A FAMILY’S GIFT

When they were young, cousins Ella, Rachel and Jo were always together at their family’s lake house. As they grew up, though, they grew apart…until now, as the three must band together to grant a beloved aunt’s dying wish: to finish the quilt she began as a gift for her daughter’s Christmas wedding.

Let It Snow by USA TODAY bestselling author Emilie Richards

Searching for vintage quilting fabric, independent Jo is reunited with the man she thought she’d marry—and proves that sometimes the second time’s the charm....

You Better Watch Out by Janice Kay Johnson

Ella is desperate when the unfinished quilt goes missing in her care. But a cocky lawyer might just help her find it—

and find love.

Nine Ladies Dancing by Sarah Mayberry

Shy Rachel risks exposing her secret life when she falls for her quilting teacher’s seemingly perfect son.

Together, Jo, Ella and Rachel create a Christmas heirloom that’s both a wish and a promise—of happiness, hope and love everlasting.

Praise for Emilie Richards

“Ms. Richards possesses a magical way with words.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Richards’s ability to portray compelling characters who grapple with challenging family issues is laudable.”

—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Fox River

Praise for Janice Kay Johnson

“I can’t wait to read more of [Johnson’s] books.”

—Dear Author on Bone Deep

“Johnson wonderfully depicts

her characters’ emotions.”

—RT Book Reviews

Praise for Sarah Mayberry

“This very talented writer touches your heart with her characters.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Reading [All They Need] was like finding a twenty-dollar bill in your coat pocket, then unfolding it and finding a fifty wrapped inside.

It started out great and just kept getting better.”

—USATODAY.com

EMILIE RICHARDS’s

many novels feature complex characterizations and in-depth explorations of social issues, a result of her training and experience as a family counselor, which contributes to her fascination with relationships of all kinds. Emilie, a mother of four, lives with her husband in Florida, where she is currently working on her next novel for the Harlequin MIRA line.

JANICE KAY JOHNSON

The author of more than seventy books for children and adults, Janice Kay Johnson is especially well-known for her Mills & Boon Superromance novels about love and family—about the way generations connect and the power our earliest experiences have on us throughout life. Her 2007 novel Snowbound won a RITA® Award from Romance Writers of America for Best Contemporary Series Romance. A former librarian, Janice raised two daughters in a small rural town north of Seattle, Washington. She loves to read and is an active volunteer and board member for Purrfect Pals, a no-kill cat shelter.

SARAH MAYBERRY

lives by the bay in Melbourne in a house that is about to be pulled apart for renovations. She is happily married to another writer, shades of whom can be found in many of her heroes. She is currently besotted with her seven-month-old Cavoodle puppy, Max, and feeling guilty about her overgrown garden. When she isn’t writing or feeling guilty or rolling around on the carpet with the dog, she likes reading, cooking, shoe shopping and going to the movies.

Let It Snow

Emilie Richards

You Better Watch Out

Janice Kay Johnson

Nine Ladies Dancing

Sarah Mayberry

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Let It Snow by Emilie Richards

You Better Watch Out by Janice Kay Johnson

Nine Ladies Dancing by Sarah Mayberry

Let It Snow

Emilie Richards

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

PROLOGUE

JO MILLER WAS sure she liked her next-door neighbor. There was no reason not to. She and the other woman were both in their early thirties, both professionals. Any number of mornings in the three years Jo had lived in her San Diego condo, she had noticed the other woman downstairs in the parking lot, leaving for work decked out in tailored suits and gotcha heels.

Of course if Jo really liked the petite blonde with the friendly smile, why couldn’t she remember her name?

“So I told the UPS man I would keep it for you,” the neighbor said of the package she had just presented to Jo. “I hope that’s okay? I know how hard it is to track down a delivery once they take it back to the warehouse, especially in December, when they’re so busy.”

Jo realized it was now her turn to speak. “That was so nice of you.”

“Of course, I didn’t realize you would be gone so long. I hope nothing spoiled. It looks like a gift.”

Jo glanced down at the package newly resting in her arms, set there before she and her suitcase could escape into her home and close the door. She was so exhausted she could hardly make out the spidery writing. She squinted, then her heart threatened to stop midbeat. “Oh...” She swallowed.

“I’m sorry, I hope it’s not bad news.”

“No, no...” Jo clutched the package to her chest. “I’m just back from Hong Kong. I...I...” She shook her head. “I’m exhausted, that’s all.”

“No wonder. I thought I’d call out for pizza in a little bit. Would you like to share? My treat? I bet you don’t have a bit of food in your fridge.”

Jo shook her head, a reflex that was her standard response to invitations. “I need sleep more, I’m afraid. Maybe another time?”

The blonde smiled, but without conviction. In three years she and Jo had never crossed each other’s thresholds.

“Sleep well, then.” She opened the door that was only two feet from Jo’s own. “And I’m Marian, Jo. Marian Parker. In case you change your mind.”

The door closed behind her, but not before Jo glimpsed soft peach walls, a slipcovered sofa, and a Christmas tree with twinkling lights in the corner.

She stood staring at Marian’s door for a moment, then fumbled for the keys she had slipped into her pocket during the limo ride from the airport and unlocked her own.

Pulling her suitcase behind her, she stepped into a room that was a mirror image of Marian’s, but only in layout. Here the walls were a gloomy taupe and the furniture sleek black leather with chrome armrests. The only pop of color vibrated from a pillow on the sofa with geometric designs of chartreuse and shocking pink.

Right after Jo had signed the lease here, her mother had decorated the condo as a surprise. Jo had opened her door after another business trip to find it the way it was now.

The surprise had come during Sophie’s interior decorator phase, which had been sandwiched between her jazz singer phase and landscape photographer phase. Jo’s walls were dotted with out-of-focus black-and-white photographs of Point Loma and Venice Beach, framed in more chrome. Thankfully a year had passed without additions. These days Sophie was busy channeling a spirit guide named Ocelot Lee, who was slowly revealing the secrets of the universe in exchange for large infusions of cash to the medium who arranged his visits.

The decorating scheme made it hard not to think about her mother, but right now Jo wanted to think about Aunt Gloria, who had sent the package.

Gloria Harrison had been a constant presence in Jo’s life, first when Jo’s father was alive and the extended Miller family spent large portions of every summer together in the family summer cottage at Kanowa Lake in western New York. Then later, too, after Harry Miller’s death, when Sophie had moved Jo to California, where she could have her daughter to herself. Aunt Gloria had continued to call frequently, and send birthday and Christmas cards, making it clear in her own sweet way that Jo would always be a Miller, and neither distance nor the death of her father changed that.

Now Aunt Glo was gone, and with her the last real link to the Millers. There was still plenty of family around. Jo had distant relatives as well as three first cousins, women close to her in age. Once upon a time the four had been as intimate as sisters, but time changed so many things.

Of course time had been helped by Jo herself, who as an adult had been too busy to keep in touch. Her cousins were now strangers.

Like her next-door neighbor.

Gloria had died two weeks ago while Jo was in Hong Kong. Sophie had emailed the news, generously offering to find out if Ocelot Lee could pass on a message from the departed Gloria, an unusual offer in more ways than one, since Sophie had never wanted to share her daughter with her father’s family.

Jo wished she could have flown home for the funeral. She had owed Aunt Glo that grueling trip and more. But leaving Hong Kong in the middle of tense negotiations would have been as good as throwing up her hands in defeat. In the end, with so much riding on her presence in China, she had wired a huge arrangement to the funeral home and made a donation to her aunt’s favorite charity. She had sent a card to her cousin Olivia, Gloria’s daughter, and told herself she would call Olivia when she returned.

Except for the sadness, she had expected that to be the end. She had not expected to receive a package from her aunt, a package that had obviously been sent just before her death.

Jo realized that somehow she was now perched on the sofa, picking at the tape along the edges of the box. Sophie’s granite coffee table didn’t yield anything as practical as a drawer for scissors, so Jo rose and took the package into her study. At her desk chair she carefully sliced the tape with a letter opener and tugged it apart.

Inside lay two smaller packages wrapped in tissue paper. She opened the smaller of the two to discover two pieces of jewelry—a brooch in the shape of a fan, studded with red and silver rhinestones and tiny seed pearls, and a thin silver chain with an enameled locket.

A note in the same tentative handwriting read:

These belonged to your grandmother. I wanted you to have them.

Jo blinked back tears. As Aunt Glo was dying she had still been thinking of Jo. Her quickly failing health was clear from the handwriting, which was a shadow of her formerly robust script.

Moments passed before she remembered the second package. She carefully set down the jewelry and unfolded the paper.

For a moment she couldn’t put a name to the object she was holding. Then she realized that the fabric in her hand had been carefully folded and padded so it wouldn’t crease. She unfolded the first layer, slipping out more tissue paper until a large square was lying across her lap.

The fabric was the beginning of a quilt, a beautifully appliquéd folk art rendition of Hollymeade, the Miller family cottage on the shore of Kanowa Lake. It was eighteen, maybe even twenty, inches square on a royal blue background with one silver star shining directly over the house. The house itself, with its wide front porch and its second story turret—where she and her cousins had formed a secret club the year she was ten—was decorated for Christmas. The century-old holly trees that gave the house its name were also embroidered with ornaments of red and gold, and strings of lights that seemed to twinkle. A bright green wreath adorned the front door, and snow covered the ground.

Jo looked closer. There were two snowmen, or more accurately a snowman and a snow-woman, to the left of the house. The snowman wore a shiny top hat and tails. The snow-woman was dressed as a bride, with a long veil and a bouquet clutched in front of her.

She whistled softly because suddenly she understood what she was holding. “Olivia’s bridal quilt.”

Jo knew her cousin was getting married at Christmastime next year. She had expected to be invited and expected to be too busy to attend. She hadn’t expected to receive a portion of the bridal quilt that her aunt had been making for her only daughter.

There was a note here, too, although this one was typed. She scanned it quickly, then read it slowly out loud, so she could absorb it.

“Dear Jo,

I know this will come as a surprise to you. I’ve been sick for some time and have known for weeks now that I probably won’t live to see Olivia and Eric’s wedding. If they had been given a choice, they would have moved up the date, but of course, they couldn’t, not with Eric serving in Afghanistan. I had hoped to live long enough to make a bridal quilt, but I know now that this first block is the most I will be able to finish.

I’ve thought about what to do next, and I’ve come up with a plan. I don’t have the strength to discuss it with all of you, so I am going on faith. You see, I am praying that you, Ella and Rachel will finish the quilt for me.

Do you remember the fun all of you had when you learned to quilt at Hollymeade? All those lazy summer quilting lessons with your wonderful grandmother? You, of course, were a natural, a serious quilt-maker from the beginning, just like I was at your age. I still remember the way you measured everything twice and restitched every seam that wasn’t perfect.

I know you haven’t quilted in years. But I don’t think you will have forgotten how.

