4. Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
CAROLINE
“ T o the left. To the left.”
“Alright, Beyonce,” Austin mutters from behind pine branches as he hefts this larger-than-life tree through my front door. I was told to guide it , which I thought I was doing quite well a minute ago. But shoving this tree through this doorway is like trying to zip yourself into a size-too-small pair of jeans after you’ve eaten Thanksgiving dinner. Much like Joey Tribbiani, this tree needs some Thanksgiving pants with a lot of give.
Biscuit and Pirate run around the living room behind me, obviously amused by this situation. Or perhaps working up a good pee for when we get this monster set up. It was something they’d done to a lot of trees at the farm, like they had a contest going to see who could mark the most. I draw the line at either of them getting their hands–er, pee–on this one.
“There,” Austin says with an exhale. “It’s in.”
He sounds about as relieved as I am, because I wasn’t so sure this was going to fit once we got it out of the truck. And speaking of relieved…
“Biscuit, no!” I shout just as he lifts his leg. Thankfully, his tank is empty.
Austin shakes his head. “Let’s get this tree into the stand before we have a mess bigger than the pine needles in your entryway.”
“Good plan,” I say as I grab part of the stump and guide it into the living room.
Once it’s in place, we take a step back, Austin standing next to me and our dogs on either side of us. We probably look like a holiday card photo for how we’re perfectly posed, staring in wonder at the pine tree stretching to the ceiling, but something in my gut tells me this is a moment I’ll want to remember. Maybe because it’s my first tree without my gram? My first step to moving on into a holiday season without her?
“Well,” Austin says with a nod, “I should probably let you…get to whatever you need to be doing today.”
“Unless…” The word tumbles out, and I blame the nostalgia coursing through my veins for not wanting to be alone right now. “I can’t eat that entire Kringle myself.”
We both look at the pastry box on the coffee table, the cellophane window giving a peek at the layers of flaky dough surrounding the cream cheese center. My mouth waters instantly.
He shakes his head. “I bought that for you, though.”
“Maybe this is my pine branch for you. My decadent, sugary peace offering.”
He licks his lips because he must be thinking about sinking his teeth into it as much as I am. Well, as much as I was . Because watching his tongue run across his mouth has got me thinking about other things. Things that might taste even sweeter than the Danish in the red-and-white striped box. As if that’s even possible. But my mind interjects that maybe it is.
We walk into the kitchen, and I plug in my coffee pot. I usually don’t drink a lot of caffeine this late in the day, but how am I supposed to eat a Danish without coffee?
“Can Pirate have one?” I ask, holding up a NutriChomp stick, a favorite of Biscuit’s.
“He’d love that,” Austin answers. I toss each dog one, and they take them into the living room to eat because eating treats on the hard floor that can easily be cleaned isn’t as much fun as making a mess on carpet.
“Who’s this little sprite?”
I’m too distracted by the dogs chomping to notice that Austin is looking at the framed photo that sits atop my refrigerator and has been there since shortly after it was taken.
“That would be me,” I say, too busy letting the photo come to life in my imagination to care that Austin is viewing me as that young Carolina Hurricane, flour on my face, hair a wild mess on my head, and fairy wings attached to my back…as one does when baking holiday cookies with one’s grandmother.
“That’s adorable.”
“What can I say? I was obsessed with fairies and unicorns growing up.”
“Not that,” he says, looking away from the photo and now staring directly at me. “It’s adorable how much you two look alike.”
I suck in a breath, because it’s true. We both have the same wild hair, the same toothy smile that takes up way too much of our faces when we’re happy. And in this photo, baking with my best friend in the whole world, I’m really happy. From the look of it, so is she.
“All my best qualities, I got from her,” I say, something thick clogging my throat. Thank goodness the coffee is done. I pour us each a cup and offer him cream and sugar. Like me, he adds a splash of cream and gives it a stir. We sit across from each other at the island, my position giving me a perfect view of both the photo and him. “I just wish I could have inherited some of her baking genes.”
“Ah…is that why you didn’t want to bake for the service project?”
“That’s not… I never said…”
“You didn’t have to,” he says, smiling into his mug of coffee. “I could tell you weren’t into the idea.”
