Evergreens and Angels (4 page)

“Take mine.” Dillon shrugged from his insulated work jacket and handed it to Brynn as she shivered against the wind. “Put it on. It will swallow you up, but at least it's warm.”

“But, what about you?”

“Don't worry about me.” Dillon shook his head as she attempted to return the jacket. “I'm layered up in thermals and flannel, and I'm used to the cold. Just put on the jacket.”

Hattie smiled as Brynn slipped her arms into the sleeves. “That's my Dillon...always a gentleman.” She gave Brynn one more quick hug before turning away. “You two carry on then. Be sure to stop by the greenhouse for one of my mistletoe wreaths and a cup of hot chocolate before you leave. And don't be a stranger, Brynn.”

“Thank you, Hattie.”

As his mother tromped through a dusting of snow toward the greenhouse, Dillon eased in beside Brynn. The scent of her perfume, light and citrusy, mingled with scotch pine and the Italian food baking across the street at Pappy's Pizzeria.

“You're right. Your jacket's just a little too big for me.” In fact, the jacket swallowed Brynn. She flapped her arms, her hands buried somewhere inside the sleeves. “Oh, this is silly. I feel like a complete fool.”

“Don't feel bad. It's OK.” Dillon took her by the shoulders and drew her close. He rolled each sleeve carefully until her fingers peeked through. “There, that's better.”

“Thank you.” Brynn drew a deep breath and clenched her hands as though trying to get the blood flowing to her fingertips. “You're very kind.”

“You caught me on a good day, Brynn Jansen.” Dillon winked and clasped her left hand, warming it between his. Her fingers were elongated ice cubes. “We've met before, haven't we?”

“You remember the Christmas tree?”

“That's right. Yes. I knew it.” Satisfied when the chill eased, he moved to her right hand. “Your grandparents' house when your gramps was sick with pneumonia. That was—”

“Twelve years ago this holiday. You brought us the most beautiful tree and a box of food for our Christmas dinner.”

“And you shared the most delectable oatmeal cookies I've ever had. Does your grandmother still bake them?”

“She does. And she handed down the recipe to me, taught me how to whip up a batch in a jiffy. I made several dozen this afternoon. I'd be happy to share them again.”

“I'd be delighted to let you.” His gaze locked with hers, held, and he was rewarded with a smile. “Did you ever manage to hang the mistletoe?”

“I did.” Brynn's eyes shimmered beneath the floodlights as snow began to fall in earnest. She pressed a palm to her lips as a sudden bout of laughter bubbled up.

Dillon frowned. “What's so funny?”

“Just thinking about what you said that night when you handed me the mistletoe wreath.” Now, the laughter spilled over. Brynn clutched her belly. “It was…quite humorous.”

“Great.” Dillon swiped wet from his brow and wished he'd thought to wear a ball cap. “I don't remember what I said.”

“Well,
I
certainly do.” Brynn's gaze rose toward the heavens while snowflakes turned her knit cap from red to white. “And, looking back, it wasn't just funny, but kind of sweet, too.”

“Sweet?” Dillon jammed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Are you sure
I'm
the one who said it?”

“Quite sure.”

“Well…are you going to leave me hanging?”

“For now. Maybe you'll remember on your own.”

“That's hardly fair.” Dillon shook his head, tossing wet snowflakes like a just-bathed dog. “Did you get a diary?”

“What?”

“That night…the gifts from
Santa
?”

“I sure did. Filled it cover to cover, too, within a week's time.”

“That's quick. Bet you scrawled plenty of girl stuff, right?”

“You could say that.” Her grin was a wisp of playfulness. “The second gift was a special Cross pen engraved with my initials. I still use it to this day.”

“And the third?”

Brynn dipped her fingers beneath the neckline of her blouse, drawing out the small silver heart on a delicate chain. “I received this, as well, with a card that said, ‘God knows the desires of your heart. Seek Him, always.'”

Dillon couldn't help himself; curiosity nibbled at his gut. “And those desires?”

“Wouldn't you like to know.” Brynn's playful grin morphed to pure mischief. Her response was no more than a simple shrug.