Do you know what a round robin is? Here’s another quilt lesson you will need. A round robin quilt begins with one block in the center. Then the center is passed to another quilter, along with some of the fabrics that were used in the center, and the second quilter stitches a border, combining the shared fabric with some of her own. The quilt and more fabric are then passed on to another quilter until the final border is completed.

I hope you will add a border to this block, then pass it to Ella and finally to Rachel. Perhaps the three of you will reunite with Olivia to quilt the finished top before the wedding, so she will have it to display at the ceremony. Wouldn’t that be perfect?

You’ll see that some of the fabric I’ve enclosed isn’t new. In fact these are pieces of dresses Olivia wore as a little girl. I’m hoping that you or your cousins will work them in to make the quilt that much more meaningful.

I know this is a project you probably wouldn’t choose. But please do this for me. I know this quilt will be in good hands, Jo. You always try to do the right thing without complaint, sometimes to your detriment. But this project may have surprising results. I hope it will bring you closer to your cousins. I know Olivia will need her family once I’m gone.

I have always loved you, Rachel and Ella like you were my daughters, too. I know you loved me, as well. Never worry about that.

With love,

Aunt Glo”

Jo clutched the letter to her chest as tears threatened to spill down her cheeks, then reality began to intrude. She, who hadn’t quilted for a decade and a half, who at her most creative had only managed to sew pillow tops, was supposed to add a border to this gorgeous quilt block. Her aunt had won prizes for her needlework. The rendition of Hollymeade was in every way perfect. The stitches were invisible. The colors were glorious. The design was detailed, yet cheerfully rustic.

She couldn’t do it.

Yet hadn’t her aunt chosen well? Gloria had known Jo couldn’t possibly say no, and that furthermore Jo would feel responsible and make sure that Ella and Rachel did their parts, too. Not that they wouldn’t, of course, or at least that was Jo’s guess, because she hardly knew her cousins anymore. She couldn’t even remember the last time the four of them had been together.

Her next thought was that she could pay someone to do the border for her, someone experienced and expensive. Who would ever know?

Except Jo herself.

Carefully she folded the block and took out the small pile of fabrics that had been folded in tissue, too. There, on top, was a square of fabric she remembered, a bright red-and-white check with tiny Scottie dogs sprinkled among the white blocks.

One summer the four cousins had all worn dresses made from this fabric. Their grandmother, Margaret, had sewed the sundresses for each of the gap-toothed, skinny little girls, and they had insisted on wearing them whenever they went anywhere together that summer. She knew this was a piece of that original fabric, saved over the years by her sentimental aunt.

For just a moment she held the fabric to her cheek. “You really know how to stick it to me, don’t you, Aunt Glo?”

With a sigh Jo refolded the checked fabric carefully and thumbed through the rest of the pile. There were Christmas prints in red and green, some of the fabrics that had been used in the center block, some new ones, a stack of oddly shaped patches that had probably been part of Olivia’s childhood wardrobe.

The truth was right here, written in brightly colored fabric. She couldn’t say no. She couldn’t hire a surrogate. She couldn’t disappoint the woman whose funeral she had been too busy to attend.

She didn’t have time for this, but even now, with fatigue washing over her, she wondered why not. She had just spent a month in Hong Kong, living in hotel rooms, eating late-night room service and sandwiches at the conference table. She had pulled out all the stops for her employer, and the negotiations had still ended badly. On the trip from the airport she had read only a few of a long list of emails her boss had sent during her flight, blaming her for a failure that had nothing to do with her. In the end she had missed her aunt’s funeral for no good reason.

At what point in her life had she decided that work was more important than family? When she’d started using her job as a shield to ward off her overbearing, flighty mother? When she had vowed that as an adult she would have the financial security that had disappeared after her father’s death?

When the man she loved broke their engagement and with it her heart?

Of course the quilt and memories of her childhood were a reminder of that man, one Brody Ryan. She wondered if he still lived in Kanowa Lake. His name had never come up in conversations with her aunt, but then Aunt Glo had never known how serious Jo and Brody’s relationship had been. Was he married now with a houseful of kids? He was definitely a houseful-of-kids kind of guy.

How strange that her aunt’s death would open doors to her past she had sealed long ago.

A border. How hard could it be? She would go to the internet and the local quilt shop, do research, make a plan. Maybe she didn’t have time to do this, but could she afford not to? This was the Christmas season. Didn’t she deserve a little time off?

The moment had come for a long winter’s nap, but when she woke up, she would email Ella in Seattle and Rachel in far-off Australia. Considering time zones, email would be the best way to communicate. Surely she had their addresses somewhere. She would tell them what she had received and make sure they were on board.

She hoped they remembered who she was.

She rose, but after a few steps she turned around, took out the quilt block again and carried it with her. She fell asleep with the block draped over the foot of her bed so that Hollymeade would be the first thing she saw in the morning.

CHAPTER ONE

From Rachel@mailoze.com.au:

Still the overachiever, Jo? New York seems like a long way to go to find old baby clothes or whatever of Eric’s to work into the quilt with Olivia’s dresses. I remember taking a long walk around the lake with you one summer because you had to find the perfect wildflowers to make a bouquet for Grammy Mags. By the time we got back they were all wilted and I wasn’t speaking to you anymore. Good thing baby clothes don’t wilt.

“YOU’RE NOT FROM here, are you?” The teenager manning the cash register at the gas station twenty-five miles from Kanowa Lake looked up, and his cheeks flushed. “I just mean, you know, I haven’t seen you around.”

Jo glanced at her watch. Could it really be getting dark? It was only three-thirty, yet a curtain was drawing closed over what had passed for sunshine just half an hour earlier.

When the boy cleared his throat she looked up again. “My family owns a summer house over on Kanowa Lake, but I haven’t been back in years.”

“Bad night to visit. You ought to stay here.”

She cocked her head in question.

“The weather, I mean.” He cleared his throat again. “Bad storm coming.”

For the past twenty miles the skies had been spitting snow, but Jo wasn’t worried. She had paid the extra bucks for a rental car with four-wheel drive, and now she had topped off the gas tank. She was prepared.

“Doesn’t look that bad,” she said.

“It’ll be a dumper. You better get where you’re going fast and settle in.”

When she smiled he flushed again. Jo had that effect on men, although she never played it up. Right now she was wearing jeans and fringed suede boots—the closest thing to winter boots she owned. Under her suede jacket a rust-colored cashmere sweater flattered her chestnut hair and amber eyes, but the only makeup she wore was a little lip gloss.

“I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t look convinced. He was maybe sixteen, broad-shouldered and skinny. He probably couldn’t eat fast enough to keep up with his latest growth spurt.

“You might want to stock up on a few groceries, just in case,” he said. “Snow hits, you won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

Five minutes later she left with a small bag of everything edible that the station’s sparsely populated shelves had offered. A box of cereal, the last quart of milk in the cooler, two cans of corned beef hash and three chocolate bars. The chocolate bars were three for two dollars, and her teenage admirer had suggested she take advantage of the sale.

The snow was falling harder now, and she grabbed a few guilty moments in the parking lot, arms flung out like a little girl’s to embrace it. Since moving to California at thirteen, she’d only seen snow at ski resorts, where it always seemed professionally staged. This was the snow she remembered from her childhood in the small Pennsylvania town where her physician father had run an emergency clinic until his own emergency, a brain aneurism, had ended his life.

By the time she pulled onto the road the snow was a thin sheen, but the asphalt was still clearly visible. Four-wheel drive or not, she took her time, not sure if ice had formed under the snow. Three miles down the road she realized that the road and the shoulder now seemed to be one. She could barely discern where her wheels should go, and unfortunately no one had yet come this way to mark the path with tracks.

She slowed even more and set her wipers up a notch, because the snow was falling faster. Fortunately her tires weren’t losing their grip, and signs helped her gauge where she ought to be. According to the rental car’s GPS she had twenty-two miles to go, and once she got to Hollymeade, all she had to do was find the key under a vase beside the door and settle in. She guessed there would be a few staples left from the last Miller to use the house. The great-uncle who had told her where to find the key had also assured her the power and water were never turned off, and the house and grounds were checked periodically. The house would be livable, and she would be welcome but alone. Nobody else was scheduled to visit until late January.

Now, as she gripped the steering wheel and gingerly guided the car through deepening snow, she tried to imagine that kind of freedom, that silence. Nobody but Rachel, Ella and her great-uncle, Albert, knew she was here.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. Eric Grant’s parents, who spent winters in Florida, knew. Eric’s mother, Lydia, had given her permission to rifle through the Grant’s lake house attic in search of Eric’s old baby quilts. In a flash of sentiment Jo had decided that incorporating Eric’s childhood into the quilt, along with Olivia’s, would make it even more meaningful. His mother had promised that anything Jo found that was too far gone to save for a grandbaby was fair game for the bridal quilt, and Lydia had promised not to breathe a word of the plan to her son or her daughter-in-law to be.

So Eric’s mom knew, but not her own. Jo had stretched the truth a bit and told Sophie she was on a spiritual retreat and not allowed to reveal the location. That was close enough to the truth that she didn’t feel she’d actually lied.

As for her boss? The only thing Frank Conner knew was that over the Christmas holidays Jo was taking some of the many vacation days the company owed her and would be available by email, but only for emergencies.

The last part was a gamble, but Jo had finally faced the fact that her skills and talents were largely unappreciated by her boss. And wasn’t some of that her own fault? For too many years she had taken Frank’s abuse without comment. It was time he realized how hard it would be to run his consulting firm without her. Even during the holidays, when work tapered off.

She came to a crossroads and slid to a stop, her heart thumping wildly until the wheels stopped spinning. She took a deep breath and carefully made the required left turn, fishtailing just a little, but straightening as she picked up speed.

Twenty minutes later the GPS promised she only had sixteen miles to go. At home sixteen miles meant something less than sixteen minutes, but here she was barely crawling. The same clouds shoveling snow over the landscape had now completely blocked the sun. She saw occasional lights from houses or businesses along the road, but no sign of driveways to reach them.

She wasn’t scared. Not exactly. The road wasn’t a major byway, but eventually there would be traffic. If the worst happened she could pull over—if she hadn’t already run off the road—and wait for a plow or state police car.

An hour later, after skidding three times and one time spinning wildly, she arrived at the turnoff to Hollymeade. At least that was what the friendly GPS was telling her. The only signs of a road were the ridges beside a slightly lower area that might well be the long winding driveway. She wasn’t sure she would recognize the turnoff in bright summer, but she had seen a sign to Kanowa Lake a mile back.

What choice did she have? There was a shape lurking far in the distance, like a monster waiting to pounce.

“Welcome to Hollymeade,” she whispered, as she turned into what she hoped was the driveway.

She was parked in front of the house before she took another deep breath. She couldn’t believe she had made it through the drifts of snow piling higher and higher. But here she was, the familiar old house just waiting for her. She had fought the elements and won. Memories of her childhood summers were in reach. She couldn’t wait to go inside.

Of course part of the reason she couldn’t wait was that cold was already seeping into the car, and the air wasn’t getting any warmer.

