Conner? OK. So maybe she lost her private time this morning, but she surely wouldn't complain about Conner's presence. “Hey,” she said, slowing for him to catch up with her.

“You're up early.” His arm snaked around her back just like old times. As if the many years apart hadn't severed their connection, their ability to move in perfect synchrony, to create breathtaking, enchanting art on ice.

“It's the only time I have for, um, free skating.” She didn't want to make him feel bad for interrupting her privacy.

“Ah. Carole watching Annabelle again?” The vulnerable look from last night was gone. Confidence straightened his posture as they sailed around the rink, linked together, and his intense cobalt eyes danced with excitement and…a teasing glint. “Must be nice to have a built-in babysitter.”