 

****

 

“What are you doing? That's not my truck.” Brynn stepped over to block Dillon's path as he carried the seven-foot wrapped fir toward the lot. “
There's
my truck.” She pointed to the red Chevy, circa nineteen eighty-one, that sported a chunky white pinstripe down each side and just enough dings and dents to give it a touch of character.

“It's a keeper, for sure.”

“Hey, are you making fun of my vehicle?” Brynn spun back to level him a sizzling gaze. “Because if you are, it would be in your best interest to stop right there. I love my truck. It was a special gift from Gran and Gramps on my eighteenth birthday. They drove all the way to Pensacola to deliver it to me.”

“I'll admit it's got character. It's just…” Dillon shook his head as he skirted around her and continued toward the lot, the tree hoisted over one shoulder as if it weighed no more than a pencil. “I'm perfectly aware we're not headed toward your truck, because we're going to use mine.”

“I don't understand.” Brynn swung around and double-stepped to catch up as she swiped wet snowflakes from her chilled cheeks. The more she brushed the flakes away, the harder they seemed to fall. She was thankful Dillon had offered his jacket since the wind seemed determined to dip and swirl around them, churning the clouds like saltshakers.

“Nothing against older-model vehicles.” Dillon glanced back over his shoulder. “But my bet is your truck doesn't have four-wheel drive.”

“No, it doesn't. So—”

“You're gonna need it in this. Look at the street.”

Brynn turned to find the road beyond swathed in white. Not a patch of asphalt peeked through. “It sure came down fast, didn't it?”

“Yes, and it doesn't look like it's going to let up anytime soon.” Dillon paused as they approached his black extended-cab; not an older-model anything on it. No dings, no scratches, no…history. He lowered the tailgate and with one quick motion, slipped the tree into the bed before continuing. “So, I'm taking you home. Wyatt or Reese will help me get your truck back to you when things clear out. You won't be able to use it before that, anyway. Not in this.”

“But it's the only car we have since Gran's was demolished in the accident. If she needs—”

Dillon lifted a hand traffic-cop style. “Hand me your cell phone.”

“What? Why?”

“If your grandparents—or you—need something, just give me a call.”

“Oh. OK.” Brynn reached into the back pocket of her jeans, pulled out her phone and handed it to him. With ease, he programed in his number.

“There you go.” He handed the phone back to her. “Now, go ahead and climb into the cab while I secure this. There's no need for both of us to get soaked.”

“But I'm wearing your jacket.”

“Doesn't matter. It will only take me a minute to tie down the tree—that is, if you'll quit distracting me with your chatter.”

“Distracting…chatter?” Brynn longed to snatch the neon yellow rope from his hand and hog-tie him with it.

“You heard me.” He delved into his pocket for a set of keys, tossed them to Brynn. “So, get in. Crank her up and turn on the heat. I'll secure the tree, and we'll be on our way.”

 

 

 

 

3

 

The front porch was a blanket of white by the time they reached the Jansen's house. Brynn was staying with her grandparents—at least for the time being. Dillon had returned to the modest frame house on several occasions through the years—for a thank-you dinner when Mr. Jansen recovered from his bout of pneumonia as well as for various other gatherings. The Jansen's were also frequent patrons of Pappy's Pizzeria, which was located directly across the street from Cutler Nursery, and they had a habit of stopping by to say hi whenever they ventured that way for something to eat. Each time Dillon's path had crossed theirs, he'd hoped for another glimpse of Brynn; each time he walked away disappointed. Apparently, her father's connections with the military had them relocating frequently. Last he'd heard, Brynn was living near the Landing in Jacksonville. Finally, college classes at the University of Tennessee followed by a year-long internship in Asheville drew him away for a string of years. Unable to return home for any length of time, he'd tucked away the yearning to see her again.

But now he was back in Clover Cove for good, and Brynn had returned, as well. The desire to connect resurfaced with a vengeance, surprising him with its raw strength. Only one thing had Dillon carefully considering his next step; was Brynn simply here to assist her Gran through this rough patch following the awful accident that could have easily claimed her life—or did she have intentions to relocate permanently?