She reached for her jacket again, the warmest she owned, and wished she had taken the time to buy a better one. She leaned forward and shrugged into it, zipping it to the top before she opened the door and stepped outside.

Snow immediately filled her boots, which hadn’t been designed for blizzards. She pulled on lightweight leather gloves and grimaced as she opened the rear door and reached for her suitcase and groceries. She wondered how long she could make the three silly candy bars last.

Lifting the suitcase to keep it above the snow she trudged to the front steps, feet already turning numb. By the time she arrived she was winded but cheered. In a minute she would be inside, where she could take off her boots, turn up the heat and make herself a cup of something warm. Then she could explore to her heart’s content, choose a bedroom, make the bed and settle in for the night after a meal of corned beef hash or a bowl of cereal.

Gray canvas awning swaddled the wide front porch to keep the snow outside. She unzipped the doorway and hefted the suitcase in with her, zipping it behind her. Then she rolled the suitcase to the door and leaned it against the wall with her purse and grocery bag.

The vase where the key was hidden was farther from the door than she had anticipated, and the tented porch was so dark she had to feel her way along the wall with one hand to stay steady. But she reached it and lifted the vase.

No key.

She squatted, stripped off her gloves, and searched the floor with her fingertips. Only a cobweb wrapped itself around her fingers in welcome.

“Yuck.” As she stood she wiped her hand on her jeans. She was out of the wind and the snow, but cold was still her enemy. The temperature was probably in the twenties, and her clothes and feet were soaked.

No key, no light. While it was dark outside, it wasn’t this dark. She went back to the door and unzipped it again, tying back the flaps to let in what light she could. Then she carefully walked the length of the porch, lifting various knickknacks, a row of concrete ducklings, a plant stand, checking each for the key. She felt along every shelf on an empty book case at the end, opened the drawer on a small end table between two shiny metal chairs.

No key.

Now she was shivering. She pulled out her cell phone to call her great-uncle for advice, but there was no coverage. Either because of the storm or the rural location, she was on her own.

The town of Kanowa Lake lay beyond the house, perhaps three miles farther. There were other houses around the lake, of course, but most of them were summer cottages, many without heat. Now they were tented and locked tight, pipes drained and electricity turned off until warm weather brought them back to life. Without suitcase or groceries she trudged back down the steps, muddled through a snowdrift and peered into the distance, making a slow circle. Not a single light was visible.

Pushing down panic she considered her options. There were so few, and she was so cold, the process didn’t take long. Only one possibility made sense. She needed to get back up the driveway while she could. If she was lucky a snowplow would come by soon and she could follow it toward town. But that window of opportunity was quickly closing. She wasn’t sure she could turn around, and even then, she wasn’t sure she would make it back down the drive.

She donned her gloves and returned to the porch for her suitcase, groceries and purse, then, when the car had been packed again, went back one more time to snatch a snow shovel leaning against a wall.

The tracks from her car were already filling with snow. She certainly couldn’t back out of the driveway. She saw what looked like a turnaround just ahead of where she’d parked. If it was what it seemed, she could circle and head back up the driveway. But when she got in the driver’s seat and tried to inch forward, her wheels spun. She put the car in Reverse and rocked back a bit, then tried to move forward again. This time she made a little headway, but not enough.

She was about ten feet from the turnaround, which was about ten feet wide and ten feet long. Slamming her palm against the steering wheel she took a deep breath, then got out, grabbed the shovel from the backseat and went around to the front of the car. Her feet felt like they were on fire, and even with gloves, her hands felt cold enough to freeze to the shovel handle.

She worked as quickly as she could, shoveling the snow in front of both front tires. Then she started a track to the turnaround for one set of wheels. The snow was light enough, but she tired quickly. She’d had a long flight from California, a long drive from Buffalo, and now this. Rested and appropriately attired, she would have been more successful. But exhausted, with body temperature plummeting, every shovelful was a Herculean task.

At the turnaround she leaned on the shovel and bowed her head. Even if she was able to finish, would it do any good? Her tracks were almost invisible now. If she was able to move the car and turn it around, would she be able to make her way up the driveway? Then what? The road was probably piled with snow.

She hadn’t heard so much as a car passing, but as she tried to figure out the best option, she heard a distant rumble. Was it a plow? If she floundered through the snow up to the main road could she flag down the driver, explain her predicament, perhaps even get a ride into town?

The rumble deepened and grew louder. Dragging the shovel behind her, in case she needed it, she stomped up the driveway, stopping only for her purse. Ten yards later, ten grueling, numbing yards, she stopped again. Because suddenly she was no longer alone. A snowmobile was coming down the driveway with a lone, helmeted driver.

She wanted to cry from relief until she realized she was in the middle of nowhere in a blizzard with a stranger, and almost nobody knew she was here. Relief turned to apprehension.

The snowmobile pulled to a halt, and the broad-shouldered driver, clothed in appropriate gear, turned off the engine before he hopped down. For a moment he didn’t move; then he reached up and stripped off his helmet to reveal a wool stocking cap beneath it.

“Hello, Jo.”

This man was no stranger, although he was capable of causing a great deal of distress.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The last time she’d seen Brody Ryan, he had carefully and unemotionally explained the reasons why they couldn’t get married. Now, as then, she didn’t know what to say. She stared speechlessly for what seemed like forever, assessing the way the world seemed to be tilting on its axis. At last she settled for the obvious.

“Brody.”

“I guess ‘long time no see’ is a cliché.”

“What are you doing here?”

He smiled, a smile she remembered too well, creases that were almost dimples in his cheeks, laugh lines fanning out from green eyes.

“I guess I’m rescuing you. Looks to me like you might just need it.”

CHAPTER TWO

AS BRODY TENDED a fire in the living room fireplace, the shower on the second floor screeched to a halt. Jo must be getting out at last.

He tried to put that image out of his mind.

He was glad he had arrived when he did. By the time he’d managed the driveway Jo had been one stick short of a Popsicle, and by the time he’d unlocked the door to let her inside, she had been shivering uncontrollably. There had been no time to talk. He’d sent her right upstairs to shower and put on warm clothes, and he’d busied himself starting the fire, followed by a pot of coffee. There were few provisions in the Hollymeade pantry, but he’d scraped just enough grounds out of a canister for one pot. He knew Jo had brought next to no groceries with her, because once the fire and coffee were going, he’d retrieved her suitcase and a flimsy plastic bag from the car.

Now the suitcase was resting in the hallway outside the bathroom, and the pitiful groceries were resting on the kitchen counter.

His work was done. Jo wouldn’t freeze, and she wouldn’t starve. Yet somehow, he was still in the house, adding kindling to a fire that was already blazing merrily.

He heard footsteps on the stairs, then a voice behind him. “Thanks for bringing in my things.”

When he turned he saw she was wearing fleece from neck to ankle, something soft, warm and a pretty shade of green. He was glad she’d had the good sense to bring at least some weather-appropriate clothing in her sleek little suitcase.

“You look a little warmer,” he said.

“I think I’ve stopped shivering.”

“I made coffee. It’s in the kitchen.”

“Perfect. May I get you some?”

He heard the stiff formality in both their voices. How nice of you. Thank you. What can I do? He knew better than to sigh, because what had he expected? That the woman who had been pathetically grateful when he called off their engagement all those years ago would throw herself into his arms tonight?

“I take it black,” he said.

“You never used to.” She immediately looked chagrined, as if remembering a simple preference opened doors.

He examined a speck on the wall to avoid her eyes. “I don’t have time to pretty it up anymore.”

“I guess...well, it’s obvious you still live in the area.”

He wasn’t surprised she hadn’t known. From what he’d heard, she hadn’t been to Kanowa Lake in years. And whenever he had casually asked about her, nobody in the Miller family seemed to have news. Clearly she had never asked about him.

“In the house where I was raised,” he said.

“Your father still has vineyards?”

He took too long to answer. She didn’t know that, either, but—he guessed for a number of reasons—this time he was grateful. “He died. I care for them alone now.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

He thought she probably was. His father had liked Jo, and so had his mother. He was pretty sure the feeling had been mutual. Of course nobody, not his parents, not her family, especially not her mother, had ever known how serious they were about each other, how they had planned to marry after they finished school, how they had chosen universities close enough that they could spend long weekends together.

That in his senior year the whole flimsy house of cards had tumbled to the ground.

“So I stayed a local boy,” he said. “What about you?”

“After I got my master’s degree I moved back to California. I’m a systems analyst with a consulting firm in San Diego.” After clipping the words as short as a boot-camp haircut, she left for the kitchen, and he gave the fire one more poke for good measure before she returned with coffee, handing him the mug, handle turned for him to grasp.

“I couldn’t get inside,” she said. “When I arrived, I mean. That’s why I was shoveling the driveway, so I could turn around. The key wasn’t where Great-Uncle Albert said it would be. I was about to head to town.”

“The key’s been in the same place as long as I can remember. The concrete vase by the back door.”

“Back door.” She shook her head. “I missed that part, I guess.”

“You never would have found it. By now that vase is probably buried. I doubt anybody expected you to arrive in a blizzard.”

“You seem to have expected it.”

“I heard you were coming. I manage a bunch of properties around the lake in the wintertime, and I thought I ought to check, just in case you didn’t know any better than to ignore a storm warning.”

She didn’t seem to take offense. “It’s a different world here in the winter. But I should have known better. I just wanted...”

“To be here?”

“It’s been a long time.”

“I heard about your aunt. I’m sorry she’s gone.”

“Me, too.”

Brody realized he hadn’t taken a sip. Instead he had been drinking in Jo’s lovely, familiar face. Her hair had been longer the last time he’d seen her. Now straight and shiny, it just touched her collar. The oval face, dark brows and lashes and straight nose were the same. So was the wide mouth that once had smiled so easily.

Not so much anymore.

“You probably need a good night’s sleep.” He held up his mug. “And I probably can’t drink this fast enough. Maybe I ought to just go.”

Instead of answering she settled on one of the love seats flanking the fieldstone fireplace and motioned him to the other.

“I still have to warm up hash for dinner, and I’m on California time. Keep me company a few minutes, unless somebody at home is expecting you?”

He thought she had managed that neatly. Was there a wife? Kids?

“In the winter I’m here alone,” he said. “Mom goes to Arizona to stay with Kaye. She and her family live outside Phoenix. It gets Mom out of the cold, and she loves being there.”

“How are they? Your mom and Kaye? Kaye was only, what, sixteen when—” She stopped herself. “She must be, what, twenty-six or so, yes?”

“Happily married, with a two-year-old and another on the way. Mom babysits while Kaye’s at school. She teaches third grade. How about your mom?”

She seemed to relax a little, even smiled. “Still wacky after all these years. Sophie’s on her third marriage, but my stepfather is remarkably patient, adamant she stay on her meds, and madly in love with her. Plus he has money, which means she’ll try harder. I think this one might stick.”

