Chapter Five
The Mistletoe Market had been held in downtown Asheville on the second Saturday in December ever since Dixie could remember. Her booth cost a small fortune on a waitress’s salary, but her art, mostly local landscapes featuring the area’s two stunning mountain ranges and six drive-by waterfalls, sold well and easily made up for the expense. Since she didn’t have time between shifts at the diner to set up an easel and paint in the natural light, she relied on photographs she’d taken with her Canon PowerShot with its huge 700mm zoom to capture the essence of a scene she wanted to paint. The camera was another budget buster that resulted in her eating ramen noodles for a month when she wasn’t using her half-off discount on meals at the diner. As she surveyed the results beautifully displayed in her small canopy-covered booth that Saturday morning, she hoped today would be as profitable as days in the past had been and make all her sacrifices worthwhile.
Once she arranged her larger oil paintings on easels, she hung her medium and small canvases done in acrylics and watercolors on the folding display panel she purchased for this very reason. Lastly, she set out her hardwoods, arranging them on the floor due to their size. Since it was a craft show, not a gallery, she tried to incorporate different mediums and backdrops that would appeal to these specific patrons—anything from rustic to country chic.
One of her bestsellers came from an idea she’d gotten years ago, while still living at home, when the owner of the trailer park had been clearing trees for expansion. The trunks and branches were hauled off for firewood, but the stumps were going to be ground into mulch. Her artist’s eye saw the beauty of the wood grains and rings in the trunks and she’d begged for a few cross sections of the hardwood trees. Leaving the outer bark for character and prepping the surface by sanding carefully prior to painting, she’d created something both beautiful and unique. And she was delighted by how these artsy-crafty works sold like hotcakes in a booth on a chilly Saturday morning.
Over the years, she’d had customers bring her more sections from their own downed trees, which had kept her supplied throughout the year. Other popular items, besides her paintings, were hand-painted coasters, miniature oils at a very affordable price, and some vases, though not many. These last items had been supplied by Penny, a friend she’d met in art school who had a potter’s wheel and a small gallery downtown. Dixie added her special touch, in anything from florals to art deco, and the vases, which cost pennies to make, were selling for two hundred fifty dollars a pop. They split the profit sixty/forty, with Penny getting the extra ten percent to cover her overhead at her shop.
All in all, if she sold her entire stock, she could walk away with over ten thousand dollars. She’d be happy to sell half. And that didn’t include the caricatures she’d be painting through the day. What she sold today would take her months to earn at the diner. If only she could do it full time. But the supplies cost money, craft shows didn’t provide health insurance, and in bad times, poor sales wouldn’t cover her utility and grocery bills.
They weren’t called starving artists for nothing.
As her first customer approached, she put thoughts of money away and poured on the charm. She found a smile and being sociable put folks in a buying mood, especially when painting a ladybug or a flower on a child’s up-tilted face as their parents looked on. Face painting didn’t exactly rake it in, but it was popular with the kids and brought the parents to her booth.
It was a little after noon, when she was finishing a drawing of a cute carrot-topped couple, both with freckles and wire-rimmed glasses. The girl had an impressive bust line that Dixie enhanced further in her drawing. She did the same with her boyfriend’s red goatee, which became cartoonish in her version. They were thrilled with it and tipped her an extra ten bucks.
“I remember you working on the sets for theater, but I never realized how very talented you were.”
Twisting on her stool at the familiar voice, she stared up into eyes as vivid a blue as the Carolina sky. Peeking behind him, she saw that for the first time her tent was empty of customers. Without any other distractions, she busied herself storing her pastel pencils in their tray, then took up a rag and wiped the color smudges from her fingers.
“What are you doing here, Kyle?”
“A bit of Christmas shopping.” His eyes swept over her artwork. One of her favorite pieces caught his attention and he moved to examine it up close. A thirty by forty-inch oil painting of Looking Glass Falls, a stunning sixty-foot waterfall in the Pisgah National Forest about thirty-five miles outside of Asheville; it was the largest work she had on display, and the most expensive. Done in stunning whites, silvers, and deep blues, it was a winter scape, and the snowdrifts and icicles hanging from the trees were so crisp, she had to admit she had outdone herself.
“This would be perfect for someone on my list,” he said, not seeming to notice the seven hundred fifty-dollar price tag. “I’ll take it. Do you know where I can have it framed?”
She reached across the table and picked up a card—another friend had a frame shop. “Frieda’s Frames in town will give you twenty percent off if you bring my work to her.”
“Perfect, as is this.” He bent forward to admire it more in depth. “If you can paint like this, what are you doing waiting tables at Pete’s?”
He said it as though giving up a steady job with benefits for an art career was easy, when in truth, sales were feast or famine. Obviously, the good doctor was out of touch. Her voice took on an edge of resentment she couldn’t quite hide.
“Waitressing at Pete’s pays the everyday bills. Shows like this are few and far between as are customers who can afford to drop a grand on a painting and framing. You’ll find a frame that size is almost as much as you paid for the piece itself.”
