Arlene James - Deck the Halls

“Okay, it’s a deal.”

He let her see his smile.

“Let me show you where you’ll be working, then.”

“Might as well.” She sat up a little straighter.

“Obviously this street is Hulen,” he pointed out, slowing to make a right turn. “We’re going to take the Interstate up here and head west for about a mile.”

She nodded, obviously making mental notes as he drove and talked her through the route.

When he turned the car down his street, she drew her brows together and said, “This can’t be right.”

“What do you mean? It’s right up here.”

“Here?” she echoed uncertainly, indicating the neighborhood around them with a wave of her hand.

The development was brand-new, not even half occupied yet, but that didn’t explain her confusion to him. He let it go long enough to pass by the two empty lots between the corner house and his own at the top of the rise.

“This is it.”

He couldn’t help the note of pride in his voice.

By some standards, it was a modest home, but it was everything he had ever wanted, bright, roomy, well-appointed and undeniably attractive with its gabled metal roof and exterior of natural stone and rich red brick. He’d labored over every detail, probably to the point of driving the architect and builder nuts, but this was the place where he intended to live out the bulk of his life and, he hoped, one day raise a family.

Most folks didn’t look at a first house as a long-term home, but Cutlers weren’t the sort who “traded up.” They were the kind of people who put down roots, sank them deep and let the years roll by in relative contentment. They believed in God, family, personal integrity, hard work and generosity, all notions that he’d once found boring and mundane. He’d gotten over all that, and he hadn’t questioned his values again—until he saw the look on Jolie Wheeler’s face as he turned her old car into his curving driveway.

She hated the place; he could see it on her face, and his gut wrenched. Disappointment honed a fine, defensive edge onto his voice.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“What’s wrong?” she echoed shrilly. “It’s your house!”

“You expected me to take you to someone else’s house?”

“I expected you to take me to your business, one of your garages!”

He stared at her, realization dawning.

“You thought I’d put a washer and dryer in one of my shops?”

“Of course I did!”

He stroked his chin, thinking. Guess he hadn’t ever said that the appliances were at his house, and he had mentioned uniforms and shop rags and dirty garages.

“Never thought about putting a laundry room into the shop,” he mumbled. “Might not be a bad idea. I’ll have to look into that.”

She threw up her hands, clearly exasperated.

“And in the meantime?”

He shrugged. “In the meantime we’ve got what we’ve got, don’t we?”

She dropped her jaw, trying to see, apparently, just how far it could go without dislocating. He clamped his back teeth together and mentally counted to ten before drawing a calming breath and reaching way down deep for a reasonable tone.

“Look, I didn’t mean to mislead you. The thought of putting a laundry room in the shop itself never even occurred to me.”

“And you assumed that I understood you were taking me to your house?”

“Yeah, actually, I did.”

She rolled her eyes at that.

“If you prefer,” he offered grimly, “you can take the stuff to a commercial laundry somewhere.”

“And who’s going to pay for that?” she demanded.

“I will,” he gritted out, hanging onto the wispy tail end of his patience, “but first you really ought to take a look at what my laundry room has to offer and what you’ll have to haul around town if you decide that you just can’t stand working here.”

She turned her head to stare out the passenger window, drumming her fingers on the armrest attached to the door. He didn’t know what else to say, what she expected him to say now, so he just waited her out. After some time she abruptly yanked the handle and popped up out of the car. Vince breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t know if his relief stemmed from her cooperation or the possibility that her disapproval was not directed at his home after all.

He killed the engine as she moved around the car toward the walkway. He got out, tossed her car keys to her and followed her along the curving walk to the front door. He didn’t usually go in this way, preferring to park in the garage at the side of the house and enter through the back hall and kitchen, but he’d always admired the professional landscaping. In the summertime the flower beds beneath the front windows would blaze with purple lantana. Now he looked at it all with an especially critical eye, wondering what she thought of it, though why he should care was beyond him.

To put it bluntly, the girl was a charity case, and as prickly as a cactus. What difference did it make whether or not she approved of his house? Or him, for that matter? And yet it did. He couldn’t help wondering why, but when it came right down to it, he was almost afraid to know.

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