Above All, page 28
Then he’d walk into the kitchen and see the mound of flour. He’d wonder what had spilled, until he looked closer. That’s when he’d notice the drawing in the center—a crescent shaped like a croissant, thick around the top and thin around the bottom where the arms met. He would smile to himself. Amandine.
Epilogue
“Are you sure?” Casey leaned up on one elbow.
“Anna knows how to open up. Come on, it’s a big morning for you!” Ben threw off the sheets and dragged Casey out of bed. He’d gotten much better at being an early riser since he had to come in and start baking before the morning rush. He had developed a loyal staff, though, and once Anna rose to manager she was able to take responsibility for getting things started a few days a week. Now he was the one prodding Casey to get up—it seemed he was more excited about the day than she was.
“What if it goes horribly?” she complained as she sat up in bed, hair all tousled and frizzing over her shoulders.
“It’s going to be brilliant,” Ben said, climbing over the comforter to kiss her shoulders, her neck, her cheek, her lips.
“It could still be horrible.”
“As long as you don’t drink too much wine,” he joked. She threw a pillow at his head.
“But don’t worry!” he exclaimed, dodging the blow. “This time, I’ll be there to save you.”
“I hope I won’t have to remind you which one is the men’s room,” she snorted.
“My reading comprehension skills have vastly improved. Now get up, sleepyhead!” He swung open the cabin door and Casey laughed to see him standing there, naked and already shivering. She leapt up and slapped him on the ass on her way out, bounding past him and racing down to the water. She splashed in a few steps ahead of him—no matter what, she always beat him in.
It had been a warm spring and this May there was no ice left around the rim of the lake. That didn’t make it balmy, exactly, but Casey repeatedly insisted that Ben had no right to complain. When they ran back to the cabin and she started the shower, Ben heated the kettle for coffee and pulled out eggs and toast for breakfast, dripping water across the floor.
Joining her in the shower, he kissed her warm lips until the feeling returned to his fingers and toes.
“Mmm, if you keep this up you’re going to be late,” Casey murmured happily.
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” he said, finally forcing himself to pull away. “Are you sure you can do everything here by yourself? I can come by if there’s a lull and help out.”
“It’s opening weekend, you’re going to be busy all day,” Casey predicted. “Besides, Geller’s going to come look over registration and I know he still wants to feel useful. Go! I’ll be fine.” She pushed him out of the shower, urging him to hurry.
“I gave Anna the keys to close down,” he reminded her, “so I can meet you at the gallery at six.”
“You don’t have to come, you know,” Casey said, toweling off her hair. “I can handle it on my own.”
“I know you can handle it, goofball. But if you think I’m not going to be there, you’ve got another think coming.” He tapped her nose playfully and then rooted around the floor for his pants.
“What if nobody comes?”
“Well there’s you, me, everyone at the gallery, plus Lee’s bringing her lovely gentleman friend, and the Gellers, and Anna’s going to pick up her kids to come. Already that’s a pretty good start. Not to mention I’ve had signs all over the café announcing it for weeks, and the signs around Anderson for the start of tourist season. And the fact that they wouldn’t have asked you to do the show if they thought it would flop.”
“Yeah yeah, Mr. Logic, who asked you anyway,” Casey pouted.
Ben wrapped her in his arms, the line of his boxers showing above his jeans still halfway unbuttoned. Drops of water from the shower beaded down his chest and Casey wanted to crawl inside his skin, to live there and breathe him in forever. Sometimes, in moments like these, getting ready before a long day, or scrounging up something for dinner or sitting by the lamplight, reading, resting her feet on his lap, she would look up at his eyes and wonder how she got so lucky.
Invariably he would catch her looking and say What? And she would say Nothing, and then he would smile with his dimples in his cheeks and his chin, as if he knew what she was thinking. Because he was thinking it too.
“Your work has sold out of every place it’s hung in the entire county,” he reminded her. “And even if it hadn’t, you love doing it. So what could be wrong about letting more people see it tonight?”
She melted into his reassuring words. “I guess.”
“There aren’t going to be any Geoffrey Stones there tonight,” he continued. “And even if there are, guess what? You don’t owe anybody anything. You can pick the shows you want and refuse the ones that aren’t worth your trouble. Like that nice woman who came up from Woodstock, what was her name?”
“Linda Macintosh?”
“Right, her. It sounded like she had a great space.”
“She’ll be there tonight.”
“So feel her out and see if you want to bring some work down. We could take a vacation!”
“Ha, we never take vacations.” Casey smiled.
“That’s because we’re living in paradise all of the time.”
“Cold, long, wintry paradise.”
“I don’t recall you complaining when we were in front of the fire.” He slid his hands around her waist, breathing in the clean smell of her skin and hair.
“Mmm, I’ll see you tonight,” she said, kissing the tip of his nose. “Bake up a storm.”
“Good luck with opening camp, I’m sure it’ll all go smoothly.”
He kissed her, picked up his keys and headed out to his SUV, his shoes still untied.
“Wait, what should I wear?” she called out the door after him, wishing she could pull him back and they could spend the whole day in bed, oblivious to the demands of the world around them.
