That Special Smile/Whittenburg (12 page)

“Noisy.” Max again propped his feet on the coffee table. “Mom asked about you.”

“Your mom?” Stupid question, Sylvie thought. And silly to be pleased at the knowledge that Max had mentioned her to his family. “Why would she do that?”

“She’s always interested in the people I meet, especially when I spend a lot of time talking about them.”

“Your holiday is beginning to sound as boring as mine.” Sylvie adjusted her glasses and ran a hand through her hair. “I take that back. It wasn’t boring, it was just redundant. Dad had to have every other word repeated because he won’t wear his hearing aids, and Juliette – who knows better – missed all the words in between because her
‘heart was listening to Benton’s heart.’
”

Sylvie turned a wry smile toward him. “Really, Max, you should have been there.”

“Where is she now?”

“Upstairs. On her phone, I’m sure. Talking or texting with him. After all, it’s been nearly an hour since she saw him.”

“Oh, come on, Sylvie Anne. There are worse things than being in love.”

“Name one.”

“Being in business with your sister.”

“All right. Try for two.”

“Did you get a chance to talk to her about the work that needs to be done? I thought you were definitely going to make an opportunity for discussion.”

“I intended to, but there wasn’t enough time between her coming in the door and going upstairs. Her brain is attached to him like a barnacle and she can’t go ten seconds without thinking of something she ‘
just has to tell him.’
”

“Sylvie, you can’t go on making all the decisions, trying to do everything and just hoping Juliette is going to redevelop an interest in the dress shop. She has to face the responsibility of starting her own business sooner or later.”

“We’ve had this conversation before. Last week and the week before and the week before that. I’ll tell you now what I told you then: I’ll….”

“…take care of it.” He held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll change the subject. Guess what we’re going to do this week.”

Sylvie tucked her feet beneath her and reclined lazily against the sofa arm. “I’m working. I couldn’t begin to guess what you’ll be doing.”

“You, Miss Smith, and I are going on the Christmas Candlelight Tour of Homes and also to the Community Theater’s annual production of A Christmas Carol. No arguments, please. Or else.”

“Or else what?”

“I won’t help with your wallpaper project this week.”

Sighing in mock distress, Sylvie shook her head. “You’re confusing me with my sister. I can manage quite well without your assistance. Besides, all you do is stand around, distracting me and pointing out that Juliette should be the one working.”

“Every job needs a supervisor.”

“So you’ve told me. Forget what I said before,” she said dryly. “I didn’t miss you after all.”

“That’s all right.” He reached across the sofa cushion to cover her hand with a warmly tender touch. “I missed you enough for both of us.”

She didn’t know what to say. He was teasing. Wasn’t he?

Satisfied with catching her momentarily off guard, Max patted her hand, slipped his feet from the edge of the table, and stood.

“Don’t forget, Sylvie, we have a date. You can choose the night, providing it’s Saturday, and I’ll provide the candles.”

“Should I bring a match?” she asked with a droll smile.

“A match made in heaven?”

“No, just the ordinary kitchen variety.”

“I’ll take care of lighting the candles...and any other fires we might want to set.” With that leading statement, he opened the door. “Good night, Sylvie Anne. Dream of me.”

“Max?” She couldn’t control the impulse that made her call to him. And she couldn’t prevent herself from asking, “You
are
going to help me with the wallpaper, right?”

He grinned. “Oh, I’ll be around.”

As the door closed softly behind him, Sylvie sank back against the sofa arm.

Around.

Max was always around. Tampering with this, helping with that, telling her she was doing more than her share of Juliette’s work and taking care of too many details that rightfully belonged to her sister. She knew he was right, but still, somehow, she resented his interference. And she resented always having him around, although she would have to admit that she was learning to like it.

With a forefinger and thumb she adjusted the fit of the tortoiseshell frames on the bridge of her nose. The problem was….

She sighed. The problem was she didn’t know what the problem was.

She wanted to feel indifferent toward him; she didn’t.

She didn’t want to like him; she did.

She wished he would stop teasing her in that half-sensuous, half-serious way.

But she was half-afraid her heart would stop beating if he did.

