But I warn you, it’s going to be freezing in their attic. We won’t last long.”
She gestured to her corduroy jeans and waffle henley. “I’m not dressed for a snowmobile.”
“I brought gear for you. It’s on the sled, if you’re game.”
She considered. Wasn’t this opening up a door best left closed? They had proved they could be polite, and she was in no hurry to look for Eric’s things. She almost refused, but then she reconsidered. Brody was trying to help, and if she didn’t say yes, she would be cooped up all day. Plus he would wonder why she’d refused, and that might be dangerous.
She kept her tone casual. “I’m not doing anything else, if you have the time.”
* * *
NINETY MINUTES LATER Jo took off the snowmobile helmet and shook out her hair. She was dressed like a pro in Brody’s sister’s gear, all of which had fit, the bibbed pants, jacket, gloves, everything except the boots, which were a size too large. That hadn’t mattered since she had worn them with three pairs of Kaye’s wool socks and removed the boots before entering the Grants’ house.
The ride had been glorious. Brody’s snowmobile held two, and she had wondered if she would be required to put her arms around his waist. But there had been a handlebar to hang on to, and the ride had been as smooth as sailing, with no surprises.
They hadn’t talked a lot, not even in the attic, which was a pack rat’s dream. Brody said that Mrs. Grant had inherited the contents from her husband’s mother, who had inherited them from her mother. Unlike her predecessors, she was trying to sort, then toss or label, but Brody thought she was having problems getting rid of much.
“Sentimental,” he’d said. “That’s why she kept Eric’s baby things.”
“My gain.” Jo had given up after that day’s search turned up nothing of Eric’s except old school notebooks, one box of wooden blocks and another of 4-H trophies. By the time they’d started back to Hollymeade her teeth were chattering.
Once there, she swung her legs over the side and stepped down. She realized how much fun she’d had. The ride, the attic search, the ride home. When had she ever jumped on a snowmobile or a motorcycle or a speedboat just for fun? When had she had time to simply be young?
Snow was falling again, a light dusting this time, but the landscape sparkled. Beyond the house she saw a cardinal, bright red and Christmassy in the branches of a spruce tree.
“Let me make you lunch,” she volunteered, before she even knew the words would emerge. “It’s the least I can do.”
He didn’t hesitate. “It would be nice to warm up.”
She was surprised he had accepted so readily. That seemed to say a lot, although she knew better than to dissect a simple sentence.
Inside they perched on a bench in the entryway and stripped off their snowmobiling clothes. She realized that until now she hadn’t seen him without at least a stocking cap, not even last night by the fire. His hair was longer than she remembered, as if he hadn’t found his way to the barber in a while, but the color was still the same bronze, with just a hint of curl.
He still looked so much like the boy she had fallen in love with.
She realized she was clutching Kaye’s outerwear as if it might shield her from old emotions. She thrust the clothing out for Brody to take home again, but he suggested she keep everything, just in case she wanted to tramp around outside or shovel more snow.
She wondered if he was planning more rides and just didn’t want to announce them yet. And in true Jo style she attempted to analyze whether she had really loved the ride or the ride-with-Brody.
Inconclusive.
In the kitchen she emptied the basket and took a better look at what she had to work with. She settled on a menu, filled a large pot with water and set it on the back of the stove to boil. Then she set the oven to 350 degrees before she took out a smaller pan and began a béchamel sauce, flour stirred into melted butter, milk whisked in, a pinch of nutmeg from the spice drawer. When she was happy with the consistency, she drained a can of tuna and mixed it in.
Brody perched on a stool and watched. “What can I do?”
“Would you get brown sugar out of the pantry? And if I’m not mistaken, one of the smaller canisters contains what’s left of a bag of coconut. Would you check to be sure it’s okay and bring that, too?”
Fifteen minutes later they sat down to a lunch of creamed tuna on egg noodles, and hot baked peaches topped with brown sugar and coconut. Brody looked as if he’d been invited to dine with the Iron Chef.
“Where did you learn to do this?”
She tried to ignore how wonderful it was to see appreciation in his eyes. She tried to ignore the fact that his praise seemed to be about more than a good hot lunch.
Unsuccessful.
“As a teenager I learned to make meals out of next to nothing. Sophie didn’t cook, so I had to learn or grow up on peanut butter sandwiches. Once I was out on my own I thought I would probably never cook again, but I discovered I missed it. So now I take lessons for fun, whenever I have the time.” She paused. “Which isn’t often.”
“I’d love to see what you could do with real food.” He looked up, as if he realized that sounded like he was asking for an invitation and wanted to hurry on to something else. “If the Millers get wind of this, you’ll be asked to cook every meal whenever you visit Hollymeade.”
“No telling when I’ll get here again.”
He took a second helping of peaches. “You must be incredibly busy, because I know you love this place.”
She found herself telling him about her job, and then about the trip to Hong Kong, where she had carefully inched her way through negotiations for a whole new technology system that she still believed would have ramped up the corporation’s productivity by more than ten percent.
“I missed my aunt’s funeral so I could bring that deal to conclusion, and after all that, I failed,” she finished.
“You failed, or the deal failed? Because those are different, right?”
She realized how relaxed she was and, despite everything, how easy it was to talk to Brody. “You’re right, the deal failed. Basically they used us, mainly me, as consultants, with no intention of buying our services. I didn’t give anything away, which is a victory of sorts, I guess, but I left empty-handed. I’m not used to losing, and my boss is making it personal. So I decided to come here and wait him out. When he’s done ranting and raving maybe he’ll see how valuable I am and apologize, or at least stop blaming me.”
“If he doesn’t?”
She shrugged, because getting this far had been the first hurdle. She wasn’t quite ready for the next one. “Tell me about the vineyards.”
“We still grow grapes for juice, but I’ve managed to expand into wine. Reisling first, then several others. Now I’m working on a boutique ice wine made from Reisling and Vignoles grapes, but it’s not ready for market. My Reisling won an award last year, but I can’t