“Does that let you off the hook a little?” He realized how personal the question was, how much it said about how well they had known each other, but it was too late to call it back.

“I’m allowed to have my own life, yes.”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “Does that include a family?”

“I’m not married, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He had always liked the way Jo laid her cards on the table. Of course in contrast, there was another part of her that carefully played the rest of her hand close to the chest. Anything really important stayed deep inside her, but that habit had suited him, since he operated the same way. For survival she had been required to keep a part of herself from her mother. Brody’s traditional upbringing and parents had been very different, but as a boy he had realized that they had many burdens and didn’t need his, as well.

“So why did you come back?” he asked. “At Christmas, too. There must be a hundred better places to spend the holidays.”

She launched into a story about her cousin Olivia’s bridal quilt, her own desire to get away for a while and work on her part of it in peace, and a desire to see if she might find some baby quilts or clothing of Eric’s in the Grants’ attic.

She finished up on that note. “If I was going to do this, I wanted to do it right. I thought the quilt would be that much more special if we had some of Eric’s childhood quilted into it, too. Lydia says there are boxes in their attic I can go through. Once I’m settled I’m supposed to call her about a key. Then I’ll go through them until I find what I’m looking for.”

“I have the key. I look after the Grants’ house, too.”

Jo leaned back. “Well, you’re a busy boy, aren’t you? Nothing to do in the vineyard this time of year?”

“I have a bargain with the owners. For a nominal fee I watch their houses in winter, and in the fall they come to my place and pick grapes. We make quite a party out of it.”

“You don’t have machines for that?”

“We harvest the juice grapes by machine, but these are more fragile. Vignoles grapes for wine.”

“I always loved seeing all those acres of grapes.”

“And eating them. The summer we met.”

She had been smiling, but that died now. “You know, Pacific time or not, I really am wiped.”

He had been dismissed, so he stood. “The snow’s going to continue through the night. You have some staples in the pantry, a little flour, sugar, salt, that sort of thing, along with some canned soup. But not a lot else. It might be some time before you can shop. I’d ration.”

“Uncle Albert said somebody plows the driveway after it snows.”

“That would be me. But not until the snow stops long enough for it to make sense.”

She uncurled her legs and gracefully rose to follow him to the door. “Thank you for the fire and coffee.” She stuck out her hand.

Surprised, he took it, but the contact was brief. “What are old friends for?”

“I guess we were friends, weren’t we?”

“Maybe we can be again.”

When she didn’t respond he smiled, as if the lack didn’t matter, as if friendship went without saying when, of course, it was probably impossible.

More things left unsaid, their mutual talent.

“Be sure to close the doors on the fireplace before you go to bed,” he said. “The chimney’s just been cleaned, so it’s safe enough, but that’s a hot fire. You don’t want any sparks popping into the room.”

“Thanks, I have a fireplace in my condo.”

“Then you’re an expert.”

She tilted her head. “At lots of things. I’ve been taking care of myself for a very long time.” She paused. “But thank you for taking care of me tonight. I’m not sure where I would be right now if you hadn’t come along.”

He considered those parting words on his way home. She had been talking about tonight and where she would have been without his help. But Jo was a survivor. She would have found a way to keep from freezing even if she’d been forced to dig out the whole driveway to get back on the road.

Now he wondered where she would be if he had never come along at all, if he had never met her the summer she turned sixteen, if they hadn’t made a thousand plans together, all canceled summarily four years later. Had she stopped trusting men after that? Was that why she’d never married? Had she stopped coming to Hollymeade because she had been afraid of running into him? How many choices had she made that stemmed from their past?

How many had he made?

He found himself at the Grants’ house instead of his own. It was more than six miles from Ryan Vineyards, so he hadn’t simply made a wrong turn. No, the wrong turn had come a long time ago. Now there was no telling where this one might lead.

He jumped down and went through his ring of keys on the way to the front door. Inside he took the steps upstairs and then those to the attic two at a time. The Grant house wasn’t as large or lovely as Hollymeade, but it was a pretty Colonial with banks of windows looking over the water and decks all around, well cared for and loved.

Unlike Hollymeade this house wasn’t heated in the winter, and right now the inside temperature was as cold as the outside. He kept his gloves on until he had reached his destination, a pile of boxes in the front. He knew right where they were because he had helped Eric’s father move them to this spot. He’d been impressed at how carefully each one had been labeled, in case the contents were ever needed again.

He spotted the one he was looking for and began to stack the rest along the side until he could get to it.

“Eric’s baby things.” He grimaced at the label and shook his head, but not at the words, at himself for thinking this was a good idea.

He almost left it where it was, but in the end, he carried it across the attic to a pile of boxes that hadn’t yet been sorted, a pile Lydia Grant was probably making her way through each summer.

When he left the house, the box with Eric’s baby things was stored in the very back of the Grants’ attic, six down on an unmarked pile, the label turned toward the wall. It was the least likely place anyone would look for it.

It might buy him the time he needed to get to know Jo again.

CHAPTER THREE

HOLLYMEADE STILL LOOKED much the same. After a breakfast of cold cereal Jo wandered the rooms, a cup of tea from the only tea bag in the house warming her hands. Some things had changed, though. The walls in the living area were a different color now, a silvery sage, and the sofas were new. The armchairs, though? Those she remembered from afternoons curled up with Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree or Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time, even if the chairs now wore slipcovers.

The kitchen had newer appliances, and someone must have decided that updated laminate countertops were a worthwhile investment. But the pot rack with its copper-bottomed saucepans still hung near the stove. And while the curtains had to be new, they mimicked the ones she remembered, gauzy white and tied back to let in the light.

She was home.

Outside the snow continued, and now it was nearly as high as the windows. Of course there must have been snow on the ground already. Western New York was famous for the stuff. Jo couldn’t believe she had gambled on reaching the grocery store today. But there would be no road trip, not until the skies cleared. While she was still in bed she’d heard a plow on the main road, but she doubted it was easy to travel.

Before breakfast she had inventoried the pantry shelves, hoping Brody had exaggerated, but embellishing wasn’t his style. She could heat a can of chicken noodle soup for lunch, snack on a candy bar midafternoon and eat the remaining hash from the can she had opened last night for dinner. If she followed that pattern, she would be okay for two more days, although she wasn’t looking forward to cream-of-broccoli Tuesday. She supposed if the snow continued longer, she might be able to make pancakes without oil or eggs and eat them with sugar sprinkled on top.

She wrinkled her nose. Of course she could always call Brody to rescue her again.

When hell froze over.

Since she prepared for everything, she’d made plans in advance if she happened to run into him. A chance encounter at the grocery maybe, a few sentences of greeting and catch-up, then both of them heading off to their separate lives. Their relationship had ended a decade ago. They were hardly the people they had been. Through the years she had erased memories of him the way she routinely wiped away outdated files on her computer.

But unless a hard drive was reformatted, old files still left traces. And how did a woman reformat her heart?

As she stared outside at the winter wonderland, snow clinging to evergreen branches and icicles dripping from the roof of the boat shed, she remembered.

After her father’s death, Jo’s mother had resettled herself and her preteen daughter in Hollywood, using a generous life insurance payment. Sophie, darling of their town’s little theater, had decided to bury her grief in an acting career. When that proved impossible, she devoted herself to making the unenthusiastic Jo into a star.

Jo, who preferred auditions to her mother’s handwringing, found work in a few commercials, but when it became clear her daughter didn’t have either drive or talent, Sophie sought work as a makeup artist. Unfortunately money dribbled through her fingers. The rental house gave way to a furnished room, and on the afternoon their landlord threatened to break down their door to collect three months of rent, Jo took over their finances.

As Sophie spiked between elation and despair, Jo covered all the other bases and kept her grades high, because by then she knew that an education and a good job would be her saving grace. Luckily her father had made sure to establish a college fund that Sophie couldn’t tap, and Jo vowed that when the time came, she would use every penny to pursue a degree that promised a job at the end.

Hollymeade and her father’s family faded into the background, because Sophie, fiercely possessive, refused to let her visit the lake house.

The year Jo turned sixteen, a miracle happened. As she powdered the leading man’s nose on the set of a low-budget film, Sophie caught an associate producer’s eye, and three weeks later they were married in Vegas. Since his next project was in Italy, Sophie and her new husband headed for Milan to spend the summer, and Jo was packed off to Hollymeade.

Jo had been thrilled to fly back to New York and settle into a room in the old house to reconnect with her father’s family and disconnect from her mother. Her grandmother had been thrilled, too, and their quilting lessons had resumed. Unfortunately her cousins, whom Jo hadn’t seen in years, couldn’t join them. Rachel was living in Australia, Ella in Seattle, and Olivia was enrolled in a special summer language program in Salzburg. Members of the larger Miller family came and went, some with children younger than she was, but after the thrill of reunion wore off, Jo began to feel lonely.

Until Brody Ryan showed up.

Brody was seventeen to her sixteen, ready to head off for Cornell in the fall, where he planned to study viticulture. He arrived one afternoon to deliver and split a cord of firewood for the coming winter. Jo was immediately drawn to the serious young man with the golden-brown hair and the fabulous smile, so she stacked as he chopped.

They talked about everything, then as the wood chips flew, and later as they found more excuses to be together.

Jo knew better than to draw attention to their budding relationship. Word might get back to Sophie, who was perfectly capable of flying home from Italy to interfere. Brody, too, was reluctant to share with his family. The Ryans were thrilled he had received a scholarship to Cornell, but finances were tight, and they knew he had to earn enough money to supplement his financial aid. A romance with a high school girl would have made no sense to them. So as Jo and Brody fell in love, they decided to keep their feelings to themselves.

Now she realized how successful they had been. Because when Jo graduated from high school at seventeen and had her pick of colleges, no one guessed that she chose M.I.T. because it would be easy to visit Brody at Cornell and rekindle their romance.

They were two private people, with little else that they hadn’t already been forced to share with their families. As love grew stronger, they nurtured the flame carefully, secretly.

Until the flame went out.

As she had stood at the window Jo’s tea had grown cold. These days the house had a microwave, and now she crossed the kitchen to set the mug inside. As it heated she decided to think about something else. She had faced Brody, and both of them had survived the reunion. It was time to move on.

She was just summoning the energy to unwrap the fabrics for Olivia’s quilt when she heard a familiar roar. From the window she watched as Brody jumped off his snowmobile, unhooked something from the seat behind him and started toward the door.

Before she could stop it her hand went to her hair. Then, realizing what she’d done, she straightened her shoulders and went to let him in. She was dressed. Her hair was probably combed. She had covered all the bases for polite society.

When she opened the door he was standing on the threshold clutching a picnic basket in his arms. He held it out to her but didn’t relinquish it.

“It’s heavy. Maybe I should set it down in the kitchen.”

“I work out.” She held out her arms.

He thrust it forward, and she realized he was right. It was heavy. She shifted so part of the weight rested against a hip.

“Come in while I put this on the counter. What is it?”

“A care package.”

She couldn’t help herself. “I didn’t know you did.”

