18
EVELYN FINDS ME in my office the next morning. She’s bundled up in a beautiful white jacket with a thick sash at the middle, her dark hair braided over one shoulder. I get a whiff of hazelnut and stare longingly at the take-out cup in her hand, my lukewarm coffee balanced at the edge of my desk. It’s nice to know Ms. Beatrice can be kind when she wants to.
I try to surreptitiously stack the chaos of paperwork on my desk into a neater pile, brush away the crumbs from a leftover muffin. I wasn’t exactly expecting company. I’ve been waiting for a call from the bed-and-breakfast all morning. The owner, Jenny, letting me know that Evelyn has decided to check out early.
Evelyn smiles and takes the seat across from my desk, perched on the very edge. I’m glad at least I decided to sew up the tears on the upholstery in a fit of procrastination. Her posture is immaculate, her legs crossed gracefully. I don’t think I’ve ever looked that put together in my life.
“You seem surprised,” she says and takes a long drink from her latte. “I told you we’d get a fresh start today.”
“I thought you might have left.” I fiddle with one of the pine trees sitting on the edge of my desk, wrapping the string around my thumb. “I was worried you’d be uncomfortable here.”
“I owe you an apology,” she says, and my elbow knocks a stack of paperwork to the floor. So much for looking organized.
A quiet “um” is about all I can manage in response.
“Beckett came to talk to me last night,” she offers. My face must do something strange at that, because she flushes pink and ducks her head. “Oh jeez, not like that. He just—he explained how much the farm means to you,
to him, to your town. He asked if I’d consider staying. He said he’d make himself scarce if I—if I wanted him to.”
A balloon of affection for Beckett rises in my chest. “And do you?” It’s not the question I should be asking, but I’m curious. “Want him to?”
Evelyn shrugs. “I don’t think that’s necessary. We’re both grown-ups, and what happened between us is—” That flush on her cheeks burns darker, and she waves her hand between us, shooing the thoughts away. I hide my smile in the lip of my coffee mug. “Well, it doesn’t matter. That was then, this is now. I’m resolved to be professional and see this trip through. You deserve it.”
I probably don’t. The truth sticks in the back of my throat, the confession that my relationship with Luka isn’t the romantic tale I’ve led her to believe. I press my palms flat to my desk and trace my thumb over the wood grain.
“Listen, I should tell you—”
My sentence is abruptly cut off by my office door swinging open, Luka on the other side with that damn poof-ball hat and two take-out cups. He’s wearing a scarf today too, a thick evergreen I’m pretty sure his grandmother made him.
“I think this is still decaf, but Ms. Beatrice did give you hazelnut, so that’s — Oh, shoot.” He tucks one of the cups into the cradle of his elbow and extends one gloved hand to Evelyn, a smile already lighting up his eyes, golden in the morning light. It really is unfair how pretty he is. “Hey. You must be Evelyn.”
Evelyn smiles and stands from her chair, taking his hand in a shake and then tipping her cup to his in a mini cheers. I feel my resolve wither away.
“Luka, I’m so excited to meet you.”
“I was just swinging by to drop off a coffee before I head out to the ice- skating rink.” His amber eyes find mine, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. I left him this morning before the sun was up, buried beneath the pillows on my bed. He had curled his hand around my elbow with a sleepy grumble, a muffled request to “come back and cuddle.” It was a tempting offer.
“Beck texted about some of the panels on the far end being loose.” I notice a hammer hanging out of his jeans pocket, a folded-up piece of canvas tucked under his arm. He sees my questioning glance and grins. “Mom gave it to me,” he explains. “Some of the kids made a sign. I think it’ll look nice over the panels. Sort of like those ads you see at hockey games.”
“As long as no one is checking one another into the boards, that’s fine.
What’s the sign say?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He rumbles with a laugh. He drops my coffee on the edge of my desk and presses his palm flat to the wooden top, leaning forward to brush a kiss across my lips. As far as distractions go, it’s a good one. I sigh into it and he smiles, another quick kiss before he leans back. I see Evelyn grinning at us from the corner of my eye.
“Can I join you?” she asks. “I didn’t get to see much yesterday. I’d like to see the rink.”