Dillon made a mental note to ask as soon as the opportunity arose. In the meantime, he pulled into the stunted drive and killed the truck's engine. Headlights dimmed, leaving nothing but the glow of streetlights than lined the block in soldier fashion. Stars were shielded, along with the moon, by storm clouds that roiled like angry puffs from a smoke stack. The wind moaned and whispered through the truck's doorjamb. Within seconds, the windshield was covered in a sheet of white, making the car as closed-off as a cave.

“Wow, those clouds are ominous.” Brynn unlatched her seatbelt. “I don't think this is going to let up anytime soon.”

“Doesn't look that way.” Dillon took his ball cap from the console and tugged it over his head. “Better bundle up.”

He lifted the collar of his flannel shirt before slipping from the driver's seat and jogging around to open Brynn's door. He took her hand and together they trudged up the drive toward a narrow walkway that led to the modest wood-framed house flanked by a wrap-around porch. Wind whipped through the wooden slats and set a whitewashed porch swing into motion. Chains creaked as it swayed side-to-side, jostled against the house and elicited a low, methodic thud.

“Head inside.” Dillon nodded toward the steps leading into the living room where Mr. Jansen waited behind a glass-paned storm door. “I'll grab the tree and be right in, too.”

Brynn rushed up the stairs to join her grandfather. The storm door slapped against the jamb as she made her way inside.

Dillon craned his head for a better look at the sky. The storm had come out of nowhere and without warning. If the pace held, it was on course for a full-blown blizzard. Quite an anomaly; Clover Cove hadn't seen such weather in decades.

Dillon circled back to the truck. He loosened the rope holding the tree and hoisted it onto his shoulder before heading toward the house again. He scaled the stairs two at a time, thankful they'd left Brynn's truck at the nursery. The drive to her grandparents' house had taken a good deal longer than usual, despite the four-wheel drive. Brynn's Chevy would have struggled to traverse even the main roads.

Brynn waited at the door to let Dillon in and warmth enveloped him as he stepped into the modest living room. A fire crackled in the hearth and the musky scent of burning embers mingled with tree sap. Cinnamon wafted from the kitchen, a remnant of the baking adventure Brynn had mentioned. Dillon's mouth watered at the thought of the soft, moist cookies she'd promised.

“Over here.” Mr. Jansen motioned to the tree stand tucked along an expanse of bay windows near the front of the house. He'd already draped the area around it with an embroidered silver and gold tree skirt. “I've got everything ready, son.”

“It looks good.” Dillon wedged the tree into the stand with ease, having years of practice. As Brynn held the trunk steady, he dropped to his knees and tightened bolts along the base to keep the boughs securely in place. The tree's crown came to within inches of the ceiling—the perfect height for adding an angel or star. “I'm glad we made it before the roads got too bad.”

“Who would have thought? None of those weather-folk predicted this.” Mr. Jansen scratched his bald head. “I'm thankful you looked after Brynn.”

“Of course.” Dillon vowed to look after her more, God willing. “The tree's just the right height. Brynn debated over several before she settled on this particular one.”

“It's mighty fine.”

“It sure enough is.” Dillon pulled a small pair of collapsible scissors from his jeans pocket and made a few strategic cuts along the netting until it fell away. “Presto.”

“Oh, my.” Brynn's shoulder brushed his as she reached across to fluff branches that had bunched together in transit. “Thank you Dillon. It's gorgeous.”

“A mighty blessing.” Mr. Jansen stepped over to shake Dillon's hand. His face was drawn, his brow furrowed as he stuck an unlit pipe between his lips. Dillon knew that, although Mr. Jansen had kicked the smoking habit years ago, he still enjoyed the scent of tobacco. “And an even greater blessing, son, that you returned Brynn home safely. I was a fool to send her out in such a storm.”

“It wasn't snowing when I left, Gramps.” Brynn leaned in to kiss his cheek. “No one knew this was coming. Don't be so hard on yourself. I'm sure it's caught a lot of people off guard.”

“The white stuff sure is purty, though.”

“Yes, it is.” Brynn gathered the netting from the floor and bunched it together. “I'll take this to the trash and get some water for the stand. That tree will need a drink.”