Chapter 23
[Lumi]
“Mayor Locke invited me to participate in the ice carving contest.” Saint shrugs, after telling me about the invitation while we stand beside one another, sipping coffee in the kitchen.
I’m wearing his flannel shirt again, buttoned to my neck along with my cabin socks.
After making love on the living room floor, we finally retired to my bedroom, where we snuggled into one another.
Saint is wearing jeans and the socks I made him, stating he needs to break them in for the race. Secretly, I think he just wants to wear the hand-knit stockings.
“I bet he did,” I mutter, knowing a Santa lookalike would be a nice draw for the event.
The contest isn’t so much a competition as an exhibit.
Professionals will be called in to work their mastery with ice, but serious amateurs are given the opportunity to try their hand—or chipper or saw—at carving as well.
“He and I got to chatting about the event, and I mentioned that I might have carved an ice block or two before.”
Somehow, I don’t doubt it.
“My grandfather taught me, just like he taught me how to carve wood.”
“For toys?” I question, interest piqued.
Saint sheepishly smiles, bouncing one brow in answer.
“So, what are you going to carve?”
With the warm cup cradled in both of my hands, I turn my head, eager for Saint’s answer.
He shifts his body to face me. “You’ll just have to come cheer me on to find out.” With a quick kiss to my neck, he heads for the shower.
A few hours later, we enter the Locke Reserve, where the town hosts the ice carving event on the property donated to the city of Hideaway Harbor.
Our town was founded by Alma Keye and George Locke, who were young, forbidden lovers fleeing their fighting families so they could be together.
Crossing the mountains and stumbling upon this area tucked between steep forests and an ocean bay, they came upon a bubbling spring they first believed was a hallucination.
Delirious and dehydrated, the fresh water saved their lives. The water is considered magical.
Or so the story goes, as every Hideaway Harbor child learns it from a very early age.
The spring remains on the plot of land donated to Hideaway Harbor.
The Locke Trust was established to take care of the land, which now includes the original home as a museum and the Keye Community Building, built by their descendants some one hundred and fifty years later.
The one-hundred and fifty acre property, which has gardens and walking areas amid trees and open green spaces, hosts many of the quirky events that make Hideaway Harbor, well, Hideaway Harbor, and that celebrate the Nordic roots of the town’s first residents.
The ice carving contest is one of those timeless traditions.
“You’re really embracing this competition.” I laugh as Saint carries a leather tool bag full of ice chippers and chisels, plus a small chainsaw with a thick chain blade and a slim, serrated one.
“I love this sport.”
The comment surprises me. “Something tells me you’ve carved more than a block or two of ice before.”
A smirk and a wink are the only answers I get.
“Where did you get all this?” I incline my head toward the sudden collection of tools.
Saint shrugs. “HammerTime Hardware.” His tone suggests, obviously.
With a quick kiss, front and center to anyone watching us, Saint says. “Wish me luck.”
“Luck,” I call out as he walks backward a few steps and then spins to locate his assigned block of ice.
Speaking of HammerTime Hardware, Saint is positioned next to Landon Abbott, one of the sons of John Abbott, owner of the local hardware store.
Landon has made a name for himself with his adventure business, Off The Beaten Path.
Dressed like a lumberjack in a thin jacket, quilted flannel, and base layer, plus a cap on his head, Landon doesn’t look dressed warm enough for the cold weather.
I am watching Saint and Landon shake hands, introducing themselves to each other, when someone bumps my elbow with theirs. Quickly turning, I find Isolde beside me bundled head to toe in a dark snowmobile suit. A knit cap covers her signature braid. Her hands are tucked in her pockets.
“Hey.” I smile. “What are you doing out here?”
She tips her chin in the direction of Landon. “Mr. Abbott asked me to take pictures.” Mr. Abbott refers to Landon’s father.
When Isolde was a teenager, she worked for HammerTime Hardware. Rusty’s Wrecks didn’t have a spot for all of Dad’s girls. Throughout her college summers, and now during her teacher time off, Isolde still works at the hardware store for extra money.
My younger sister has never been impressed with the rumors about Landon and his habit of summer flings and weekend one-night stands with single female visitors in town. So, I’m surprised to find her here for him. Then again, I know she’d do anything for Mr. Abbott. He’s like a second father to her.
