Maureen Child - A Cinderella Story

“Stay away from the lake.”

Joy looked at him. His voice was low, brusque, and his tone brooked no argument. All trace of amusement was gone from eyes that looked as deep and dark as the night itself. “What?”

“The lake,” he said, making an obvious effort to soften the hard note in his voice. “It’s not solid enough. Too dangerous for either of you to be on it.”

“Are you sure?” Joy asked, glancing out the kitchen window at the frigid world beyond the glass. Sure, it hadn’t snowed much so far, but it had been below freezing every night for the last couple of weeks, so the lake should be frozen over completely by now.

“No point in taking the chance, is there? If it stays this cold, maybe you could try it in a week or two...”

Well, she thought, at least he’d accepted that she and Holly would still be there in two weeks. That was a step in the right direction, anyway. His gaze fixed on hers, deliberately avoiding looking at Holly, though the little girl was practically vibrating with barely concealed excitement. In his eyes, Joy saw real worry and a shadow of something darker, something older.

“Okay,” she said, going with her instinct to ease whatever it was that was driving him. Reaching out, she laid one hand on his forearm and felt the tension gripping him before he slowly, deliberately pulled away. “Okay. No skating today.”

“Moooommmmmyyyyy...”

How her daughter managed to put ten or more syllables into a single word was beyond her.

“We’ll skate another day, okay, sweetie? How about today we take a walk in the forest and look for pinecones?” She kept her gaze locked on Sam’s, so she actually saw relief flash across his eyes. What was it in his past that had him still tied into knots?

“Can we paint ’em for Christmas?”

“Sure we can, baby. We’ll go after we clean the kitchen, so eat up.” Then to Sam, she said, “How about some pancakes?”

“No, thanks.” He turned to go.

“One cup of coffee and that’s it?”

He looked back at her. “You’re here to take care of the house. Not me.”

“Not true. I’m also here to cook. For you.” She smiled a little. “You should try the pancakes. They’re really good, even if I do say so myself.”

“Mommy makes the best pancakes,” Holly tossed in.

“I’m sure she does,” he said, still not looking at the girl.

Joy frowned and wondered why he disliked kids so much, but she didn’t ask.

“Look, while you’re here, don’t worry about breakfast for me. I don’t usually bother and if I change my mind I can take care of it myself.”

“You’re a very stubborn man, aren’t you?”

He took another sip of coffee. “I’ve got a project to finish and I’m going out to get started on it.”

“Well, you can at least take a muffin.” Joy walked to the counter and picked a muffin—one of the batch she’d made just an hour ago—out of a ceramic blue bowl.

He sighed. “If I do, will you let me go?”

“If I do, will you come back?”

“I live here.”

Joy smiled again and handed it over to him. “Then you are released. Go. Fly free.”

His mouth twitched and he shook his head. “People think I’m weird.”

“I don’t.” She said it quickly and wasn’t sure why she had until she saw a quick gleam of pleasure in his eyes.

“Be sure to tell Kaye,” he said, and left, still shaking his head.

“’Bye, Sam!” Holly’s voice followed him and Joy was pretty sure he quickened his steps as if trying to outrun it.

* * *

Three hours later, Sam was still wishing he’d eaten those damn pancakes. He remembered the scent of them in the air, and his stomach rumbled in complaint. Pouring another cup of coffee from his workshop pot, he stared down at the small pile of blueberry muffin crumbs and wished he had another one. Damn it.

Wasn’t it enough that Joy’s face kept surfacing in his mind? Did she have to be such a good cook, too? And who asked her to make him breakfast? Kaye never did. Usually he made do with coffee and a power bar of some kind, and that was fine. Always had been anyway. But now he still had the lingering taste of that muffin in his mouth, and his stomach was still whining over missing out on pancakes.

But to eat them, he’d have had to take a seat at the table beside a chattering little girl. And all that sunshine and sweet innocence was just too much for Sam to take. He took a gulp of hot coffee and let the blistering liquid burn its way to the pit of his sadly empty stomach. And as hungry as he was, at least he’d completed his project. He leaned back against the workbench, crossed his feet at the ankles, stared at the finished table and gave himself a silent pat on the back.

In the overhead shop light, the wood gleamed and shone like a mirror in the sun. Every slender grain of the wood was displayed beautifully under the fresh coat of varnish, and the finish was smooth as glass. The thick pedestal was gnarled and twisted, yet it, too, had been methodically sanded until all the rough edges were gone as if they’d never been.

Taking a deadfall tree limb and turning it into the graceful pedestal of a table had taken some time, but it had been worth it. The piece was truly one of a kind, and he knew the people he’d made it for would approve. It was satisfying, seeing something in your head and creating it in the physical world. He used to do that with paint and canvas, bringing imaginary places to life, making them real.

Sam frowned at the memories, because remembering the passion he’d had for painting, the rush of starting something new and pushing himself to make it all perfect, was something he couldn’t know now. Maybe he never would again. And that thought opened up a black pit at the bottom of his soul. But there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing that could ease that need, that bone-deep craving.

At least he had this, he told himself. Woodworking had given him, if not completion, then satisfaction. It filled his days and helped to ease the pain of missing the passion that had once driven his life. But then, he thought, once upon a time, his entire world had been different. The shame was, he hadn’t really appreciated what he’d had while he had it. At least, he told himself, not enough to keep it.

He was still leaning against the workbench, studying the table, when a soft voice with a slight lisp asked, “Is it a fairy table?”

He swiveled his head to the child in the doorway. Her blond hair was in pigtails, she wore blue jeans, tiny pink-and-white sneakers with princesses stamped all over them and a pink parka that made her look impossibly small.

He went completely still even while his heart raced, and his mind searched for a way out of there. Her appearance, on top of old memories that continued to dog him, hit him so hard he could barely take a breath. Sam looked into blue eyes the exact shade of her mother’s and told himself that it was damned cowardly to be spooked by a kid. He had his reasons, but it was lowering to admit, even to himself, that his first instinct when faced with a child was to bolt.

Since she was still watching him, waiting for an answer, Sam took another sip of coffee in the hopes of steadying himself. “No. It’s just a table.”

“It looks like a tree.” Moving warily, she edged a little farther into the workshop and let the door close behind her, shutting out the cold.

“It used to be,” he said shortly.

“Did you make it?”

“Yes.” She was looking up at him with those big blue eyes, and Sam was still trying to breathe. But his “issues” weren’t her fault. He was being an ass, and even he could tell. He had no reason to be so short with the girl. How was she supposed to know that he didn’t do kids anymore?