The Giving Heart Read online

  Now she scanned the space. Boxes, crates, an old trunk, a set of old snowshoes, and even a pair of antique wooden cross-country skis that would probably be hanging decoratively on a wall somewhere if the inn wasn’t in the business of branding itself as a summer destination. Searching wooden shelves, she spotted old cookware—pots and pans—and bowls made of what Gran had called circus glass, passed down through her family. Other shelves held old lamps and picture frames. And then, on a bottom one—aha—a tree stand.

  She picked it up, and—heavier than she’d expected, it slipped from her fingers and hit the planked floor with a loud thud, barely missing her sock-covered toes. “Oooh,” she screeched. Lifting it back up more carefully then, she moved it toward the opening in the floor that led to the inn’s second floor hallway and set it down, thinking of starting a pile, since she might as well locate the ornaments while she was up here.

  Returning to the shelves, she peeked in an unlabeled box to find—oh, her knitting looms! She’d totally forgotten about them! And to think they’d just been sitting here since...well, who knew since when? She probably hadn’t used them since high school.

  Gran had bought them for her one summer when, around the age of twelve or so, she’d complained of that angsty sort of boredom only an adolescent girl can truly express. Resentful of having to spend summers stuck on an island far away from her friends. Missing malls and movie theaters and swimming pools.

  At first, she’d been just as bored with the looms as she was with Summer Island in general, but Gran had bribed her in that way only Gran could. “You’ll have a special talent that none of your friends do—one that not even Meg has.” Meg had always been so smart and accomplished and together, whereas Lila had been—or at least felt—the opposite. Gran had introduced her to the joys of yarn and built in her a love of playing with and combining colors and textures, even taking her to the mainland one day on a special trip, just the two of them, to a place Lila remembered being called The Yarn Barn, actually in a big red barn. She’d wanted to think it was dorky but had actually found it almost as fun as walking into a shopping mall.

  Later, after Lila had produced a few winter hats, Gran had made an observation. “I think it sometimes just takes a little more to hold your interest than it does Meg. Something like this requires just enough focus to keep your thoughts in one place.” And at the same time, she’d learned that loom knitting went much faster than the traditional knitting her mother dabbled in, so she didn’t get bored trying to complete a project. She’d soon been whipping out cozy hats in only an hour or two.

  “Um, you okay up here?”

  Startled, she flinched, dropping the round loom in her hand back into the open box with a small clatter and spinning to see Beck Grainger’s handsome head poking up through the attic door.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “YES—FINE,” SHE bit off, just short of snapping at him.

  “I heard a big clunk—and then nothing—so thought I should check.”

  “I dropped the tree stand,” she said, pointing at it. “And then figured I’d look for ornaments while I’m here—but so far, no luck.”

  As Beck climbed the rest of the way up into the smaller, more isolated-feeling space, her back went rigid, her chest tightening. Again, she had to remind herself—he wasn’t a personal threat to her, and it was okay for him to be in the attic with her.

  And while she watched him begin to look around the opposite end from where she’d searched so far, her heart beat a little faster. But not in the frightened way—instead in a...surprised way. For a guy who is heartlessly doing something that hurts my sister’s livelihood and my family traditions, I feel...safe with him.

  It seemed a backward emotion, maybe even a foolish one. But a calmness hung about him that it was difficult not to like. She’d always liked it in Meg, too, actually—no wonder her sister respected and appreciated this man.

  “Pay dirt,” he said then, peeking over his shoulder at her with a smile. “Found a whole box of lights. We can take the whole thing down and just hope some of them work.”

  Noticing the word Christmas scrawled in black marker on a box next to where he stood, she walked toward it. Stepping up beside him, she opened it—and gasped. “Oh gosh—look! Meg and I made these ornaments as kids.” She’d forgotten about those, too. She’d forgotten a lot of things—things before Meg got cancer.