December arrived with the crisp, clean scent of winter, and, overnight it seemed, the town wrapped itself in Christmas colors. Downtown buildings donned the gay trappings of a Victorian Yule and the air was rich with spicy fragrances and the sound of carols. It took longer to walk from one end of Spring Street to the other, simply because the handmade decorations and holiday store windows along the way were so enticing.

Sylvie found herself stopping time and again to admire a white oak basket with a big plaid bow that decorated the sidewalk in front of an antique store. And in the candy-shop window, atop a miniature tree, there was a gossamer angel made with delicate detail and a lacy design.

Max said it was made of sugar, spun by an elf, sculpted by fairies, and hung up to dry in the moonlight. Sylvie said it was crocheted by human hands, if not in direct sunlight, at least beneath an incandescent bulb.

But the magic slipped beneath the surface of her practical nature and urged her to purchase several brightly patterned bows, the white oak basket, and various other decorations. Sylvie surprised herself by obeying the impulse, but Max merely smiled.

He helped her drape garlands along the porch railing of the old Victorian house and it was his idea to place a single candle in the window. Inside, the house was still a work in progress, but on the outside it looked as finished and welcoming as any of the other restored homes in the town.

Juliette got into the Christmas spirit one day by dressing in a vintage costume and putting a bit of mistletoe in her hair and hanging some around the house. As usual, she overdid the idea, but she was so pleased with herself that Sylvie didn’t have the heart to remind her there was still plenty of real work to be done.

On Saturday morning, Sylvie awakened early with a sense of expectancy. She didn’t know if it had more to do with Juliette’s announcement the night before that she wanted to get an early start on painting the baseboard in the front room of the dress shop or Max’s plans for the evening. Either way, Sylvie had no intention of dwelling on a simple feeling of anticipation. Yet she stayed in bed a good thirty minutes, musing the possibilities, before putting bare feet to cold floor and fully opening her eyes.

Perhaps it was a combination, she decided after she’d showered and dressed. Having Juliette working with her for longer than a two-hour stretch would certainly be a novelty. And Sylvie had spent enough  of her time during the past two months taking care of details that an evening out was very appealing.

Of course, she hadn’t allowed Juliette’s business to occupy her every waking moment. Or rather, Max hadn’t allowed her to do so.

He’d teased her relentlessly on some days, made her angry on others, but his entire purpose in life seemed to be getting her away from Hannah Lee House. Not that he always succeeded, but he tried daily nonetheless. Persuading her to take a walk, a drive, a hike or some other form of activity was the type of casual bantering he appeared to enjoy the most. Some days he’d worked right beside her doing whatever needed to be done, and other days he’d simply observed; Sylvie, preferring to call a thorn a thorn, told him flatly on those occasions to find some other place to loiter.

There had been days, though, when she hadn’t seen him at all, and despite her best attempt to convince herself she didn’t miss him, she’d recognized her disappointment at his absence.

Max kept her going.

Sylvie had realized that over the Thanksgiving holiday. He kept her entertained and he kept her intermittently irritated. He fueled the resentment she felt toward her sister for the inability to make and carry out a decision, and yet Sylvie felt obligated to defend Juliette against Max’s if-she-can’t-swim-she-ought-to-get-out-of-the-water philosophy.

It wasn’t always easy. In fact, Juliette made it increasingly more difficult. Benton was either unaware of the responsibilities that she was letting slide or unable to see any fault in her at all.

Juliette certainly found no fault with him.

When she was at the dress shop, she was given to long, daydreaming silences or glowing accounts of Benton’s wise and witty sayings.

Max offered a few wise sayings of his own, which made Sylvie smile, if only to herself. Juliette accepted the offhand comments with an unoffended smile, allowing nothing to dent her happiness.

But since even Sylvie occasionally caught herself humming the same ridiculous love songs she heard her sister singing, it was hard not to fall into the net and get caught up in Juliette’s obvious joy.

It was late Saturday afternoon at Hannah Lee House before it occurred to Sylvie that there might be a connection between the melodies she hummed and Max.

