Page 3 of Tinsel & Timber
“You’re the last guest due to arrive tonight.”
“Ah. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
“Not at all. Were you able to find your family’s old house?”
“I did. And its gatekeeper, too.”
Cleo’s eyes narrow, her expression momentarily confused, but then it clears. “Oh, you must mean Graham?”
“You know him?” I ask without thinking.
It’s a small town. How wouldn’t she know him?
“Everyone knows Graham. He’s a good guy. A bit high-strung at times, but I don’t imagine I’d fare much better.” She chuckles lightly and shakes her head. “In a town as old as this, historic preservation can be a touchy subject. We see a lot of developers coming in looking to make a quick buck by tearing down beautiful old homes and replacing them with boring, boxyMcMansions. There’s a whole commission in charge of dealing with that sort of thing, but Graham … well, he tends to view himself as the first—and last—line of defense.”
“Charming.”
Cleo cocks her head. “He can be. He cares, truly. But if he thinks youdon’t, he has no problem stopping you.”
“I don’t want him to stop me.”
“He won’t if you treat the house respectfully,” Cleo says. “It also wouldn’t hurt to bring him a sweet treat when you meet to go over your permits.”
“Isn’t that bribery?”
“It’s hospitality,” she corrects with a lift of her shoulder. “You didn’t hear this from me, but he especially loves the peppermint mocha from Dockside Cafe.”
I laugh, because the thought of Graham Whitlock being undone by peppermint mocha s is almost worth the rest of whatever this is going to be.
“Thank you,” I say, because I mean it.
Cleo slides a key across the counter. “Room four. I put extra blankets on. It’ll snow tonight.”
As I climb the stairs toward my room, I reel a little at the enormity of what I’ve committed to. This house is a conversation—between what was and what will be—and I’m suddenly part of the argument. I came to Mistletoe Bay to start over; to take a break from thehustle and bustle. I hadn’t expected to come home to a family corridor I knew so little about.
Tomorrow Graham will bring forms. Tomorrow I’ll show him the photographs I found. Tomorrow, maybe, we’ll both discover there are parts of history worth saving that aren’t in the archives.
For now, though, I allow myself to collapse into the bed in my room.
I sleep like someone who’s finally used up the last of their excuses. When I wake, the windowpanes are rimed with frost and the town outside looks like a half-remembered postcard.
two
. . .
Graham
Red Barn Hardwaresmells like sawdust, motor oil, and homemade peppermint bark, because Rhett Jennings insists that the holiday season is a “sensory experience.” I’m not exactly sure what that means, but his peppermint bark is good, and I never argue with free samples.
I should be filling out the order forms I came in for or picking up the replacement screws for the gazebo steps I’ve been meaning to fix at my own house. Instead, I’m pacing the space in front of the check out counter, ranting to the only man in town patient enough to listen, in part because he happens to be my best friend.
Lucky bastard.
“I’m telling you, she walked in there like she ownedthe place,” I complain, waving one mittened hand for emphasis. “Didn’t even hesitate. Straight to the library. First thing she does? Put her grubby hands on the original bookcases.”
Rhett arches an eyebrow at me from behind the counter. “Grubby?”
“Fine,” I mutter, tugging at my scarf. “Not grubby. Perfectly normal hands, probably. But still—she waslookingat the millwork like she wanted to yank it out.”