  Some of them were glittery and juvenile—clearly the work of children. But others stood the test of time a little better: candy canes and bells made from salt dough, angels from painted pine cones, green strips of fabric tied creatively to a twig to create a tree, and snowflakes cut meticulously from thick, sparkly paper.

  “You can tell which are Meg’s and which are mine,” she said matter-of-factly, holding up two dough candy canes, nearly identical except that one was perfectly shaped and neatly painted and the other was slightly misshapen and messier. “Mine are the sloppy ones.”

  “Well, she was older than you,” Beck pointed out—and Lila looked up, because it was a revelation. She’d spent her whole young life comparing herself to Meg, but it had never occurred to her that of course Meg would be better at most things merely because Lila was so much younger—five years to be exact. “And I kinda like this one.” He pointed to the messy candy cane with a small grin. “It’s got character.”

  Lila lowered her eyes, unsettled by the rush of warmth through her chest brought on by his simple kindness.

  “What’s in here?” he asked then, reaching for another box behind the ones they’d already opened. Peering inside, they saw mostly bubble wrap and tissue paper—until he plucked out a handful of white paper and unwrapped a glass ornament in the shape of a reindeer.

  The find drew another gasp from Lila. “Oh my God—I remember that! Gran’s antique glass ornaments. They’re from when she was growing up here, back in the forties and fifties. And some of them are even older. There’s a glass pear ornament somewhere that’s been passed down through the family since the early 1900s.”

  Beck took a reverent step back. “Okay, suddenly I feel a little nervous around this box.”

  She laughed lightly. “You? You’re not the one who dropped the tree stand and can’t paint decent stripes on a candy cane.” Then she glanced down at the box. “I’d like to use them, though. I haven’t seen them in ages—it’ll be nice.”

  “We’ll just be careful,” he promised with a short nod. “And they seem well wrapped, so we’ve got that much going for us.”

  As Beck rewrapped the glass reindeer and placed it gently back in the box, his flannel-covered arm brushed Lila’s, setting off a fresh burst of warmth inside her. Maybe it was just hot up here in the closed space or something—but she still took a step back.

  And caught herself. Stop it. What are you doing? Becoming friends with him? That was all part of his evil plan. You can let him put up this stupid tree, but you can’t be his friend.

  Of course, as they worked together to carefully transport the Christmas boxes and tree stand down the stairs, she tried to figure out what they were, what they could be. If she was going to let him put up a Christmas tree in the parlor, and she was presumably going to communicate with him during that time, what were they to each other? She wasn’t sure. Nor did she know how she’d gotten herself into this weird situation.

  Maybe the best thing to do was just try to roll with it. For the rest of the day. Be...cordial, but quit being so damn nice. Even when you’re finding old ornaments that bring back your childhood, and memories of Gran, and everything that...well, that make the trees behind this house matter. Just get through the day—but remember who he is and what he’s doing. A Christmas tree didn’t change that.

  As she handed the last box down to him, she glanced over at the nearby shelves—at the box containing the looms—and said, “Wait a sec.” And a moment later, passed that one to him, as well.

&nb
sp; “I don’t know what this is, but it doesn’t look Christmasy,” he commented with a glance down into the lidless box. It held five round looms of different sizes, the largest about the circumference of a basketball, all sturdy plastic, in varying colors. Underneath them all, she’d spied a few random skeins of old yarn.

  “Just something my grandmother gave me that I want to bring downstairs,” she said, and left it at that. That’s how you stop being too friendly. You don’t chitchat and volunteer information. Well done.

  Downstairs, she held the stand while he maneuvered the big tree into it. Then watched as he started untangling strings of lights and plugging them into the wall—some lit up and some didn’t. Her stomach growled, reminding her—lunch. Which presented a whole new quandary with the presence of the persistent man currently moving around the inn like he owned the place.

  Roll with it. “I haven’t eaten lunch—have you?”

  He looked up from the lights, a string of colored ones, most of them blinking, stretched between his large hands. “Actually, no.”