“It’s not… I’m not… It’s a great idea. Perfect, actually. I just haven’t baked anything without her. And I probably shouldn’t. As you can probably tell from that photo, I earned my Carolina Hurricane name in the kitchen. Look at the path of destruction behind us.”
Austin laughs. “Perfection is overrated, Caroline. Believe me, I’d know.” He takes a swig of his coffee. “One of these days, I’ll regale you with the story of one little boy who could do no wrong, who made his parents so happy all the time…and his brother.” He points to himself with both thumbs as he says that last word, and I have so many questions. So, I start with one.
“Is that why you’re always taking on these projects, making everyone love you, and being so charming no one can resist you?”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, and I know I’m in trouble. “All I’m taking from that is you can’t resist me.”
“What?” I squeak so high both dogs look up from their bones and stare at me. “I just mean that you’re always going above and beyond…like way above and beyond. Doesn’t it get exhausting?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you get tired never asking for help?”
That is…not what I thought he was going to say. Is he right? Is that how people see me?
“Sometimes I think the key to life is low expectations. If I don’t expect people to help me out, I can’t be disappointed if they don’t. I didn’t wait around for my parents to show up and take care of my grandma when she was slipping away or plan her funeral after she passed, so there was no disappointment there. And since I already assumed they’d bail on the holidays, I’m not at all hurt that I’m spending Christmas alone this year.”
“Your parents ditched you too?”
My eyes meet his, and there’s something there. Not just hurt that they’re not coming home for him either, but it’s almost like I can see behind that. See that this isn’t a one-time thing. That, like the pastry we’re sharing, there are layers beneath the layers. And I’m wondering how many I’ve misinterpreted, how many I’ve used as reasons not to like him for grudges I held onto for too long.
“Yeah. Kind of. My dad just said it’s been a really tough year and that it might be better for them to spend the holidays in D.C. this year.”
“But it’s been hard for you too, yeah?”
I glance over at the photo, remembering the yearly tradition of baking treats with Gram. Like so many things this holiday season, this will be another that’s totally different. “It has.”
Austin reaches across the island, resting his hand on my forearm. I get lost in the rhythm of his thumb slowly stroking the skin on the underside of my wrist. And for some reason, I don’t want him to stop. I turn my head from the photo to him, and something passes silently between us, like he’s reading my mind just now, like he knows the hurt that’s hidden behind the smile I’m faking. Probably because he’s hiding a hefty amount of hurt too.
“That settles it, then,” he says, leaning back from the table and popping the last bite of Kringle in his mouth. “Next weekend, we’re going to have a cookie baking extravaganza.”
“Oh really?” I ask with a smile that’s a lot more genuine than the one I sported before. It’s hard to fight it when I see how happy this idea makes him.
“Yep. This time, you can come to my place. What’s your favorite cookie? We can make it together.”
“Ah, well, that’s going to be a problem.” I finish my coffee and rise to place the mug in the sink. “My gram’s molasses cookies were my favorite, and I don’t have the recipe. She always said she ‘ baked from the heart, not from a recipe card ,’ which was fine…while she was here.”
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve made molasses cookies before. Won’t be the same as hers, but it’ll at least be something.”
I raise a brow. “You…make molasses cookies?”
“I make lots of cookies. What’s that surprised face?” he asks, pointing at me. “Can a man not know his way around the kitchen?”
“No, no. That’s…you look like you’re one of those people that eats protein bars and leafy greens twenty-four seven.”
As soon as I see the smirk on his face, I know I’ve made a fatal error.
“Are you commenting on my physique, Caroline?”
“No.”
Yes.
“Interesting.” He strokes his chin, and yeah…he’s having way too much fun with this piece of information. “But anyway, I’ve always enjoyed baking. It’s a lot like chemistry, actually. You take a few things that work really well together, and BAM!”
“I guess I never thought about it that way.”
He picks up both of our plates, walks them to the sink, and starts filling it. “You’d be surprised at how many things you think wouldn’t work well together that actually blend into something perfect.”
As he rolls up his flannel sleeves and starts washing dishes, his final words take root in my brain and sprout in a bunch of directions. Namely, is he talking about more than just baked goods right now?
And why do I hope so badly that he is?