Chapter 19
Denton
On the drive back from practice, the snowstorm is all anyone can talk about on the radio. The “storm of the decade,” they’re calling it. Record accumulation. Whiteout conditions by nightfall.
As I’m heading home, my knuckles tighten on the steering wheel.
Tabby’s safe with my mom at her place, a fortress of central heating and backup generators.
An image of Holly’s bakery flashes in my mind as the weather guy drones on about plunging temperatures and the risk of burst pipes in older structures. The pipes at Sugar Rush probably haven’t been updated at the bakery since the Carter administration.
Not your problem, Blake. The internal voice is cold, logical. The voice of a defenseman who protects his zone and only his zone. The kiss… that was a lapse of judgement. A moment of weakness.
I turn the radio off. The city crawls past my windshield, already coated in a thickening layer of white. A few people hurry along sidewalks, heads down against the driving flakes.
She’s probably fine. She’s resourceful. She’ll figure it out. She has Charlie. Or neighbors. Someone. Right??
My hands tighten on the wheel again. Not your zone, Blake.
But the memory of her lips against mine, soft and yielding, then fierce and hungry, explodes behind my eyes. The way she’d looked at me afterward – dazed, vulnerable, hopeful.
Damn it.
I turn the Range Rover towards Wicker Park. Towards her.
The rationalizations start as I navigate the slickening streets. Just checking. Quick look. Make sure she’s okay. Because of Tabby. Tabby would be upset if something happened to Holly. They’re flimsy excuses, and I know it.
The drive takes twice as long as usual. Visibility drops to near zero. Wipers struggle against the relentless onslaught.
I finally arrive and park haphazardly, the SUV listing slightly in a drift, and push my way through the snow to the back service entrance. The metal door is unlocked.
I shove it open. The scene that greets me is worse than all the grim scenarios my mind had conjured up on the drive over.
An inch of murky water covers a significant section of the kitchen floor, swirling around the legs of the island, lapping at cardboard boxes. And in the middle of it, looking like a half-drowned kitten, is Holly.
She’s wrestling a bulky wet-dry vacuum, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion. Her hair is plastered to her neck in wet strands, her apron and jeans soaked through, clinging to her curves.
She’s shivering visibly. The machine roars, sucking water into its tank, but it’s a losing battle against the sheer volume.
Something cracks open in my chest. Seeing her like this – overwhelmed, defeated, fighting a literal flood alone – ignites a fierce, protective burn low in my gut. It’s more potent than anything I’ve felt in years.
"Looks like you could use some help." The words cut through the vacuum's roar.
She whirls around, eyes wide with shock, then disbelief, then a flicker of relief. Her breath hitches. "Denton? What… how did you…?"
"Snow report. Burst pipe warnings." I shrug out of my heavy wool coat, tossing it onto the counter. “Figured…" I trail off. Figured you might need me. "Where’s the shut-off? Main valve?"
She points a trembling hand towards the utility sink cabinet. "I… I got the leak stopped. Earlier. But the water…"
"Right." I don’t wait for more. Action. That’s what I know. That’s what cuts through the confusing tangle of feelings seeing her like this evokes.
I wade into the flood, the icy water soaking my boots instantly. It’s shockingly cold. I crouch, ignoring the protest in my knees – a souvenir from last season’s playoffs – and shove my head into the cramped, damp space under the sink. My fingers trace cold wet pipes. "Show me."
She kneels beside me, her shoulder brushing mine. Her proximity sends that now familiar jolt through me.
"There," she says, her voice close to my ear. She points to a small valve tucked awkwardly behind a drain pipe. "That one. I turned it clockwise."
I check it. Securely closed. "Good." I pull back, wiping water from my face. "Secondary shut-off? Basement?"
She shakes her head. "There’s no basement. This is it."
"Okay." I stand, surveying the damage. "The priority is getting this water out before it hits the outlets." I point to the electrical sockets near the floor, ominously close to the waterline. "That vacuum’s a toy. We need more firepower. Buckets. Mops. Towels. Everything you've got."
She nods, scrambling up. "Laundry closet. Back here." She sloshes towards a door near the rear exit.
We fall into a rhythm. No wasted words, no unnecessary gestures. It’s like a well-executed penalty kill. I handle the brute force – hauling the heaviest, most waterlogged boxes of flour and sugar onto the dry center island.
I dump the vacuum tank again and again, the sloshing water heavy and cold. The tank fills faster than I can empty it.
Holly drags bar towels, throwing them onto the wettest areas near the burst pipe.
She attacks the spreading edges with a wide industrial mop, pushing water back towards the vacuum hose I’m manning.
She finds a second, smaller shop vac in a storage closet and fires it up, adding its higher-pitched whine to the symphony of disaster recovery.
We don’t talk. Not really. Just clipped directions.
"Bucket."
"Here."
"Tank’s full."
"On it."
"Need a hand with that crate?"
"Got it."
The physical labor and the sheer urgency of the task keeps the emotions at bay. It’s easier to focus on the next box, the next tank dump, the next sweep of the mop than to think about the way her damp shirt clings to the curve of her breasts.
Hours fly by. The light fades from the windows, replaced by the gray gloom.
My muscles burn – shoulders, back, legs. My hands are raw and cold from the icy water. My socks are soaked inside my boots.
But the water level is receding. The immediate danger zone around the electrical outlets is clear. The worst of the flooded area is a sopping wet disaster of towels and damp floor, but the standing water is mostly gone.
