“Everything okay?” Allison asked Billie.
Billie’s eyebrows unknit and then rose high. “Oh, everything’s fine,” she said with way too much breath. Everything wasn’t fine, but she clearly didn’t want either Allison or me to know what had bothered her. Billie pinched her mouth shut and looked away from everyone.
“Okay, well, let me know if you need anything,” Allison said.
“I’m sure everything’s just fine,” Denny said. He didn’t think everything was fine, either, but he was trying to cover for his sister.
The uncomfortable vibe was erased by Allison’s ringing phone and Denny’s movement up and onto the truck. Time to get back to work.
I sniffed a couple extra times, convinced I could become quickly addicted to the scent of real pine, told Denny I’d talk to him later about the trip up to his farm, waved good-bye to Allison as she hurried away, and then went to greet Sam. The mysteries of the past few minutes dissolved quickly from my mind when he opened the box and told me the contents were especially for me.
Two
“She’s out of control,” Sam said.
“Mm-hmm,” I said, my mouth full of cookie. I hoped my noise sounded like a disagreement. I didn’t think she was out of control at all.
“Yes, she is,” Sam said. “I didn’t even know she cooked.”
I swallowed. “Technically, this would be baking, not cooking. She’s very sweet to bake these for me.”
“You know, she asks me every day if we’re still together. I’ve never seen that woman scared of anything, but for some reason I think she’s scared we’ll break up.”
I laughed. “I don’t see that hap . . .” I stopped speaking.
Sam smiled and leaned back against the cruiser again. “It’s okay to say you don’t think that’s going to happen, Becca. Even if it does happen—which, by the way, I don’t see that outcome, either—it’s okay to believe enough in our relationship that you’ve started thinking that it might, just might, be something . . . lasting. I was going to say ‘permanent,’ but I thought you might faint or pass out if I did.”
I smiled and then put the rest of the cookie in my mouth. Sam and I had talked about my poor success rate in all things romantic. I’d been through two marriages and two divorces and had most recently broken up with someone who was wonderful (even Sam thought he was wonderful). But the timing for Ian and me had been wrong. Considering that Ian was ten years my junior, we’d decided that the timing might never be right. We promised each other that our friendship would continue. For a while I thought our friendship would work, and then I sensed a strain and thought it wouldn’t. Neither of us were quite sure how to be just friends, but lately it seemed we’d been able to reconnect without that difficult-to-understand, and even more difficult to explain, romantic tension between us. It was still too early to tell, but I hoped our friendship would ultimately be successful.
So did Sam. In fact, he encouraged it.
But there was no doubt in my mind, no question as to my feelings for the guy leaning against his police car, his hair slicked back, his uniform perfectly pressed, his job steady and real (though Ian was gainfully employed, my two ex-husbands had struggled with this). I was whipped, head over heels, in deep—whatever you wanted to call it. This was the guy for me, and I was pretty certain there’d never be another one to take his place.
I just didn’t like to say that out loud. Yet.
“I’m working on it,” I said after I finished the cookie.
“I know you are.” He stood straight again. “Vivienne wanted me to give these to you.” He repeated what he’d said when he handed me the box. “She was extremely relieved to hear we are still together, and I think she wants to bribe you with her cook . . . baking, not to dump me.”
Vivienne Norton was one of Sam’s fellow Monson police officers. She was burly in a manly way, but wore a thick coat of makeup and her hair bleached in a poufy, Marilyn Monroe blonde color. She was tough and more the silent type than anything. And, apparently, she could bake cookies—at least Christmas cookies—like a pro.
“Well, I’m certainly not dumping you today. These are delicious. Tell her it worked,” I said. I reached for a frosted reindeer.
“Good. I’m glad.” Sam looked at the truck across the lot. “So, Bailey’s is selling Christmas trees this year?”
“Ridgeway Farm is selling. Bailey’s is giving them the exclusive space. When Allison heard they were donating the trees for the parade, she wanted to do something for them. Denny Ridgeway, the owner—the guy heaving the tree off the truck—is a South Carolina legend, and the farm is apparently stunning. From all accounts, Denny’s a great guy. He invited us—you and me—up to the farm to cut down our own tree. On Sunday.”