As we huddle together, we listen as instructions are announced for the non-competition competition, and then carving begins.
There is something a little primeval and thrilling about watching Saint chip away at a giant ice block. His movements don’t give a single hint as to what he will create, but the stranger part of the exercise is when Saint tugs off his jacket.
Landon gives a momentary glance at Isolde, then Saint, after noticing my sister watching him. Then Landon hastily shrugs out of his quilted flannel.
I assume the bulky material is getting in the way of their hasty, skilled movements.
But at another point, Landon glances at Saint, looks at Isolde again, and strips off the quilted flannel over his fitted base layer.
Saint catches this motion and tugs off a windbreaker he has on, exposing the waffle weave of long underwear.
“What the hell are they doing?” I mumble to my sister, whose eyes are wide, taking in this ridiculous show of masculinity . . . and lumbersnack striptease.
Like watching videos of men striking wood with an ax, several of the women near us are giggling and ogling as Landon and Saint chip away at ice. Sharp thrust. Rapid whittling. The smooth coast of a hand over the cold ice.
It’s strangely titillating.
Eventually, Landon pulls up his shirt, exposing a belly of flat abs, stacked like ice bricks on top of each other.
Isolde sucks in a breath and I turn toward her, seeing her cheeks are rosy and bright, and I’m thinking it might not be a result of the cold temperature.
“You got a crush on Landon Abbott,” I tease, jabbing her with my elbow.
“No. Ew. Gross.” She scrunches her nose, sounding like the eighth graders she teaches.
“Huh.” I turn back to the display of two buff men, now with power saws in their hands, sculpting and shaping ice. Their own muscles are on display, bulging beneath tight clothing, like they are sculpted creations.
“No, huh,” Isolde snaps.
I don’t believe her.
What I also cannot believe is the shape of a giant snowflake taking form from Saint’s carvings.
But it isn’t only a snowflake. The center is circular and flat, yet Saint continues marking up the cold surface.
Once it looks like he’s almost finished, the center becomes clear.
Saint has hand-carved a heart into the snowflake.
Upon further inspection, I notice the snowflake doesn’t contain any hard edges, like a giant crystal of ice, but softer curves, suggesting hidden hearts have made up the entire sculpture.
“Holy Santa Claus,” I whisper, and Saint’s head instantly turns in my direction.
He gives me a quick wink, then it’s back to the final touches.
“Are you serious?” Isolde states beside me, the sound sharp and harsh, and for a moment, I think she’s upset that Saint made a snowflake of hearts for me. But when I look at her and follow her gaze, I see that Landon has carved a giant four-legged creature.
“It’s a damn chipmunk,” she says, like she’s offended.
“What am I missing here?” Is it supposed to be Alvin from Alvin and The Chipmunks? A rather old reference.
“When I was in high school, Landon and his friends put a live chipmunk in my locker. The poor thing was scared to death, but it scared the hell out of me as well when I opened the locker and it jumped at me.”
“Why would he do that?” I wonder, staring from the giant ice chipmunk to my sister and back to where Landon is finishing a holiday bow on the top of the creature’s head.
With narrowed eyes, the creature doesn’t appear so much like a chipmunk as a mink, which are common in the area, and look almost like a house cat but with shorter ears and legs, and an almost sweet face. The longer I look, the better I see it.
The sculpture is a mink. Minks are considered tricksters. They also represent fertility and transformation, and I have no idea why I know that random information about them.
Landon points from the ice sculpture to Isolde, then poses beside it for the honorary photo.
“I hate him,” she mutters.
“I think that’s a . . .” But Isolde is already stepping closer to Landon, aiming her phone camera in his direction.
As Landon watches her approach, he takes off his final base layer, exposing those chiseled abs and a smattering of dark hair on his chest. He wraps his arm around his creation, cups its chin, like he’s forcing the ice structure to look at the camera.
Then he licks it just as Isolde takes the photo.
Like . . . he licked it, it’s his.
He smiles wickedly at my sister, and that wicked isn’t referring to the cold weather but a strange steam happening between the two of them.
“Ogling the competition?” Saint asks, suddenly beside me, startling me out of this sizzling, dominant display.
“Just admiring all the sculptures,” I say. “Nice strip tease act,” I tease, noticing the thin sheen of sweat covering his brows.
“Had to make certain the competition didn’t catch your eye.”