“Did?”

“Care.” She smiled to let him know she was teasing. “I would refuse, of course, to show what an independent woman I am, but I might starve.”

She started toward the kitchen, and in a moment—she guessed he was slipping off his boots—he followed her. She set down the basket and opened the lid to peek. Inside were at least a dozen cans, also rice, pasta, packaged mac and cheese, two jars of sauce, more cereal, half a carton of eggs, two sticks of butter, and half a small bottle of cooking oil.

Despite all internal warning signals, she was touched. “Brody, did you clean out your cupboards?”

“I split the contents.”

“Bachelor food, huh? Beef stew, beans, tuna, fruit cocktail? What happened to the hot dogs?”

“Ate them last night.”

“Darn.”

He grinned, and only then did she realize he’d been worried about her reaction. “Don’t tell me you cook gourmet meals for yourself every night,” he said.

“Not every night.” She closed the lid. “This was thoughtful. Thank you. Of course I’ll replace everything once I can drive to a store.”

“That wasn’t the only reason I came. I thought you might like a ride over to the Grants’. To look for that box of baby stuff. But I warn you, it’s going to be freezing in their attic. We won’t last long.”

She gestured to her corduroy jeans and waffle henley. “I’m not dressed for a snowmobile.”

“I brought gear for you. It’s on the sled, if you’re game.”

She considered. Wasn’t this opening up a door best left closed? They had proved they could be polite, and she was in no hurry to look for Eric’s things. She almost refused, but then she reconsidered. Brody was trying to help, and if she didn’t say yes, she would be cooped up all day. Plus he would wonder why she’d refused, and that might be dangerous.

She kept her tone casual. “I’m not doing anything else, if you have the time.”

* * *

NINETY MINUTES LATER Jo took off the snowmobile helmet and shook out her hair. She was dressed like a pro in Brody’s sister’s gear, all of which had fit, the bibbed pants, jacket, gloves, everything except the boots, which were a size too large. That hadn’t mattered since she had worn them with three pairs of Kaye’s wool socks and removed the boots before entering the Grants’ house.

The ride had been glorious. Brody’s snowmobile held two, and she had wondered if she would be required to put her arms around his waist. But there had been a handlebar to hang on to, and the ride had been as smooth as sailing, with no surprises.

They hadn’t talked a lot, not even in the attic, which was a pack rat’s dream. Brody said that Mrs. Grant had inherited the contents from her husband’s mother, who had inherited them from her mother. Unlike her predecessors, she was trying to sort, then toss or label, but Brody thought she was having problems getting rid of much.

“Sentimental,” he’d said. “That’s why she kept Eric’s baby things.”

“My gain.” Jo had given up after that day’s search turned up nothing of Eric’s except old school notebooks, one box of wooden blocks and another of 4-H trophies. By the time they’d started back to Hollymeade her teeth were chattering.

Once there, she swung her legs over the side and stepped down. She realized how much fun she’d had. The ride, the attic search, the ride home. When had she ever jumped on a snowmobile or a motorcycle or a speedboat just for fun? When had she had time to simply be young?

Snow was falling again, a light dusting this time, but the landscape sparkled. Beyond the house she saw a cardinal, bright red and Christmassy in the branches of a spruce tree.

“Let me make you lunch,” she volunteered, before she even knew the words would emerge. “It’s the least I can do.”

He didn’t hesitate. “It would be nice to warm up.”

She was surprised he had accepted so readily. That seemed to say a lot, although she knew better than to dissect a simple sentence.

Inside they perched on a bench in the entryway and stripped off their snowmobiling clothes. She realized that until now she hadn’t seen him without at least a stocking cap, not even last night by the fire. His hair was longer than she remembered, as if he hadn’t found his way to the barber in a while, but the color was still the same bronze, with just a hint of curl.

He still looked so much like the boy she had fallen in love with.

She realized she was clutching Kaye’s outerwear as if it might shield her from old emotions. She thrust the clothing out for Brody to take home again, but he suggested she keep everything, just in case she wanted to tramp around outside or shovel more snow.

She wondered if he was planning more rides and just didn’t want to announce them yet. And in true Jo style she attempted to analyze whether she had really loved the ride or the ride-with-Brody.

Inconclusive.

In the kitchen she emptied the basket and took a better look at what she had to work with. She settled on a menu, filled a large pot with water and set it on the back of the stove to boil. Then she set the oven to 350 degrees before she took out a smaller pan and began a béchamel sauce, flour stirred into melted butter, milk whisked in, a pinch of nutmeg from the spice drawer. When she was happy with the consistency, she drained a can of tuna and mixed it in.

Brody perched on a stool and watched. “What can I do?”

“Would you get brown sugar out of the pantry? And if I’m not mistaken, one of the smaller canisters contains what’s left of a bag of coconut. Would you check to be sure it’s okay and bring that, too?”

Fifteen minutes later they sat down to a lunch of creamed tuna on egg noodles, and hot baked peaches topped with brown sugar and coconut. Brody looked as if he’d been invited to dine with the Iron Chef.

“Where did you learn to do this?”

She tried to ignore how wonderful it was to see appreciation in his eyes. She tried to ignore the fact that his praise seemed to be about more than a good hot lunch.

Unsuccessful.

“As a teenager I learned to make meals out of next to nothing. Sophie didn’t cook, so I had to learn or grow up on peanut butter sandwiches. Once I was out on my own I thought I would probably never cook again, but I discovered I missed it. So now I take lessons for fun, whenever I have the time.” She paused. “Which isn’t often.”

“I’d love to see what you could do with real food.” He looked up, as if he realized that sounded like he was asking for an invitation and wanted to hurry on to something else. “If the Millers get wind of this, you’ll be asked to cook every meal whenever you visit Hollymeade.”

“No telling when I’ll get here again.”

He took a second helping of peaches. “You must be incredibly busy, because I know you love this place.”

She found herself telling him about her job, and then about the trip to Hong Kong, where she had carefully inched her way through negotiations for a whole new technology system that she still believed would have ramped up the corporation’s productivity by more than ten percent.

“I missed my aunt’s funeral so I could bring that deal to conclusion, and after all that, I failed,” she finished.

“You failed, or the deal failed? Because those are different, right?”

She realized how relaxed she was and, despite everything, how easy it was to talk to Brody. “You’re right, the deal failed. Basically they used us, mainly me, as consultants, with no intention of buying our services. I didn’t give anything away, which is a victory of sorts, I guess, but I left empty-handed. I’m not used to losing, and my boss is making it personal. So I decided to come here and wait him out. When he’s done ranting and raving maybe he’ll see how valuable I am and apologize, or at least stop blaming me.”

“If he doesn’t?”

She shrugged, because getting this far had been the first hurdle. She wasn’t quite ready for the next one. “Tell me about the vineyards.”

“We still grow grapes for juice, but I’ve managed to expand into wine. Reisling first, then several others. Now I’m working on a boutique ice wine made from Reisling and Vignoles grapes, but it’s not ready for market. My Reisling won an award last year, but I can’t produce enough to make enough money to produce more.”

He said the last as if it was a joke, but she thought it probably wasn’t. Brody had dreamed of making wine all his life. He had planned to start his career at a large California winery and learn from the wine cellars up. Then he had planned to come home and establish his own vineyard.

“Did you get a job outside New York after college, the way you’d planned?” she asked.

“I decided to come home.”

She wondered why. Had there been a girl waiting, someone she hadn’t known about? A local girl ready to settle down and have his children? Because he had wanted a family. She remembered that all too well.

If there had been someone, apparently the relationship was over.

“I’d better get back.” Brody got to his feet and carried his dishes to the sink. “Thanks for lunch, Jo. It was great.”

She walked him to the door and waited while he shrugged back into layers of warm padding, finally slipping on his boots.

“Once the roads are clear you can just give me the key to the Grants’ house,” she said once he stood. “Mrs. Grant said she would see about getting me one.”

“It looks like this system’s on its way out, so I’ll be plowing like mad for the next couple of days. I won’t get to their driveway right away, so you won’t be able to drive over. Let’s just plan to go again later this week on my sled, if that suits you. I don’t mind. I’m keeping an eye on a possible leak in their roof, anyway.”

At the Grants’ house she hadn’t noticed Brody looking skyward even once, but she nodded. “I’ll see you then.”

“Unless the snow keeps coming, I’ll plow your drive tomorrow or the day after. I’m in the phone book if something comes up.”

“In the meantime at least I won’t be rationing candy bars. Thanks again.”

He smiled. They couldn’t seem to break eye contact. Jo’s heartbeat quickened, and her temperature seemed to rise despite her proximity to the door.

“You never said when you’re planning to leave,” he said at last.

“I haven’t decided.”

He lifted his hand and lightly touched her cheek. “There aren’t many places prettier at Christmastime.” Then he turned, and in a moment he was gone.

She could manage only one intelligent thought. Hollymeade suddenly seemed much too large and rambling without him.

CHAPTER FOUR

TWO DAYS AFTER the picnic-basket delivery, Jo woke to the noise of a snowplow, only this time in her driveway. By the time she threw on a bathrobe and ran to the window, Brody was chugging back down her driveway in a monster-sized pickup with a front blade that tamed the mounds of remaining snow as he made his way to the road.

She was free!

After she turned up the heat, she snuggled back under the covers. While she waited for the temperature to rise she stared at the ceiling and made a grocery list. Canned stew and beans had filled her stomach, but now she hankered for a real meal. Chicken, maybe, or a pork roast. Something she could eat right away, then enjoy leftover. Fresh vegetables, too, and fruit. Cheese.

She could hardly wait.

An hour later she was ready to roll. She wore her own jacket with jeans, but she pulled on Kaye’s snowmobile boots. Her own boots were ruined. If Kanowa Lake had anything resembling a shoe store she would treat herself to winter boots. And real gloves. Maybe even a scarf, since the ones in Hollymeade’s coat closet were awfully bedraggled.

Not a warmer jacket, though. A jacket meant she planned to stay long enough to need one. And, of course, that was silly.

Right before leaving she checked her smartphone, which was getting service again now that the storm had ended, scanning through the list of phone calls and texts she had received since yesterday. Her ringer had been off since she arrived, and she was checking both phone calls and email at her leisure. She skipped everything from her boss, read some emails from coworkers, and texted an acquaintance who was worried about her.

She noted one call from what she thought might be a Florida area code, but there was no message. Tossing the phone in her handbag, she headed for the door.

An hour and a half later she had groceries from the town supermarket, and boots and gloves from the Trading Post. The Trading Post was so named because it was purported to stand on a site where the Seneca people had once gathered to trade goods. The store had a bit of this and that, and today “that” had included an assortment of brightly colored scarves. But, Jo had reminded herself, she could stay warm with moth-eaten wool just as well as with the bright turquoise scarf from the Trading Post.

She was ready to drive away, when she slapped her palm on the steering wheel, went back inside and bought the scarf anyway.

