Page 6 of Tinsel & Timber
The preservation society would thank me, if the preservation society existed outside of me. I mean thereareother members, but I’m the one in charge of well … mostly everything.
The closer I get to the house, the more annoyed I am at myself. My heart thumps harder than it should. I am not a man who gets rattled. I am calm. Capable. Efficient. I schedule things weeks in advance. I own a label maker.
I do not do…whatever this is.
But when the antique colonial appears around the bend, framed by frost-blurred trees and a sky turning the pale yellow of early afternoon, I instinctively slow down.
There’s movement on the porch. Music drifting in the air. A voice.
I pull to the side of the road, convincing myself I’m not parking—I’m pausing.
Mara’s on the porch in paint-splattered jeans, a soft gray sweater, and one of those crocheted headbands that double as ear muffs that looks ridiculously cute on her, even from a distance. Her hair is twisted up messily, strands falling around her face. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, and she’s got one boot planted on the railing as she sands it with long, confident strokes.
A radio sits beside her, blasting Christmas music loud enough that I can hear it through my closed window.Rockin’ Around the Christmas Treeof all songs.
She looks like she belongs there.
That realization lands with uncomfortable force.
Before I can decide what to do, she spots me.
Her eyes catch on mine. A slow, smug little smile curves on her lips.
Oh no.
She lifts her hand and waves—big, dramatic, sweeping motions, like she’s spotting a celebrity. Or taunting me.
I swear I see her mouth the words:Checking up on me?
Absolutely not.
I’m thirty-five. I’m not getting taunted by a woman with a power sander.
I roll down the window halfway. “Just passing by!”
Mara cups a hand around her ear. “What?”
Of course. The music is practically vibrating the porch.
I raise my voice. “Passing by!”
She grins, mischievous. “Suuure you are!”
I grit my teeth. “I am.”
“Did you bring the paperwork?” she shoots back.
I reach into the passenger seat, grabbing the thick manila folder I was planning to deliver later.
“I was going to bring it to you at three,” I say.
“Well,” she says, leaning one hip against the porch column, “you’re here now.”
I get out of the truck because she’s right. And because avoiding her feels weak. And because standing here watching her sand the railing makes my brain go pleasantly fuzzy, and I’m not sure that’s safe.
The snow crunches under my boots as I approach. She shuts off the sander, and the sudden quiet makes the world feel intimate.
“You’re working fast,” I say, trying for neutral professionalism.