“Whatever you want!” he called back. “You look beautiful in everything.”
She laughed and rolled her eyes. He was useless at questions like that. But she was smiling as she put the dishes in the sink and found her hiking boots. He made her feel amazing no matter what.
When word got around about Casey’s paintings, suddenly all sorts of local shops and businesses had started asking to buy her work. Everyone who lived in the area loved the depictions of the landscapes they held dear. When visitors and tourists saw a painting hanging in a waiting room or office or on a bookstore wall, they’d ask about the artist and inevitably be directed to Paper Lake.
Ben kept saying she had to set up a formal website and a pricing system so she wasn’t making it up on the spot. But she still couldn’t believe that anyone would want to buy her work. Not just New York gallery owners hoping to stumble upon the Next Big Thing, but her friends and neighbors and people such as her, who wanted to see the beauty in everyday life. It wasn’t much, but it was a steady, thriving business that allowed her to keep her supplies stocked while squirreling some extra away.
She’d never been around anyone quite like Ben, who not only admired her work but made a point of ensuring that she had the time to create it. Plenty of people said they loved art, but when it came time to the process of actually doing it, they didn’t want to see how the sausage got made. They wondered why she wasn’t available to meet up for coffee, or get a drink, or why she wasn’t staying out late, or why she had to hurry home. Ben, though, checked in with her often, asking if she needed more time and making himself scarce during the times of the best light and weather, knowing that if he were around he would only distract her.
Rather than being a hindrance, the relationship helped her work, pushing her to try new things and develop new projects while reminding her to spend time on all the parts of her life that were important, including Ben but not limited to him. The campground was thriving, her paintings were better than ever, and the café was growing steadily too. She was happy dividing her time between Ben’s sparsely furnished apartment—he had at least bought a bed—and her own tiny cabin. Wherever she was with him, she was home.
The day was busy with the opening of the spring season, but she had enough experience that it was hardly a big deal to manage the check-ins and keep everyone happy at their sites. She’d brought in a small computer that helped her keep track of each party, chucking Geller’s archaic system now that he’d handed over the reins. He still came by to talk with the campers about the best spots for fishing, or the perfect lookout for viewing the stars, and Casey always brightened when she heard him whistling as he limped around the camp, trusting that it would keep thriving.
When she got in the car to head over to Anderson, her dread about the evening had passed and left her pleasantly excited about things to come. Her friends and Ben were all going to be there. They would drink wine, catch up and look at her new work, and if it didn’t carry the prestige of a Chelsea address, at least it didn’t come with Chelsea commentary. There was nothing she enjoyed more than sharing something beautiful with the people she loved. Anything more than that she didn’t need.
The next weekend, she and Ben would be driving down to New York for Hannah and Jen’s wedding and to see some of Ben’s Vassar friends. Jared and Tara were both in the city and Braise was driving down from Boston to meet them. Janelle wouldn’t be there—she’d moved to San Francisco, and according to Tara was engaged to a really great guy. Casey was happy to hear that everyone was doing so well.
There would be more catching up throughout the summer. Casey’s parents were coming to visit over Fourth of July weekend. Thankfully they’d be staying in a hotel in Anderson, which they’d already decided they liked from the last time they came to see one of Casey’s shows. From there, they could window shop to their heart’s content and keep their complaints about camping to themselves.
Even Casey couldn’t believe how much they loved Ben—and his peach pie. Somehow, seeing their daughter settled in Bonnet had put them at ease, and they no longer asked about when she was getting a “real” job. They seemed to understand that this was her life. Just as she wanted it to be.
When she thought about how far she had come since she first moved to Bonnet, lost and scared and alone, she realized how much this mountain town had become her home. Everything felt right, the puzzle complete. And above all, what more could she need?
The End
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Keep reading for a sneak peak of HIS HANDS, a Heart of the Adirondacks novelette about Anna Stephenson, the manager of Sweet Amandine and mother of two, whose blackberry pies might just be enough to keep strong, grizzled widower Deegan James in town after his landscaping job is done... (Author’s Note: This story was previously titled Blackberries in the Morning.)
Ready for more rugged heroes and love in the great outdoors? Meet Austin Reed, Olympic skier and high school girls racing coach, in MAKE ME STAY, book 1 in the Men of Gold Mountain series.
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Excerpt from His Hands: A Heart of the Adirondacks Novelette
(previously titled Blackberries in the Morning)
Anna was up to her elbows in flour when the knock came. At this hour? Dawn streaked down the mountains and flamed over the trees. Later the kitchen would be packed and the café filled with customers, but for now the tables were empty, the espresso machine blissfully still. With a five-year-old up all night with a cold and a two- year-old practicing her new favorite word NO, these few hours before opening felt like the only quiet she’d be able to savor for the next eighteen years. She brushed her hands on her apron, draped a towel over the dough she’d been kneading, and reluctantly went to find out who’d dared to disturb her routine.