Kanowa Lake had changed since her adolescence, but not a lot. There were too many For Rent signs in store windows. The shopping district was only two short blocks, and only half the stores and restaurants were still open, although some would resume business when summer arrived.

The town administration knew that tourism was their friend and somehow, even in the face of recession, had managed to keep the downtown spruced up and ready for visitors. The stone church at a prominent corner had been recently sandblasted, and a sign thanked donors to the project. The bandstand in a spacious park had been freshly painted and was now strung with Christmas lights.

Since she was standing on a ridge, she could see the lake beyond. Piles of fluffy white snow extended out toward the center, where the water hadn’t completely frozen and now glinted bravely under the sunlit sky. She knew exactly what the lake looked like in summer, but this view, lovely in its own way, was new.

She compared her shopping trip with the one she might have made in San Diego. There she would have had dozens of stores to choose from, and after patiently navigating traffic to get to them, parking and waiting in lines to pay, she would have ended up spending many hours and dollars. Of course, for her effort, she would have found exactly what she was looking for, in the colors and materials she wanted, and sizes that fit perfectly.

Today she hadn’t been shopping for anything special. She had needed gloves, boots and a scarf, not a wedding gown. She had finished quickly, and she was already wearing the boots. Plus she had heard all about the upcoming winter festival from the woman who had waited on her—who couldn’t have been more friendly.

As she walked back to her car other shoppers smiled and nodded. Somebody exited the diner, and just before the door closed she caught a tantalizing aroma. Apple pies baking, she guessed, for the upcoming lunch crowd. She was too early for lunch, and now she was sorry she hadn’t shopped later. A small town had its own pleasures, different from city pleasures, and she was falling easily into Kanowa Lake’s rhythms.

She had hoped to find a quilt shop where she could find a pattern for her border, but there wasn’t one here. This was no problem, because she had remembered there were hundreds of books upstairs in one of the attic bedrooms. It was entirely possible that her grandmother or Aunt Glo had left some of their quilting books to use during their summer stays. The moment she got home she would look.

She was already behind the steering wheel ready to start home when she heard a buzzing noise and realized that while her ringer was off, the vibrating feature wasn’t. She pulled out the phone and saw the call was from the same maybe-Florida number.

“Is this Jo Miller?” a woman asked when she answered. The woman sounded genuinely friendly, not like someone trying to sell something.

“Who’s calling?” Jo asked.

“This is Lydia Grant, Eric’s mother.”

Jo settled back. “Mrs. Grant, it’s so nice to hear from you.” Then she had a thought. “Is everything...all right?”

“With Eric? Yes, honey, he’s fine. We heard from him last night. And Olivia seems to be adjusting to this deployment, poor girl. She’s keeping busy.”

Jo wished she was close enough to her cousin to just pick up the phone and have a heart-to-heart, but she wasn’t sure if Olivia would appreciate baring her soul to someone who was nearly a stranger.

“I was able to visit your house,” Jo said. “Brody Ryan took me there. But we didn’t find the right box. We’ll try again when he’s not so busy. Right now he’s plowing driveways. We had quite a snowfall.”

“Oh, good, I was going to give you Brody’s number. Did you know him before this? From your summers as a girl?”

Jo gazed into the distance. “We’d met.”

“Well, before I forget, there’s also a key hidden in the wood bin just to the side of the house. It’s in a little metal box. My husband reminded me last night. Now you can take your time and search without bothering Brody. The box of baby things is clearly marked, at the front of the first pile.”

“Thank you, I’ll look for the key, but we did look through the front pile when we were inside and didn’t see it.”

“Odd.” Mrs. Grant paused. “Maybe the label fell off? Anyway, originally the box itself contained...let me think...oh, I remember, a set of pots and pans, and pictures of the pots are on the outside. I repacked it this summer, or, of course, I wouldn’t remember. So look for that. The set was red cast aluminum. It’s been gone for years, but the box was sturdy as a crate.”

Jo thanked her and prepared to end the conversation.

“I like saving Brody any work I can,” Mrs. Grant said. “He’s the nicest young man. Eric and Olivia think the world of him, but all of us do worry.”

Jo told herself not to pursue this. Just before she went ahead and asked, “Really? Why?”

“Well, he’s had such a hard go of it. His dad was sick for such a long time, and Brody was right there through the thick of it, helping his mother with nursing care, handling everything on their property, trying to make a go of things so they didn’t lose their home and livelihood as his dad declined. Of course, I don’t know for sure, but I would guess no matter how good their health insurance was, the medical bills were probably a crushing burden.”

Jo didn’t know what to say. This was all news to her, and she felt a stab of sympathy for the Ryan family.

“I’ve never heard him complain, though,” Mrs. Grant added. “He’s not somebody who would. But we still worry. That kind of thing marks you. He grew up way too fast. He works too hard and plays too little. Maybe you can cheer him up while you’re there? Get him to do something fun? Old friends are the best.”

They were—unless one of them had told the other to take a hike after years of planning a life together.

“I’ll do what I can,” Jo said.

“He needs to be young again. He’s been old for years now.”

“Years?”

“Oh, yes, years. His father died some time ago. Such a shame.”

They said goodbye and Jo hung up, but she continued to stare into the distance without starting the car.

How long ago had Mr. Ryan died? He and Brody had been close. The whole family had been close, and she had looked forward to becoming part of it one day. Had Mr. Ryan already been sick when she knew him?

And exactly when had Brody discovered that his father would need him, discovered that the whole family would need him?

A long time ago...sick for such a long time...as his dad declined...

When he broke their engagement had Brody known about his father’s illness? Had he believed that devoting himself to his family would take such a commitment that he simply couldn’t make one to her, as well? Had he known that years of nursing a dying father was no way to begin a marriage, and so he’d told Jo goodbye?

She was probably wrong. But suddenly she knew she had to discover the truth, and that meant spending time with Brody. Because he wasn’t someone she could simply ask, and she wasn’t a person who asked those kinds of questions anyway. This was too personal, too intimate. She couldn’t dig up the past, at least not in giant shovelfuls. She had to inch into it, a thimbleful at a time. If she cared enough.

The windshield was fogging inside and out, and she realized she was sitting inside an unheated car. She started the engine and pulled away from the curb, but once she got outside town, she didn’t turn off at Hollymeade. She continued on, heading for the Grants’ house. If she was lucky, Brody would already have plowed.

When she arrived, she saw the driveway was clear.

She parked in front and tramped through piles of snow, rounding the corner to the side where the wood bin was kept. The weather had warmed, and the snow was now heavy and wet, not powdery as it had been. She swept a foot of it off the top of the bin with the windshield scraper she’d gotten at the Trading Post and managed to pry it open. The metal box with the key was in plain sight.

Inside the house she took off her boots and climbed the steps to the second floor, then the attic. Ten minutes later she found the box covered with pictures of a long-departed set of pots and pans on the pile farthest from the door, the pile Mrs. Grant wasn’t supposed to have gone through yet. She managed to unearth the box by moving many others away first. When she turned it to see the opposite side, the label was proof she had found the right one.

She was sorry Mrs. Grant hadn’t remembered where she’d put it, but at least she had remembered the box itself. Jo carefully peeled back several strips of duct tape and opened the flaps to a treasure of baby shirts and bibs and, under them, a layer of half a dozen baby quilts.

It didn’t take her long to find what she wanted. Two quilts at the bottom had been well used and loved. She could understand why Mrs. Grant hadn’t been able to part with them, but they would never be used for their original purpose again. Both were literally hanging by a thread, although some of the fabric was still good.

She took them both; then she carefully repacked the box, hoping that one day a child of Olivia’s might have a chance to wear something from it. Finally she considered what to do. If Brody made a concerted effort to find this box on their next visit, he might very well locate it if it remained where it was in a pile they hadn’t yet searched.

Could she hide this box deep in the first pile, the pile they had already sorted through? Mistakes could be made, right? And until and if he happened on it again, she would buy more time with him in the attic, and more excuses to be together.

“My goodness, how did we miss it in this pile the first time?” she said out loud, practicing the words in case she actually needed to say them. “I can’t believe we didn’t find it. It was right where we looked at the beginning, Brody.”

She laughed, a sound that was almost unfamiliar.

Did she dare?

When the boxes were piled exactly to her satisfaction, she relocked the door, put the key back where she’d found it and tossed big handfuls of snow on the top of the wood box again, just in case Brody noticed it had been swept free of snow.

Once she was in the car she didn’t head for Hollymeade. To celebrate the emergence of this delightfully sneaky Jo Miller, she drove back into town for a piece of apple pie.

CHAPTER FIVE

JO WAS ON her way to a party.

When she’d left that morning she had missed a note from Brody tacked to her door. She hadn’t found it until she finally got back to Hollymeade.

My neighbors and I have a potluck every year at my house on the first day the snow is perfect for snowmen. Will you come as my guest? People will start to gather around 3. Just bring yourself. You know where I live.

Of course she was bringing more than herself. She’d taken stock of her upgraded grocery supplies and settled on old-fashioned scalloped potatoes with sharp cheddar and lots of garlic. And because she loved to bake cookies—but knew better than to bake them just for herself—she’d made three dozen oatmeal cookies with raisins and a healthy dose of cinnamon.

She did know where Brody lived. While they hadn’t revealed how close they really were, she had been to his house that first summer, sometimes with other teenagers and once for dinner when the midsummer grape harvest had begun and the house was so filled with people nobody had time to speculate on why she was there.

The lovely old farmhouse was set in gently rolling hills away from the lake, and even with the snow, she could see the neatly divided rows of vines fanning for acres away from the house.

As she pulled into the drive lined with cars she saw that not much had changed, although some changes might have been welcome. The white frame house was in need of paint. This climate was hard on houses, and she supposed Brody painted on a rotation and would probably paint it in the spring. But the porch sagged, as if the foundation needed shoring up, and she wondered why he had let it deteriorate. Was he stretched so thin he just didn’t have time for upkeep?

She quickly forgot to wonder. Brody was approaching, wool cap covering his hair again, but the smile was right out front.

“I hoped you would come,” he said, as she scooped up her contributions and got out. “But you didn’t have to bring anything.” He leaned over, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her and her breath caught. Then he reached for the casserole dish.

She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. “Any excuse to cook. And I’m returning your care basket, with thanks. I made it to the grocery store and replaced everything. It’s in the back.”

“You’re so...” He hesitated.

“Predictable?”

“Responsible. But thanks, it saves me from having to hit the grocery store right away.”

They started toward the house, and Jo saw groups of warmly clad people working on snowmen, maybe six groups or more, although individuals seemed to be going back and forth between them.

She heard laughter and smiled. “It looks like you have a crowd.”

“Almost everybody’s here. Some are friends from high school, with their families, some are neighbors. You can see we have lots of kids. We’ve been doing this for a few years. We find any excuse to get together during the winter. This is my way of hosting. I’m the only single guy in the crowd, and they’re always trying—” He stopped.

She knew what he’d been about to say. “To match you up with somebody?”