  She blew out a breath, having hoped for a different answer. And kept being honest with him. “I really don’t want to be too friendly with you under the circumstances—but I also don’t want to be an asshole. So would you like some soup and a grilled cheese?”

  As usual, he threw her off—this time by responding to her grudging offer with a big, wide smile, same as if she’d offered the lunch with total cheer. “A woman after my own heart.”

  She regarded him dryly through tired eyes. “I’m not sure what that even means in this situation, but I doubt it. In fact, so far I suspect our hearts operate very differently.”

  Again, a light laugh from him. She seemed to amuse him to no end. “I just was thinking about the simple pleasures of grilled cheese recently, that’s all.” Then he glanced out the window into the heavy snow, blowing about in the cold wind. “And it sounds like the perfect choice for today.”

  “So I take that as a yes,” she said dryly. Remembering who he was now. And who she was. And that he would not win her over with an afternoon of niceness.

  “Yes, that sounds great,” he told her, obviously trying to give her a very clear answer, “and I appreciate it. Need help?”

  “No,” she answered, her tone matter-of-fact. Not nice, not mean—just betraying no emotion. Just taking—keeping—control of this situation. Well, if she forgot about the fact that he’d somehow wheedled his way into her house to put up a Christmas tree she didn’t want. “You just stay here and work on the tree. The sooner that’s done, the sooner you can take yourself back up to West Bluff.” Then she started toward the kitchen.

  “Hopefully the snow will stop by then.”

  “Yes, hopefully,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Because I’d hate for you to get lost in the storm and die.” Even though she knew she wouldn’t really send him out into that. He didn’t need to know.

  As she prepared the hot lunch, she found herself wishing he weren’t so handsome, because she was growing more aware of that. That’s what happens when you let your guard down. That’s why you need to just keep reminding yourself what he’s doing to the inn.

  She set up TV trays in the parlor—because she refused to sit with him at Meg’s kitchen table. In fact, she wasn’t even sure, when she told Meg about the trees, how she would explain this: letting him inside, putting up a tree with him, feeding him lunch. It was cavorting with the enemy. Damn, he’s good. He totally manipulated me.

  The revelation brought fresh ire rising to her chest. Another manipulative man had just ruined her life. And Beck Grainger didn’t come close to reaching the monster level of Simon Alexis—but how had she gone from one such situation straight into another? It made her all the more determined not to let Beck win. Maybe he was winning the day—the tree, the lunch—but this tree-killing, house-building business wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot. And while part of her had started thinking it inevitable, not knowing how to fight it, just the mere knowledge that she was being subtly manipulated right now built in her a brand new compulsion to find a solution. She wasn’t giving up yet.

  They made small talk while they ate. “You whip up a good grilled cheese.”

  “Are there enough lights that work?”

  “I didn’t know it was supposed to snow this much—did you?”

  Another way Summer Island had gone modern: Lila had noticed everyone constantly checking the weather on their phones. Maybe in summer that might slack off, but right now people wanted to know about snow and ice and cold, in order to best plan their lives around it. And even while she had started out thinking such a habit might make her more responsible, it had quickly become merely practical. Every simple walk from one place to another revolved around what was going on outside. So after spooning the last bite of vegetable soup into her mouth, she swiped a napkin across her face, glanced out at the snow once more, and reached for her phone—and the weather outlook.

  “Doesn’t look like it’s stopping anytime soon,” Beck said, peering out the window past the undecorated tree.

  Lila barely heard him, though, because—oh God. She blinked, then focused on the phone screen to make sure she was reading the forecast correctly. “Um, no,” she told him slowly, trying to wrap her head around it as she spoke. “It, um, says...it’ll keep falling heavily until...almost midnight.”

  “Huh,” he replied.