“The recipient is worth every penny.”
The owner of the umbrella no doubt, Dixie thought, as she felt an inexplicable twist in her chest. “She’s a lucky girl,” she said as she took his proffered credit card. “I hope she enjoys it. If you can come back in about twenty minutes, I’ll have it wrapped for transporting.”
“I can wait. I’m not in a hurry.”
She threw him a glance over her shoulder; his intense gaze was no longer on the winter landscape, but on her as she lifted the canvas and carried it to a table she’d set up in the back with plain wrapping paper, string, and tape.
He followed her slowly, taking in her other items on display. “These would be perfect for my mother,” he murmured as he picked up one of the sandstone coasters. “She’s always complaining about Dad leaving rings on her furniture. I’ll take two sets of these, too.”
The coasters at fifteen dollars for a set of four were a popular gift item. She called the sets Sunrise in the Smokies , with each small disc featuring a miniature scene of the mountains in each season. As he continued to wander through her booth, stopping here and there to inspect one piece or another, she tried to ignore him as she pulled out a table-length size of brown paper from the roll to wrap up his purchase.
Tuning him out wasn’t easy, though, and within the confined space, she found it impossible. She could smell him, a wonderful mix of outdoors, sandalwood, and man. It was so intoxicating it made her head spin a little and her hands shake.
There was a rustling noise behind her. Hopeful that another customer had come in and needed her assistance, which would give her a little break from all that was Kyle, she turned to check. The booth remained empty, except for Kyle, who was right behind her, close enough that her body brushed his. Stepping back hastily, she felt the need to apologize, though it wasn’t all her fault, except she bumped up against her table and didn’t get far. She tilted her head, but the words evaporated on her tongue when she found him staring down at her.
He was tall, she knew that, but she’d forgotten how much so. Six-foot-three at least, and his shoulders had broadened beyond what she recalled from high school, which as a football player had been nothing to sneeze at. He’d matured from a well-built boy into a sturdy, broad-chested, muscular man and her breathing picked up in response, her chest rising and falling more rapidly, with him so close the tips of her breasts almost rubbed against him. She bowed back this time, except it didn’t help, because he leaned in.
“Do I make you nervous, Dixie?” With his face only inches from hers, when he spoke she felt the warmth of his breath on her cheeks and smelled the mint of his toothpaste.
“I… uh, no… I mean—” As she was stammering and struggling to come up with an intelligent answer to his question, a customer entered her booth up front. “Excuse me.”
“Saved by the bell, again,” he pronounced softly.
That he remembered that day at the diner surprised her and also warmed her all over. But it shouldn’t, and she wanted to kick herself for falling susceptible to his charm. She knew better, had known so since high school.
Distracted, she tried to push him from her mind as she answered the customer’s questions before she moved on.
Turning back, she angled her chin toward the painting. “This might take me a while, with people coming and going. I have a courier service at the gallery where I display my art. Maybe I can have it delivered?”
“Maybe you can tell me why I get you so flustered, instead.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, brushing by him as she moved to the table and began measuring the brown paper.
His arms came around her from behind, his palms pressed flat on the table, pinning her in place without touching her. She could feel the heat of his body along her back.
“You do, Dix. Your face is flushed, your respirations are elevated, and your beautiful brown eyes are so dilated they’ve become almost black. And if I put my fingers to the pulse at your throat, my guess is your heart is racing. Should I prove I’m right?”
One hand rose, brushing her hair where it curled over her shoulder. She knew what came next—Kyle pushing it aside to expose her neck, a place that was very sensitive and would make her heart, which was already pounding from his nearness, very likely leap out of her chest.
She spun to face him, a mistake that she regretted instantly when he moved closer, his coat rubbing hers, his hard chest meeting the softness of her breasts. Her hands came up in between them as his slid up her spine.
“Kyle…”
“What time are you through here?”
“The show ends at six, but it will take me time to close down and haul everything to my car.”
“I’ll be back and help you pack up, then take you to dinner.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“You keep saying that. We’re attracted to one another, Dixie. Like we were in school. Only after the episode with that idiot Spencer, you were too ticked off to ever give me the time of day.”
“What makes you think things have changed?”
“I was hoping both of us would have matured. I never imagined you’d be the type of girl to hold a grudge for twelve long years. You need to let me explain.”
“There’s no need. Besides, you obviously haven’t changed. You’re splurging on someone special, the other day you made a special trip merely to pick up a woman’s umbrella, and despite being involved with someone else, now you’re hitting on me.”
His arms tightened around her at the same time his face lost its smile, his jaw going tight. “So you know me so well, you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”
“Spoiled rich boys who think the world—as well as every woman they see—is theirs for the taking rarely change. Nor do lying, cheating jerks. Step aside.” She pushed against his chest when he didn’t move, although her efforts didn’t so much as budge him. “Step back, please.”