She didn’t recognize the truck out front, but then again people traveled from as far away as New York City, Boston, and Montreal to eat at Sweet Amandine. Granted, they usually waited until later than 5 a.m. to show up, but there was a short hike with a trailhead up the road. Whoever it was could kill a few hours watching the sun finish
rising from the granite peak that rose over town and be back right when the crusty rolls she was shaping were done. They were always best straight from the oven, slathered with butter fresh from Heritage Farm and a thick drizzle of honey from Bess’s Bees down the road.
Just the thought of that honey made Anna’s mouth water, so that she was licking her lips with what must have been an absurdly dreamy expression when she flicked the lock, opened the front door, and found that moist lips and dreamy expression were exactly not how she wanted to look when face to face with the stranger again.
He tried to smother his expression with a hand over the salt-and-pepper scruff along his jaw, but the lines around his eyes made it clear he was grinning.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said. “Is this Sweet Amandine?”
He shifted his weight, his jeans dark and low on his hips. They were fitted enough to show he knew how good he looked, and faded enough to say he didn’t care. Anna’s mouth went dry. Since speech didn’t seem to be working, she pointed to the sign over the porch that clearly stated Sweet Amandine with a picture of a fat, flaky croissant.
“But I’m afraid we don’t sell blackberries here,” she finally managed. “And we don’t usually open until seven.”
She hoped he’d take the hint and leave, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth she wanted to take them back. He had long hair that swept back from his forehead and tucked behind his ears. It was thick, chestnut with a little bit of wave, sprinkled with grey in a way that tipped the scale toward sexy rather than old. It surprised her, how the same thought had flashed at her when she was racing toward the fruit section at Heritage Farms yesterday, trying to stop Sofie from grabbing the last carton of blackberries right out of his hands. That of course her daughter had to go after the sexy stranger with strong, calloused hands and eyes as blue and changing as the sky.
Followed immediately by her mortification as the whole carton tumbled to the ground.
The man ran a hand through his hair and pushed back a strand that had strayed in his eyes. Anna could have kicked herself for mentioning blackberries. Did she have to go and remind him of those dark jewels trampled in the dirt? She’d tried to apologize, even meant to buy him something else, but Sofie was an octopus in her arms. She’d wound up whisking her daughter away and going home empty-handed to avoid any more embarrassment. I know, baby girl, she’d wanted to croon as Sofie screamed the whole ride home. I know what it’s like to reach so badly for what you want, only to find that it’s just out of reach.
It wasn’t like Anna wanted her hair to be this messy, swept back to get the dirty blond strands off her neck as she worked. It wasn’t like she wanted the flour to get everywhere—her arms, the faded V-neck t-shirt she’d worn only because she’d thought she’d be alone. There was probably even flour on her cheek, a dusting of white to offset the dark circles under her eyes. And yet here she was, facing the one person she’d told herself that at least she never had to see again.
She sighed. “I’m really, really sorry about yesterday. Blackberry season just started—give it a week and there’ll be so many even Sofie won’t be able to get her hands on them all. Or I can give you directions to swing by a few other farms, they might have picked more that haven’t been sold.”
There. Get him off the porch and out of her sight so she could go back to work, parenting, and her usual unsexy thoughts.
The man cocked his head at her. “You think I tracked you down this early to give you a hard time about blackberries?”
Anna blinked, confused.
Then he said, “Deegan,” and she almost laughed. This she knew how to do. She’d stepped out of the doorway and was pointing him to the winding road he’d take to get to 87 and then the Major Deegan Expressway down to New York before it registered that he’d been telling her his name. “Deegan James,” he repeated. “I swear, I didn’t know you’d be here.”
Anna had no choice but to shake his outstretched hand. In that one touch she could feel his contradictions, his skin calloused yet soft, everything gentle but strong. No wedding ring on his other hand, but she’d already noticed that. Add it to her growing list of questions about who he was, what he was doing here, and what was wrong with her that she even cared.
“Anna,” she blurted when she saw him still looking at her. “Stephenson.” And then in one exhale like a single word: “Annastephenson.” She flushed and pulled her hand away. It wasn’t like there weren’t other men she’d met since moving to Bonnet who’d made her head turn. But apparently this was the first to make her forget her own name. “So if I can’t offer you blackberries that haven’t been smooshed by a toddler—”
“I’m the landscaper,” Deegan interrupted before she could go on.
“What?”
“The landscaper. Down from Lake Placid? Well, Lake Placid was where I was last.” He shook his head as if to say it didn’t matter. “Ben told me to swing by before the sun gets too high.”
Anna winced. Surely her boss had mentioned this. She knew he had mentioned this.
He just hadn’t mentioned he’d hired the hottest man to set foot in Bonnet in the whole year she’d lived here, beyond lucky to get this job when it had seemed every other door had closed.
“I’m the manager, I open up three days a week and then Ben takes over while I run my kids around.” Anna overemphasized the plural, more for her reminder than his. Kids meant no panting over the lines around a stranger’s eyes when he smiled. No wanting to make said stranger smile to see those eyes light up again. And absolutely no thoughts of what kind of smile that stranger might give as he trailed his lips down her bare stomach and paused to look up.