We stand in the aftermath, surrounded by the wreckage, soaked to the skin and shivering. I’m not sure I’ve ever been this exhausted and that’s saying a lot.
She leans against the island, her head bowed, shoulders rising and falling with deep, shaky breaths.
"Think… think that’s the worst of it," she rasps, her voice hoarse. She gestures weakly at the soaked towels, the ruined boxes. "The floor… the drywall…" She trails off, shaking her head. I’m sure she’s thinking about how much all that’s going to cost.
I nod, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. It comes away gritty with flour and pipe grime. "Need to get the heat cranked. Dry this place out."
She moves stiffly towards the front of the shop and cranks a dial on the wall thermostat. The ancient furnace groans to life somewhere deep in the building, promising warmth.
The contrast between the cozy, festive front of the bakery and the ravaged kitchen is jarring. Like two different worlds colliding.
She walks back, her steps slow with fatigue. "Would you like some coffee? Or tea? To warm you up.”
"Tea’s good." My throat is dry and some hot tea sounds pretty damn good.
She nods, moving towards a small electric kettle perched precariously on the counter, miraculously untouched by the flood. Her hands tremble slightly as she fills it from the tap and plugs it in. The little red light glows, a tiny beacon of normalcy.
While the kettle heats, she bends, rummaging in a lower cabinet that escaped the worst of the water. She pulls out a dented metal tin. "Cookies," she announces. She opens the tin, revealing a jumble of slightly misshapen gingerbread men and stars. "A bit… mangled, but edible."
She grabs a clean dish towel from a drawer and spreads it on the relatively dry floor near the center island, away from the worst of the dampness.
She sits down heavily, her back against the island cabinet, and pats the space beside her.
"Floor’s cleaner than we are at this point. And I can’t stand anymore."
I hesitate for a fraction of a second. Sitting on the floor. In close proximity. Sharing cookies. Shit…
But my legs feel like overcooked noodles, and the promise of not standing is too strong. I lower myself stiffly beside her, leaving a careful foot of space between us.
She offers the tin. I take a gingerbread man missing an arm. Holly takes a star-shaped cookie, nibbling on a point.
The silence stretches, but it’s different now. The frantic energy of crisis has bled away, replaced by a bone-deep weariness and the quiet hum of the furnace fighting the cold outside.
I watch the steam curl lazily from the kettle’s spout. My mind is blissfully empty for the first time in hours.
When Holly speaks her voice is soft, barely audible over the furnace’s high-pitched whir and the wind outside. She doesn’t look at me. Her gaze is fixed on her half-eaten cookie star.
"You hate Christmas, don’t you?"
I stare straight ahead, at the opposite wall where the water stain is already darkening the drywall. Deny it. Deflect. Change the subject..
But I’m tired. So damn tired. Tired of the walls. Tired of the silence. Tired of carrying the weight alone.
The warmth of the bakery, the quiet intimacy of this shared space on the floor, the sheer exhaustion stripping me bare… it creates a terrifying vulnerability.
The words bubble up. Raw. Unplanned. A pressure valve releasing a torrent I can no longer contain.
"It wasn't always like that." My voice is rough and I clear my throat, but it doesn’t help. "Sarah… my wife… she loved it. Christmas." Saying her name aloud, here, in this place filled with Holly’s warmth, feels like tearing open a scar.
"The whole thing. The lights, the music, the baking…" I gesture vaguely around the kitchen, at the remnants of Holly’s festive efforts. "She’d start playing carols nonstop in November. Drove me nuts."
"She’d bake for weeks. Piles of cookies. Fudge. That damn fruitcake from her grandmother’s recipe." I take a shaky breath.
"She’d make me help decorate the tree. Always argued about the lights. I wanted white; she wanted multicolored. She always won." The ache in my chest is a deep, hollow throb.
Holly is utterly still beside me. Listening. Not pushing. Just… present.
"It was three years ago," I continue. "December 23rd. Tabby was two. We were… we were supposed to go to my mom’s for dinner. Sarah was running late. Last-minute shopping. She hated crowds, but she wanted to find the 'perfect' gift for Tabby’s daycare teacher."
"It started snowing. Like this. Worse actually. It rolled in fast. I told her to come back home. That the gift could wait. That we’d figure something out."
The memory is sharp, vivid. Sarah’s voice on the phone, slightly breathless, laughing. ‘Don’t be such a worrywart, Denton! I’ll be home in twenty minutes. Love you.’
"The call came an hour later." The words are flat, devoid of emotion. A recitation of facts. That’s the only way I can say it.
"There was black ice on the ramp onto Lake Shore.
Her car… spun out. Hit the guardrail. Another car…
" I stop and swallow hard. "She was gone before the ambulance got there. "
The silence that follows is deafening. Holly doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. The only sound is the ragged pull of my own breath.
"The smell of pine trees. Gingerbread. That damn 'Jingle Bell Rock'… it felt like… like salt in the wound. Like the whole world was celebrating while mine ended." My voice cracks. "So yeah. I hate it. The lights, the music, the forced cheer… it’s not joyful for me.”
I finally look at Holly. Her eyes are wide, shimmering with unshed tears in the soft light. Her lips are slightly parted. There’s no pity there… just profound, aching sorrow. And understanding. A deep, quiet empathy that somehow cuts deeper than any words of sympathy could.
I look away, bracing for the recoil. For the awkward platitudes. For her to finally see the damaged goods beneath my facade and decide it’s too much.