“Yeah, no problem. I’ll give you the unofficial tour, and Stella will give you the more professional version later.”
She claps her hands together once, back to the energetic, excited woman she was when she first arrived. “That’s perfect.”
I tell myself that it’s fine, that we’re not really lying to her. We’re more . . . bending the truth, I guess. I’m not exactly sure what Luka and I are to each other right now. Sure, we’re friends, but after that night on my couch, we’re also something more. I’ve convinced myself it’s not so much a lie anymore as it is an embellishment.
I swallow around the unease. “I’ll meet you out there in a little bit.”
I BARELY MANAGE to make a dent in my email before I have another set of visitors.
Beckett strides into my office with a determined look on his face, a stack of papers wedged under his arm. He slaps the booklet down on my desk and then collapses into the same chair Evelyn was sitting in an hour ago, arms crossed over his chest.
Layla hustles in behind him, out of breath, a giant piece of poster board in her hands. “You would not believe how this thing catches the wind,” she says, placing the huge board in the unoccupied chair, corner down. She tears off her jacket and gestures toward the stack on my desk. “Beckett brought you the appendix. Good.”
“Didn’t have time to laminate,” he says, still glaring at me.
“Don’t you have your own machine?”
“Broken.” He grunts.
I tried calling both of them last night after Luka and I had slow-danced around my kitchen enough for my heart to settle. All of my calls had gone straight to voicemail. I flip the stack of papers around on my desk so I can read the top page: LOVELIGHT FARMS BUSINESS PLAN in boldface.
Now I see why no one was answering their phones.
“Should I sit?”
Beckett and Layla nod in unison and then proceed to walk me through a forty-five-minute presentation. There are color-coded sections in the booklet on new suppliers, references to local ordinances about tax breaks and credits, and even a budget spreadsheet that looks suspiciously like the one I showed Luka last night, a column highlighted in yellow with our baseline numbers if we started charging admission rates.
I flip the page and look at salary projections, my eyebrows knitting in confusion when I see the numbers. “These are wrong,” I say, interrupting Layla midsentence and wincing in apology. “Sorry, just, I’m looking at the paycheck section, and your numbers are wrong.”
Beckett rubs at his chin with the heel of his hand, legs kicked out. Layla has led most of this presentation, but he did get pretty passionate when talking about fertilizers, as per usual. He flips to the corresponding page in his booklet and arches an eyebrow. “They’re not wrong.”
“They are off by about thirty percent.” I squint my eyes. “Mmm, actually.
About—”
“It’s a forty percent pay cut for Beckett and me,” Layla says without a lick of hesitation. “With backpay built in for what you’ve cut for yourself.”
“It’s a fifty percent cut for me,” Beckett grumbles. “I don’t pay any rent on my house. That should be included in my compensation package.”
I swallow and keep my eyes on the numbers. “And everyone else?” I clear my throat until my voice doesn’t wobble. “The seasonal help and your staff?
Their numbers don’t change?”
“Everyone else stays where they are. The pay cut for just the three of us should be able to get us through another couple of months, even without the prize money.”
I press under my eyes and keep my gaze firmly on the spreadsheet. I’m afraid if I look up, I might burst into tears. “I can’t let you do that.”
“Well, we’re doing it, so . . .” Layla props her hands on her hips. She gestures to the posterboard, where she’s drawn a chart in red and white, outlined with glitter. A candy-cane financial projection through the next three years. “And there’s another thing. Beckett and I discussed it. We want to be full-on partners. We’d like to split ownership and all financial obligations three ways.”
Beckett jumps in. “We’ll need to see your start-up costs, a full breakdown of what the land cost you and all the renovations. We’ll evaluate it and split it. There’s some legal paperwork to be done too. On the account of ownership. But if you’re willing to let us be a part of this, we’re in.”
Layla nods in agreement. “We’re super in. All the way in. It should have been this way from the start, Stella. This feels right.”
I suck in a lungful of air and look up at Layla. Her face is open, none of the hurt resignation from yesterday. Now she just looks determined. She gives me a tiny nod, barely a tilt of her chin.