  She thought of making him go—right then. She could decorate the tree. And if he left before it got dark in a few hours, he’d have a much easier time making it home. And yet...it was pretty much blizzard conditions out there. And unlike on the mainland, it wasn’t a matter of hopping in the car and driving down roads hopefully already plowed and salted. He’d have a long uphill walk in deep, blowing snow. Without even a hat on his head, for God’s sake.

  So instead, she stood up, walked to the hearth, carefully lowered a couple of fresh logs onto the fire, and said, “I need a stiff drink.”

  “Huh?” This time it was a question and he sounded baffled.

  “A drink,” she said, enunciating as if he were hard of hearing. “I’m thinking of hot chocolate with some Baileys in it.” She glanced up, continued dourly. “And I suppose it would be rude not to offer you some, as well.”

  He looked as pleasant and amused as ever. Damn him. “I’d gratefully accept that.”

  “But don’t get drunk and mess up my tree,” she warned him with a shake of her finger.

  “I thought you didn’t even want the tree,” he reminded her.

  “Well, if I’m stuck with it, I want it to look decent. And be careful with the ornaments. Remember, a lot of them are irreplaceable antiques.”

  “Aye aye, Cap’n.”

  “That wasn’t funny. And didn’t even make sense. We’re not in a boat or in any sort of seafaring situation.” She didn’t bother looking to see his reaction before she headed toward the kitchen to start heating the milk and measuring out the Hershey’s cocoa.

  Meg wasn’t a huge drinker, but just like the tea in the pantry, Lila knew her sister kept a reasonably well-stocked liquor cabinet—or in the inn’s case a shelf in a small china cabinet—in order to have anything her guests might want on hand, including Baileys Irish Cream, the perfect little additive to a nice cup of cocoa on a cold winter’s afternoon. Especially a stressful one. Which would soon turn into a cold winter’s night. Sure to be equally stressful.

  * * *

  IT TOOK A while to decorate such a big tree. The lights were a project unto themselves. Then came a disagreement over garland—Lila wanted the old but classic sparkly silver stuff they’d located in another box, cradling some snowman figurines that she’d now placed on the mantel. Beck, on the other hand, had the insane idea that they were going to pop popcorn and string it. And maybe even toddle down to Koester’s Market for some cranberries for stringing, as well. As if there weren’t
a blizzard raging outside. As if Koester’s would even be open during the storm. Clearly the man was still a newcomer here and didn’t understand the way the island operated.

  “We have the time to string the popcorn,” he pointed out, clearly trying to reason with her. “Since the snow isn’t stopping for a while. And my mom used to do it for our tree—it was nice, natural. And would look good with the handmade ornaments.”

  Lila won, though. “No—we’re going sparkly. End of discussion. Here.” Then she shoved a rope of silver garland into his hand.

  By the time they’d moved on to hanging the ornaments, both were on their second mug of spiked hot chocolate.

  “You make some damn tasty cocoa, girl,” he told her. Girl. Maybe he was getting a little drunk. Probably. Since she was, too. But that had sort of been the idea—numb the the pain of the torturously weird sitch until it was finally over.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Between that and grilled cheese, I’m a real gourmet.”

  “You should learn to take a compliment,” he told her, pointing at her with a salt dough candy cane.

  “Careful,” she said. “That’s my messy childhood you’re holding in your hand. Don’t break it.”

  “Aye aye... Cap’n.”

  “You’re just trying to get on my nerves now,” she said, reaching to hang a glass Santa on one of the higher branches. She didn’t bother looking at him to add, “And trust me, you really don’t have to work at it. You manage it effortlessly.”

  Another typical Beck laugh punctuated the air. And she felt a little sad inside. To have to be mean to him. It was growing less satisfying. Since she guessed, deep down, she liked him and saw why everyone else did, too. And then there was that handsome thing he had going—another good reason not to look at him. She didn’t want to keep noticing that, soaking it in. She’d thought maybe the Baileys would distract her from his rugged good looks, but in retrospect, it had been very flawed logic.