He didn’t answer directly. “You get the same thing, I bet.”

“My friends are few and far between. I work too many hours to keep them.”

“Then I’m surprised you’re still here in Kanowa Lake and not back in California slaving away.”

They were nearly at the house, and people were beginning to peel off from their snowmen to come meet her.

“So am I,” she said, before the introductions began. “But I’m not sorry.”

* * *

BY EIGHT O’CLOCK the last of Brody’s guests had left. Except for Jo. He found her by the fireplace, sitting on the rug stirring the coals. He paused for a moment to admire the picture. Then he moved in to put another log on top.

“It will catch in a moment,” he said. “The coals are still hot.”

She smiled up at him. “You didn’t have to do that. I really need to get home.”

“Somebody waiting for you?”

She shook her head. He watched her hair swirl as the fire brought out the subtle red highlights. He had to restrain himself and not reach down to smooth it into place.

“Stay, then,” he said. “For a little while. I have coffee brewing and some Irish whiskey to put in it.”

“I have to drive.”

“You could sleep here.”

She looked surprised. “I think not.”

“I have a guest room.”

“I’ll have the coffee, without the whiskey, then I’ll go home.”

He decided he wasn’t in any hurry to pour her a cup. He settled himself on the rug beside her, careful not to touch her and scare her back to Hollymeade. “Did you like my friends?”

“Your friends are great. You’re lucky to have them.”

“It would be lonely here if I didn’t. It’s not so bad in the spring and summer when the place is buzzing. My mother’s here then, and she’s good company, plus I’m outside so much I don’t have time for a social life. But in case you hadn’t noticed, Kanowa Lake’s not a metropolis. In the winter we make our own fun.”

“Does Kaye really need your mom to babysit? Or does the cold bother her?”

He didn’t want to explain that they couldn’t afford enough heat to keep his mother comfortable, and when she was away he could set the thermostat at a minimum. Tonight he had warmed the house for the party, but when Jo left, he would turn the thermostat to 55 degrees and sleep under two down comforters.

“She loves her grandchildren,” he said instead. “And she likes Arizona a lot.” That, at least, was true. His mother loved being out west with her grandchildren, and in a perfect world, where she could afford a little condo of her own there, she would only spend summers in New York.

“In between giving my snowgirl a perm with pinecones and tinting her cheeks with red food coloring, I got a lot of questions from your friends. I passed the stranger test, since I’m one of the Millers from Hollymeade, but I got the feeling everybody wants to be sure I don’t hurt you.” She looked into his eyes. “I told them not to worry. We’re old friends.”

Her eyes were almost the color of her hair. Brody loved watching the firelight dancing in them.

“They’ll keep asking,” he said. “We’ve stirred their imaginations and given them a gift good enough to put under their Christmas tree and talk about for months to come.”

“Speaking of trees...” Jo laughed a little, although he thought it sounded forced. “Yours is, how can I put this, Brody? Like the last Christmas tree in the lot on Christmas Eve. A Charlie Brown tree.”

He glanced at the little tree he had set up in the corner for the party. “It’s artificial.”

“I do realize that. I just wondered what the manufacturer used as a model.”

“I’m offended you think it’s less than perfect. I got it at the Trading Post last year—after Christmas.”

“If you paid more than a dollar, you paid too much. Aren’t you going to decorate the poor thing?”

“It is decorated. Didn’t you notice?”

“Brody, you hung three ornaments and a star. That’s not decorated. Did you get those on sale, too?”

He smiled. “So what’s on your tree?”

“Hey, I’m just visiting. Of course, I don’t have a tree. I might not even be here for Christmas.”

He didn’t want to think about that. “So what would be on your Christmas tree back in California?”

“It varies. Last year I came home from work to a pale blue tree, kissing cousin to a toilet bowl brush, decorated with Japanese origami ornaments in gold and silver. Sophie had spent weeks folding them to surprise me. It was an homage to her ancestors.”

“Your mother is Japanese?”

“Not in this life. Three lives ago, I think.”

He heard a mixture of emotions in her voice. Humor. Love. Frustration. “Living with Sophie’s like living with a roller coaster, isn’t it?”

“These days it’s like being visited by one. And she’s better. I don’t see nearly as much of her. As odd as it might be, she’s making a life for herself.”

“Does she know where you are right now?”

“Not exactly. I needed a Sophie break. So tell me about all those books under your tree.”

He noted the neat change of subject. “Every year when we were growing up my sister and I got a new Christmas book. These days I get novels with Christmas in them somewhere, but I’ve kept every one of them. So has Kaye. We both put them out in December to remember those good years. Someday I want to do the same thing for my own children.”

She briefly rested her fingertips on his knee. “Brody, your father died some time ago, didn’t he?”

“His life was too short.” He hoped that would do.

“You must miss him.”

“Holidays are the worst.” He decided to take a chance. “I’m glad you’re here, Jo. You’ve brightened this one already.”

Neither of them said anything for a long moment, then she broke eye contact and looked back at the fire. “Think the coffee’s ready? I just take a little milk, if you have it.”

He returned a few minutes later to find her on the sofa looking through some of the books he’d stacked under the tree.

He set down the coffee and joined her.

“Do you have a favorite?” she asked, placing the books beside her.

“Probably The Gift of the Magi, by O. Henry. My mother used to read it to us every Christmas day, just in case we weren’t wild about a present or two. To remind us that whatever’s given in love is the best gift of all.” He grinned. “Even if it sucks.”

“I don’t remember the story.”

“It’s about a young couple, not so much as an extra penny to spend, but very much in love. Her one prized possession is her beautiful hair. His is a gold pocket watch that’s been passed down to him. Because she loves him so much she sells her hair to buy a watch chain for Christmas, and in turn, without knowing what she’s done, he sells his watch to buy her a comb for her beautiful hair. In the end, of course both gifts are useless.”

“But their love is absolutely clear.”

“Like the Magi, they gave their best.”

“It’s hopelessly romantic, don’t you think? Do you know anybody willing to give up so much for so little?”

“Love’s a powerful motivator.”

“I guess I haven’t seen the proof up close.”

She started to pick up her coffee, but he put his hand over hers, then he leaned forward and kissed her. Lightly. Sweetly. He took his time, and in a moment her lips softened under his and she sighed.

Heart pounding he finally pulled away. “If you were talking about us, we were awfully young, Jo. And we had so many strikes against us.”

“Is that what it was?”

“Were you really ready to settle down? When I told you that I wasn’t, you looked so relieved, I thought I’d made the right choice for both of us.”

She searched his eyes. “We were young,” she said at last.

“We aren’t that young anymore.”

“But we tried this once, and it wasn’t exactly a rip-roaring success.”

“We can take it a step at a time.” He smiled. “Baby steps.”

“I have a life and a job and a condo across the country.”

“And who knows what kind of Christmas tree is waiting for you this year? Neon? Goth? Are you really in a hurry to go back and find out?”

With an audible sigh she cupped his cheek, her fingers threading into his hair. “This is so crazy. We can’t just pick up where we left off, Brody. Ten years have gone by.”

“And I’ve missed you for every one of them.”

“You could have found me.”

He heard the hurt, and it tore at his heart. He almost blurted out the truth, that he’d had nothing to offer except poverty and death. But he didn’t want sympathy.

He wanted love.

“Can we just start over?” he asked. “Get to know each other? Have fun together? Will you stay through Christmas and spend it in Kanowa Lake?” He didn’t add “With me,” although that was perfectly clear.

He thought she was going to refuse, then she smiled, and her fingers burrowed deeper in his hair. “Friends, then, but just friends. On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You get a real Christmas tree, and we decorate it together.”

“And if I put up a sprig of mistletoe?”

“You’re doing fine without it,” she said, right before she leaned forward to kiss him again.

CHAPTER SIX

From EllaT@puget.net: Sounds to me like you’re having quite the adventure at Hollymeade, Jo. Rachel and I are shivering through your emails, and they make me sorry we didn’t try harder to stay in touch all these years. I’m in the mood for an adventure, too, but I think I’ll take mine without all that snow. I’m practicing my appliqué stitches, by the way, in preparation for my border. Aunt Glo would have encouraging words to say, I’m sure. And she would also have reminded you to slow down and have a wonderful Christmas. So even though I’m the youngest cousin, I’ll do it for her.

JO WASN’T SURE how Christmas Eve had arrived so quickly. Ten days had passed since the potluck, and she and Brody had spent large chunks of each one together. While now she was working an hour each morning, she was still officially taking vacation time. She’d become skilled at cutting off her boss’s telephone rants by citing in boring detail the reasons why her presence wasn’t required until the New Year.

Sophie was even more of a challenge, but surprisingly her spirit guide agreed with Jo. Ocelot Lee had issued a decree that demanding attention from her daughter was not a step forward for Sophie’s personal growth. Sophie needed more time with him. Jo just hoped her stepfather was watching how much money was flowing to the medium who channeled ol’ Ocelot.

The moments with Brody were by far the best. She woke up every morning anxious to see him again. For a quiet little town in the frozen north, they had found plenty to do, especially after she bought a down jacket.

She was learning to cross-country ski, and for the first time since her childhood, she had strapped on ice skates and, with Brody’s help, taken her first tentative glides along the frozen lakeshore. They’d Christmas shopped together at the Trading Post, baked Christmas cookies for his friends, and added a couple of snow people to his collection so that now they had a fleet of carolers on his lawn.

Twice more they had unsuccessfully searched the Grants’ attic for the box with Eric’s baby things. Since searching was the perfect excuse to see Brody earlier in the day, Jo managed that guilty little secret just fine.

Brody had taken his time getting a new Christmas tree, but the tree they had hauled into his house yesterday was a real beauty, cut from a hillside destined for vineyard expansion. As it turned out there were ornaments in the attic from his childhood, and he had promised to bring them down tonight. Jo was making a gourmet dinner, and afterward, they would decorate together.

Tomorrow morning she would join him at his house to open presents. Join him, that is, if she actually left tonight.

So far she and Brody had, as she had requested, just enjoyed each other’s company. While they never talked about the past, they did talk about everything else. They had similar views on politics, and while he was more inclined to be a churchgoer than she was, their views on religion were similar, too. Their reading tastes were different—his tended toward thrillers, she was a fan of biographies—but they loved some of the same television shows. He was surprised she avoided trendy nightclubs, and she was surprised he never watched football but couldn’t be pried away from the set when the World Series was in play.

Through all this, he had rarely touched her. He always kissed her good-night. That was a given, and she could tell he was reluctant to let her go afterward. She was reluctant to go, so she understood. But somehow they had taken the time to build trust, to push aside the powerful physical attraction between them and reforge the bond they had severed a decade before.

She was so glad they had waited. Weren’t they mature? But now she was ready to toss maturity out the window.