“Where’s Max?” Juliette walked into the room with a can of soda in her hand and sank onto the bottom step.

Sylvie brushed the back of her hand across her forehead and critically eyed the baseboard she’d been painting. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him all day. Why?”

“No reason. From the kitchen it sounded like you were humming, and you only do that if he’s close by.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Juliette.” Sylvie put down the paintbrush as her gaze continued checking for streaks.

“Well, it’s true.”

With an exasperated sigh Sylvie turned on her heel. “I don’t sing, and I never hum.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me, Sylvie Anne. I heard you just now, and I’ve heard you a lot of other times, too, when Max was around. Except for just now. But I’ll bet you were thinking of him, weren’t you?”

Frowning, Sylvie eyed her sister with caution. Juliette sounded agitated and looked somewhat annoyed. If Sylvie were any judge, there was an underlying reason for this silly conversation that had nothing to do with humming. “Is something bothering you, Jules?”

“No. Why would you think that? There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just impatient to be finished with … well, with this house.” A momentary guilt flickered across her face. “With the repairs and stuff, I mean. You know I can’t wait to open up shop and become the proprietress of Hannah Lee House Habiliments.”

That was a possible explanation. Juliette always preferred to skip straight from the idea to the congratulations at the end.

“I know how anxious you are,” Sylvie said dryly. “Maybe the time would go faster if you spent a little more time here, working.”

“You sound just like Benton! Well, if that’s the way you want to be, fine. But I’m going home.” Juliette stood, a portrait of aggrieved innocence. “I thought you would understand, Sylvie Anne.”

Which was a pretty tall order, Sylvie thought, given the circumstances. Still, she was beginning to gain a fairly good assessment of Juliette’s problem. “I can’t believe Benton has been giving you a hard time about your business. He seems content with the way you’re juggling work and ... other activities.”

Juliette sucked in her lower lip. “He ought to be happy. I’m doing the best I can.”

Sylvie straightened. “Are you and Benton having a disagreement?”

“Now who’s being ridiculous?” Juliette returned to the defensive and Sylvie felt a brief sadness. Once Juliette would have confided everything at the first hint of sympathy. “Benton and I are fine. Just fine. You’ll see tonight. We’re going with you and Max on the candlelight tour and we have tickets to the play too.”

“Oh,” Sylvie said. “That will be fun.”

“Yes. Well, I’m leaving now. Why don’t you put that paint away and come with me?”

“I’ve just got a bit more to do and the baseboard will be done.”

Juliette tapped her foot, then shrugged. “I’ll get my purse and go on home.” She started toward the kitchen, but stopped halfway out of the room. “Oh, Sylvie, may I borrow your key? I forgot mine this morning.”

“It’s in the zippered pocket of my billfold.” Sylvie again turned her attention to the baseboard, but she caught herself, and Juliette, in time. “Don’t forget to leave the door unlocked and the key on the table at home, Juliette.” She paused to consider the effect of her reminder. “Promise you won’t forget.”

Julie lifted her hand to emphasize her sincerity. “I won’t forget.”

Stifling a niggling doubt, Sylvie signaled her appreciation with a smile and returned her attention to painting. She heard Juliette leave, but didn’t look up from her task. As the brush glided soundlessly over the newly sanded wood, her thoughts drifted into fuzzy focus.

Humming? A frown of concentration followed the even strokes of the paintbrush. Of course, she knew she had been guilty earlier in the afternoon, and she remembered once, or maybe twice before.

But because of Max? What a silly, typical Juliette kind of idea. Sylvie shook her head and let a wry smile lift the corners of her mouth.

Humming?

Now that didn’t sound like her at all.

* * * *

In the darkened theater, just as Scrooge was confronted by the eerie and silent Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, Max reached for Sylvie’s hand. Her heart jumped and she gave him a suspicious look, but he didn’t appear to be unnerved by the apocalyptic specter. So she had to think he just wanted to hold her hand.

He glanced at her, smiled, and looked back at the stage. She wiggled her fingers slightly, but didn’t withdraw her hand from his warm, cradling touch. It was pleasant and sensual to sit in the dark holding hands with Max.