Beckett is different. He’s all harsh lines and furrowed brows, arms still crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his flannel rolled to his elbows. The colorful ink painted across his skin is a fine distraction from the way my heart is pounding in my chest. I stare at the ivy vine that loops around his wrist. The crescent moon on the inside of his elbow.
“Beck? You’re sure?” I blink back up to his face and something there shifts. A recognition. A realignment.
“This,” he says quietly. “This is what partners do.”
BY THE TIME I make it out to the ice-skating rink to catch up with Luka and Evelyn, I’m jittery from too much caffeine and the relief of renewed hope. I made Beckett and Layla go over the numbers with me another three times, line by line. I eventually talked them down to a thirty percent pay cut, with only half the back pay they projected. With those adjustments, we should be able to run smoothly for a while yet.
I’m still hesitant about starting admission prices. Not having to pay to get into the farm was a big reason why my mom and I came here so often when I was a kid. It was free for us to wander around the trees, sipping on hot chocolate we smuggled in with our bags. If there was an entrance fee, I’m not sure my mom would have ever brought me here. The thought makes me sad.
I bought this place so everyone could experience the same magic. No one should feel left out.
I turn the corner on the stone walkway that leads from the office to the main entrance area, Mariah Carey over the speakers. There’s a chill in the air today, a brisk wind that’s tripping through the trees. I watch them sway and dance on the foothills, their branches waving in the sun. By the end of the season, these hills will be golden brown instead of rich green, all of the trees sitting happily in their new homes. I like to think of that sometimes—where my trees end up. Strung with lights and tinsel and ornaments. Presents stacked neatly beneath, just begging to be opened. A piece of Lovelight Farms in someone’s home, helping make their holiday special.
The ice-skating rink is full when I arrive, a group of high schoolers whipping around in figure eights, laughing and holding hands and chasing one another. I see Cindy Croswell off to the side using one of the skater helpers shaped like a penguin that we specifically bought for children. Bailey and Sandra McGivens skate slowly along, hand in hand, whispering to each other, pausing for a kiss beneath the mistletoe every time they pass under the entrance arch. I grin and let my gaze move along the siding, the reinforced pieces of wood, and the banner strung neatly overtop.
Red and green paint, a little bit sloppy at the edges, like whoever was painting it was in a rush. MERRY CHRISTMAS, LOVELIGHT FARMS.
FROM INGLEWILD HIGH THE JOLLIEST BUNCH OF A-HOLES.
They’ve drawn a tiny cityscape beneath, lights strung over Inglewild’s rooftops. I lean my elbows up against the arm rail with a laugh and snap a picture with my phone.
“Do you like it, Ms. Bloom?” One of the high schoolers—Jeremy, I think —comes to a sudden, forceful stop against the wooden boards right next to me, his skates slamming in first as a shower of ice shepherds his arrival. He shakes his hair out of his face and leans right next to me.
“It’s very creative,” I say diplomatically. We’ll probably have to cover up that last part if we leave it up, but it makes me laugh. “Christmas Vacation is one of my favorite holiday movies.”
“Me too,” he agrees, and he does that hair flip thing again. I don’t know how he manages to stay conscious with such an aggressive head jerk every thirty seconds. “We have so much in common.”
“Um, sure.”
“You know, you’re pretty hot for an older woman,” Jeremy tells me, flipping his hair twice in the space of fifteen seconds. Does this work on the girls at Inglewild High? I sure hope not. I let that comment sit for a moment.
He’s staring at me with a cocky grin kicking up his mouth. Oh, to have the
confidence of a young white man.
“Want a tip?”
“From you, baby? I want more than the tip.”
Ugh, gross. When did high schoolers become so terrible? I make a mental note to let Mrs. Peters know that Jeremy sucks, though I’m sure given his less-than-subtle approach to life, she has an idea. “Don’t call women old,” I tell him. “In fact, don’t call women anything. I think you’d benefit from probably not talking to women in general for five to seven years.”
He looks down at his skates, shoulders curling in. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
“It’s all right, just—you can’t say vulgar things like that. Use this as a learning moment.”
He blinks up at me. “What sort of things should I say?”