She dressed carefully for the night’s adventure. She hadn’t brought X-rated lingerie, but she was fairly certain that lingerie of any kind wasn’t going to be much of an issue. She washed her hair, shaved her legs, took a little extra care with her makeup and pulled out the new green sweater she had found at the Trading Post. By the time she left, she was satisfied. She had even pinned a twinkling Christmas wreath to the sweater, to make Brody smile. Luckily it had an off switch, because this was no night to give the man a headache.

She packed the ingredients for dinner and took them out to the car, then she packed a few toiletries and a change of underwear in a bag, too, and hid it under the front seat.

Just in case...

Snow was falling, a pillowy snow that was spreading softly over older drifts like icing on a cake. As she drove toward his house she thought about Olivia’s wedding quilt. As hoped, she had found several helpful books upstairs. After looking carefully at every pattern, she had settled on a Friendship Star block, a four-pointed star that would, in partner with its neighbors, dance across her border. It was, as star blocks went, simple enough for her to stitch by hand, although the first two had varied wildly, and neither of them had been the exact size she needed.

The third, though, had been perfect, her stitches even and small enough to suit her. She had decided to use the royal blue background of the center block as the background for each block. Then the stars themselves could be a variety of different fabrics, and that was where she planned to incorporate some of the bride and groom’s childhoods. She had also decided on smallish stars, so that none would stand out and take away from the perfect center block. That meant she had to sew even more of them to stretch around the quilt. In the past week she had made enough for two sides, and she was pleased at the way they had turned out.

Still, she hoped that quilt-making would be on hold tonight.

On the snow-sprinkled walk up to the house she smiled at the wreath on the front door. She had bought it on sale yesterday in the grocery store parking lot, a steal, since most people already had their decorations completed. Brody had hung it immediately. As she raised her hand to knock she noticed something new had been added. Little flags that looked like they had been made from Post-it notes and toothpicks were tucked in between the pinecones and plastic sprays of cranberries adorning the wreath.

She pulled one out and read the message out loud. “The weather outside is frightful.” She frowned, and pulled out another. “If you’ve no place to go.” Now she smiled as she looked at the rest. He had carefully penned, then pinned, all the words to the familiar Christmas song, “Let It Snow.” Even out of order, she recognized them.

“All the night long we’ll be warm.”

Oh, it was going to be a good night, she was sure of it.

Let it snow and snow some more!

By the time Brody answered the door, she was almost dancing with delight.

“It’s so Christmassy!” she said, throwing her arms around him. “I love the wreath.”

He kissed her soundly, until she was breathless. Then he stepped back. “I would have bought one and put it up weeks ago if I’d known the results.”

“I have lots to bring in. Want to help?”

They finally got all the food into the house, despite pelting each other with snowballs.

She set the last of the bags on the counter and took a deep breath of cinnamon-scented air. “Something smells fabulous.”

“I’m heating cider. I knew you’d be ready for a mug when you got here.”

She threw her arms around his neck again and kissed him. “You’re so thoughtful.”

Brody slipped his arms around her waist and held her there. “Seems to me you’re making me dinner. Little enough to do in return.”

“Cooking in this wonderful old kitchen is a treat. I love it. I can almost taste all the amazing meals that have been cooked here.”

“Doubtful. My mother loves her vegetable garden. Then she boils the heck out of every harvest. My father used to sneak behind her and turn off burners.”

“I know you miss him. I miss mine.”

He kissed the tip of her nose, then released her. “Having you here makes all the difference.”

“For the record, this is the best Christmas I remember in a long time.”

“Because?”

He was clearly fishing for a compliment. “I’m not working, of course. At least not very much.”

“And?”

“And I guess I love winter. The snow and the cold remind me of my childhood, before we pulled up stakes and headed for California.”

“And?”

She cocked her head. “Well, being with you is nice.”

“Nice?”

“Maybe that’s a bit of an understatement.”

“It had better be.” He pulled her close again, and this time the kiss went on and on—and the man did know how to kiss. When she finally stepped away, the room was cartwheeling around her.

She shook her head. “You expect me to cook after that?”

“You promised me dinner. And I just hauled in at least a ton of groceries.”

She sent him her most seductive smile, then she turned away before he could respond to the message in it. “No problem, I’ll just boil the heck out of everything in these bags and you’ll feel right at home.”

* * *

OF COURSE SHE didn’t. She had gone into debt for the rib roast, and she cooked it with potatoes, simmering them first so they would crisp up in the oven nestled against the roast. She served both with a spinach and artichoke casserole, fresh green beans, a cranberry, apple and walnut salad, and yeast rolls she had baked at Hollymeade that morning. For his part Brody opened a bottle of Merlot from a friend’s vineyard on Long Island.

When she set everything on the table, decorated with a red tablecloth from Hollymeade, evergreen boughs and white candles, Brody looked like a man who had died and reawakened to his first heavenly banquet.

“I’m going to be rude and ask if there’s dessert,” he said.

“Doesn’t this look like enough?”

“I have to know how much I can eat. If there’s dessert, too, I might be able to rein myself in, just a bit, in preparation.”

“Homemade gingerbread, and there’s maple whipped cream to go with it.”

He looked up from his plate. “Thank you. More than I can say.”

She heard so much in his voice. Thanks for the food. Thanks for cooking for me. Thanks for making a holiday special that would have been lonely and desolate.

If there was more, she didn’t want to think about it.

The food was as good as she had hoped. Clearly Brody thought so, too.

“You ought to be a pro, a chef,” he said, as he reached for another helping of potatoes. “This is better than any restaurant meal I’ve ever had.”

She was flattered. “Cooking’s my only real hobby. I would hate to ruin it.”

“You haven’t talked much about your job.”

She found herself telling him more about the man she worked for. “I know it’s not just my fault when things go wrong,” she said, “but it’s hard to remember that when Frank crowns me scapegoat of the year.”

“Do you have to stay there?”

She didn’t know. She did know she would be in demand if she ever looked for another job. She had a large network of leads and a standing offer or two. That sounded like bragging, though, so she just shrugged. “I’ve invested a lot in this job. I would hate to walk away.”

“You like what you do?”

“I love helping companies become more efficient. That’s my main function. If we can get just the right system in place, their productivity soars and everybody’s happy. It’s a great feeling.”

“You work with the big guys, I guess.”

“Usually, but the right system, computers, software, et cetera, customized for small businesses, can make all the difference, too. And sometimes it’s the difference between closing up shop or opening up markets.” She pushed back from the table a little, because she couldn’t eat another bite. “I’m sure you have a good system here, tailored to your needs, right?”

“I don’t have the time to fool with anything new.”

Or the money, she thought. The more time she spent with Brody, the more she suspected Ryan Vineyards was, at best, holding its own. Most of the land was planted with Concord grapes for juice, and Brody’s passion for making wine was on a back burner. She had seen his equipment, and California girl that she was, she knew what he had wasn’t state-of-the-art, as it should be to compete. The house needed attention inside and out, and one day, when she had dropped by unannounced, the temperature inside hadn’t been much different from the one outside.

“I could fix you up.” She said this as casually as she could, as if having a highly paid consultant revamp his entire business strategy wasn’t any big deal. “Get the right technology in place without a lot of fuss and bother. And with my contacts, I could do it in a way that wouldn’t break the bank. I could set up everything you need. Invoices, purchasing orders, follow-ups with potential clients, analysis of marketing campaigns. How’s your website?”

She had asked the last question in her most innocent tone, but she already knew the answer. The Ryan Vineyards website, if it could be called that, was pathetic, one page that looked as if it had been constructed by a middle school student for his first computer class.

“I can tell you’ve seen it already,” Brody said.

She nodded sheepishly. “I think I could do a thousand percent better with a minimum of work.”

He didn’t answer directly. “It’s a lot to think about tonight, and we ought to be celebrating. Would you like to try some of Ryan Vineyards’ own ice wine with dessert?”

Last week she’d had a glass of Ryan’s best Reisling, and it had compared favorably with German Reislings she’d been served on business trips. She said an enthusiastic yes.

They cleared off the table together and stacked the dishes in the ancient dishwasher. Then, while she dished up the gingerbread with generous dollops of whipped cream, Brody opened the wine.

They took both to the small table near the fireplace and sat together on soft cushions, watching the flames and working on the gingerbread.

The wine was wonderful, with notes of peaches and honey, a wine to be proud of, and she told him so.

He looked pleased. “The grapes have to freeze before we pick them, which means we have to leave them on the vine and hope a freeze is on the way before they rot. Then, of course, there’s not as much liquid after they freeze, so we make less wine. It’s a risky business, but good ice wine can sell for five times what a bottle of the Reisling brings.”

“That would make a great blog, updating people day by day on the state of the weather, the grapes, the work involved. Wine fanatics would hang on every word. They’d be standing in line for your wine when it was ready.”

“If I could just be two or three people at once, I could manage something like that.”

“I bet you like all the challenges.”

“It’s the darnedest thing. I do like challenges, always have. Take finding Eric’s baby quilts, for instance.”

Surprised at the nimble change of subject, she took another sip of her wine and waited.

“It’s the strangest thing, Jo, but I think I may have found them.”

“Really? You were in the Grants’ attic without me?”

“I’m still monitoring their roof for a possible leak.”

That surprised her, but she didn’t let on.

“Anyway, I went upstairs, and you won’t believe what I found.”

She raised a brow. “Won’t I?”

“The right box was there in front. Exactly where we looked that first day. Are you surprised?”

She set her plate on the table. “Not so much.”

“Well, I was. Really, really surprised. Stunned, in fact. Because...” He paused dramatically. “I had moved that box to the back row before you ever went up there in the first place.”

“Brody!”

He set his glass on the table. “Here’s the thing. I needed an excuse to be with you, or at least I thought I did. But a miracle happened. After we went through that first stack of boxes together, somebody moved that box right back to the front where we’d already looked.”

He had confessed. Now she had to, although he obviously knew the truth. “All right, after our first trip to the attic, Mrs. Grant told me where to find a house key and gave me a description of the box I was looking for. So I took out a couple of quilts and moved the box back to the front, so we wouldn’t find it when we were together. Of course I didn’t know that you—”

He put his arm around her and pulled her close. “Jo, do we still need excuses to be together? Do we need more time talking about our views on art or literature, about your job or mine, more snowballs and ice skating? Because it’s all been great. We could be best friends, I guess, if we really worked at it.”

She went into his arms without hesitation, shifting so her face was close to his. “But we were never destined just to be friends, were we?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Brody, just tell me this isn’t about the season....” Her voice caught. “And it’s not just nostalgia for lost youth.”

“It’s about never being able to forget you,” he said, just before he kissed her.

He was right, there really was no more need for conversation. And there was certainly no need to invent ways to entertain each other. There was no need to move into the bedroom, either. The fire was warm, the pillows were soft, and their clothes slipped away as easily as their painful past.

Later, lying against him, skin-to-skin, heart-to-heart, Jo stirred a little. “If Santa Claus comes down this chimney tonight, he’s going to get a big surprise.”

Brody pulled her close again. “Not to worry. Santa knows he doesn’t have to come. I already have my Christmas present.”

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