He moved fast, and before she knew it her wrists were clasped by strong fingers and pinned behind her. His face was a fraction away, the brush of his breath now on her lips, and his eyes were snapping with fire like the hottest blue flame.
“I’m tempted to take you over my knee and spank some sense into you.”
She was so stunned, other than her mouth falling open, she couldn’t move.
“And if you were mine, I’d do that here and now.”
“Kyle,” she breathed shakily.
“Since you aren’t, I’ll give you an explanation instead, although I don’t owe you one. The painting is for my sister. She’s been searching for something to go over her new blue sofa in her living room. This will be perfect. The umbrella didn’t belong to a girlfriend or wife that I’m cheating on, but another female relative who asked me to drop in on my way through and see if she had left it. Further, I’m single. If I was in a committed relationship, I wouldn’t stray, that’s not my style. I also don’t trash-talk women in hallways as you thought you overheard. Spencer was lying through his teeth. All of us, except Parker, who was a virgin same as old Spence, knew it because they both became tongue-tied whenever a pretty girl came within ten feet of them. He was all talk and at the time could barely find his dick to take care of himself, let alone know what to do with it with a girl. We were purposely egging him on to see how much bullshit he would spew. We knew you were a good girl, Dixie, always did. It was unfortunate that you came in when you did and left too soon, or you would have heard us tell him that. And I would have told you all of this if you’d have returned one of my two dozen phone calls or let me explain all those years ago.”
He released her. It happened so fast she lost her balance and teetered up against the table. Next, he dropped a business card on the table with several bills, most of them hundreds. “Have the painting delivered to this address by your courier service.” He then turned to leave.
At the opening of the tent, he stopped and glanced her way, his regret plainly visible. “You were gorgeous that day, Dixie, breathing your fire on poor pathetic Spencer. I wanted nothing more than to haul you into my arms and kiss you, as much as I did a few minutes ago. Now you’ve answered the question I’ve been wondering about since that day, about what lay beneath all that you were back then. I’m sorry to say, I’m disappointed. You, my dear, are a snob. And sadly, despite all your beauty and that which you can create,” he gestured to the artwork around him, “you’ve closed your eyes to many good things around you—me included. And that’s not spoiled rich boy arrogance talking, but the truth. Unfortunately, you didn’t allow yourself the opportunity to learn that for yourself.”
Then he was gone, his parting words landing with the weight of an anvil on her chest.
* * *
“He still bought your painting after all of that?” Mrs. G. was listening raptly to the sad tale as Dixie wiped down the tables the following Wednesday.
“Yes, I was stunned.”
“It sounds like you had him pegged wrong, dear.”
She stopped and stared down at the scratched Formica. If her reflection hadn’t been so distorted in the old battered tabletop, it would have mirrored as much regret as Kyle’s expression had the last time she’d seen him. How had she been so wrong?
“You put him in the same basket with your father and all the other disreputable men in your life. There are good men out there, and it’s not fair to judge an entire gender by a sorry few. Not that you don’t have to be careful, because as the saying goes, sometimes you have to kiss a lot of horny toads before you find your perfect prince. However, you’ve admittedly kissed only a handful, my dear, not nearly enough to weed out all the toads.”
“Frogs.”
“Pardon?” Emmaline asked.
“You have to kiss a lot of frogs to find the prince.”
“Pfft,” she said, waving her off. “These are men we’re talking about. And none of them are going to be perfect. And, if you ask me, horny toad fits the male of our species much better than frogs.”
Dixie giggled, for the wizened old gal was right.
“There’s my ride,” her friend said as she eased out of the booth. “They’re calling for snow tonight after dark. You don’t have to work the late shift, do you?”
“No. I’m off at five o’clock today, right before the supper rush.”
“Good. Make sure you stop by the Save-a-Lot and pick up bread and milk on your way. They’re expecting up to two feet in the higher elevations by the time it’s all said and done.”
It was a time-honored tradition for those in the mountains to arrive en masse at the grocery store to stock up at the merest hint of a snowflake. They even closed schools sometimes at the threat of snow in the forecast. And the D.O.T. trucks had been out putting down their special brine solution for the past few hours. Snow in the mountains, with the winding roads, hairpin turns, and steep embankments, was a different kind of reality than in the lowlands. Yet the folks who called the region God’s Country and would never consider leaving despite the inclement weather, were used to it. And like a hurricane in the tropics, folks prepared for the worst; in this case, to be blanketed with snow measured in feet, not inches, because when that happened no one, short of a 4WD, and sometimes not then, was going anywhere.
She nodded indulgently. “I’ll be sure to, thanks for reminding me.”
“You think I’m overreacting, but my rheumatism is acting up. We’re getting snow, mark my words.”
Mrs. G. waved as Walter opened the door and offered his arm to walk her out to her Rolls. Watching as he helped her in and rounded the hood to the street side, Dixie blinked as a light snow began to fall. Her gaze shot to the window where a smirking Emmaline was watching her. She had to laugh as the woman, as precocious as Shirley Temple as a five-year-old, winked as the car slowly drove away.