I consider that. “Maybe if you like someone, tell them what you like about them.” He opens his mouth and I give him a look. “Something that isn’t
physical.”
He looks confused.
“Their personality,” I offer. “Like they’re funny or smart or especially kind. You could say something not”—I consider my words—“not gross about their appearance. Maybe their eyes, their hair, the way they smile.”
He nods, still confused. He looks dubious. “And that will work?”
“It will only work if you truly mean what you’re saying and you’re respectful of what they say in return. Got it?”
“I think so.” He shifts on his skates.
I feel an arm slip around my waist, a broad chest at my back. Luka rests his chin on top of my head. “Jeremy, you better not be creeping on my woman.”
Jeremy grins and takes off to the other end of the ice-skating rink without a word, another spray of ice behind him. I’ll have to get a Zamboni if the high schoolers keep coming.
I turn in Luka’s arms, my hands clasped at the small of his back. I liked the way that sounded, his woman. A little bit too much. He glances down at me with a grin, brown eyes searching my face. “Everything okay?”
I nod. “Beckett and Layla came to see me.”
He hums, his smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” I squeeze him harder, fingers digging into the thick material of his jacket. I rest my forehead against his chest, and his palm drifts from the small of my back up between my shoulder blades. He rocks us back and forth once. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“Nothing to thank me for. It’s all you,” he says. He hums again, a low rumble against my ear. “I just wanna hold your hand, Stella.”
I rest my chin on his chest and look up. “I think I’ll let you.”
“Glad to hear it.” His smile tips into something softer, thumb tracing the apple of my cheek. “Listen, we haven’t really had a chance to talk. About—
about the other night.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Was it—” I feel his hands twitch at my sides. “Was it weird?”
“Weird that it wasn’t weird,” I tell him, a laugh at the tip of my tongue.
No part of me regrets what happened between us the other night, even though it feels like I should. We’re well beyond blurring the lines of our relationship.
“What about you?”
His shoulders relax. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he whispers, thumb tracing down from my cheek to my bottom lip. His eyes go hazy, unfocused.
A shiver curls over my shoulders and slips down my spine. “The sounds you made, La La, I—”
The group of high schoolers whips by us again, screaming and laughing.
Luka blinks and clears his throat, squeezes my hips tight.
“Weird that it wasn’t weird,” he agrees faintly, his gaze meeting mine. His eyes are dark, sharp with intent, and I look over his shoulder to the barn. We could probably make it there without anyone noticing. Find a nice and dark cozy corner to hide in.
“I left Evelyn at the bakehouse with Peter,” Luka says, reminding me of what I should be focusing on. I shake my head. “She seemed intent on getting
her hands on more brownies.”
“Is she having a good time?”
“She seems to be. I took her out to the fields and showed her around. She really liked the sleigh. She was snapping all sorts of pictures on her phone.”
The sleigh is an old beat-up 1954 Chevy 3100 truck left in the fields by Hank—or maybe even the owner before Hank. When Beckett found it, it was rusted out and home to an entire colony of birds. It still is home to the birds when they migrate back in the spring, but now it’s painted cherry red, multicolor Christmas lights strung over the cab. We keep a big canvas sack in the bed of the truck stuffed with boxes—Santa’s magic bag left behind. The kids get a kick out of it.
“That was a good idea to take her there.”
“To be honest, I forgot about it.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I might have got turned around with all the trees. I spotted it and just sort of made it seem like that was the goal.”
I laugh. Leave it to Luka. “Either way, thanks for that.”
My phone begins to ring in my front pocket, and I step out of the cradle of his arms to search for it among the crumpled candy wrappers and old receipts currently occupying my jacket. I find a foil-covered peppermint chocolate bar and hand it over to Luka. His attention is quickly diverted by the group of high schoolers as they make another raucous lap of the ice-skating rink, his eyes narrowed on Jeremy.
I answer the phone with a smile, not bothering to check who it is first.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Stella.”
“Dane.”
Luka turns back to me and arches an eyebrow in a silent question.
I shrug. I haven’t heard from Dane since the early morning chase through the fields over the weekend. “What can I do for you?”
He sighs. “I’ve got some news. Can you come down to the station?”
