instance.
His obligations didn’t leave much time for personal relationships, and that reality saddened him, because Laurel deserved so much more than he could give right now.
T RYING IN VAIN to curb her excitement, Laurel drove straight to the cottage when she returned to Belleporte. Arlo Bramwell, bent to his work, barely acknowledged her, but when she breathed an ecstatic, “Wow!” he laid down his screwdriver and turned to observe her reaction. He’d transformed the second-story attic into one large combination living room-kitchen-bedroom with a bathroom tucked into one corner and a built-in desk in another. Shelves, still smelling of stain, lined one wall, and the refinished hardwood floors looked like new. He’d even built window-seat storage units.
“It’s wonderful, Mr. Bramwell. I couldn’t be more pleased.”
He shrugged. “Don’t rightly know if this is how you wanted these cabinets, but this is the only way they’ll go.” He stood back for Laurel to inspect his work on the apartment kitchen.
“I trust your judgment.”
He harrumphed, but Laurel noticed a nearly imperceptible gleam in his eye.
“How soon can I move in?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you want hot water. Plumber’s comin’ tomorrow.”
“I’d like to talk with you about the work I need done downstairs. When would be a good time?”
“Now’s as good as any.”
While he went on working, she outlined her ideas for the first floor, explaining that she wanted to open by April fifteenth.
When she finished, all he said was, “Reckon I can handle it.”
She spent the rest of the afternoon selecting miniblinds, getting set up for trash pickup and ordering phone service. Until her apartment was ready, she planned to stay at Primrose House.
Later, at the drugstore, she ran into Janet Kerns, who greeted her by saying, “Welcome home.”
Laurel beamed. “How did you know? That’s exactly what it feels like.”
“I could boast it’s woman’s intuition, but, sweetie, the bounce in your step is a dead giveaway. Best of all, you’re back just in time for Twelfth Night.”
“Twelfth Night?”
“Tomorrow is January 5. Those of us who stick it out here for the winter get together for our annual Christmas-tree-burning party. It’s how we celebrate the official end of the holiday season. It will be a marvelous way for you to meet some of the year-round residents.”
“I’d love to come.”
Janet gave her the details, then, with a cheery wave of farewell, said, “Hope to see you then.”
Laurel paid for her merchandise and strolled back to Primrose House. Would Ben be at the Twelfth Night festivities? They hadn’t seen each other since their dinner at the Dunes Inn. Maybe she’d romanticized their kisses. Laurel shook her head. No way. There was something there—definitely.
B EN CLOSED THE BLINDS , donned his parka and left his office. The cold, clear night air fairly crackled. Christmas lights on homes and storefronts twinkled merrily, and in the distance he made out a glow in the city park. Then he remembered. Twelfth Night. He’d been so buried in work, he’d totally lost track of time. He checked his watch. He was supposed to meet his mother fifteen minutes ago.
Setting off at a jog through the light dusting of snow, Ben headed toward the park. He didn’t want to miss this long-standing Belleporte tradition, especially the refreshments afterward at the community center.
Clustered around the bonfire were children bundled in snowsuits, adults in boots and parkas, and old-timers with hats pulled low over their ears. Mike, bareheaded, stood with some of his buddies, and Ben spotted Megan huddling close to a tall blond kid in a Lake City letter jacket. The burning Christmas trees, now fiery skeletons, sent smoke spiraling into the sky. He sidled up to his mother, who was chatting with Mrs. Arlo, as everyone called Bramwell’s wife. “Did I miss much?”
“The traditional torching and
His obligations didn’t leave much time for personal relationships, and that reality saddened him, because Laurel deserved so much more than he could give right now.
T RYING IN VAIN to curb her excitement, Laurel drove straight to the cottage when she returned to Belleporte. Arlo Bramwell, bent to his work, barely acknowledged her, but when she breathed an ecstatic, “Wow!” he laid down his screwdriver and turned to observe her reaction. He’d transformed the second-story attic into one large combination living room-kitchen-bedroom with a bathroom tucked into one corner and a built-in desk in another. Shelves, still smelling of stain, lined one wall, and the refinished hardwood floors looked like new. He’d even built window-seat storage units.
“It’s wonderful, Mr. Bramwell. I couldn’t be more pleased.”
He shrugged. “Don’t rightly know if this is how you wanted these cabinets, but this is the only way they’ll go.” He stood back for Laurel to inspect his work on the apartment kitchen.
“I trust your judgment.”
He harrumphed, but Laurel noticed a nearly imperceptible gleam in his eye.
“How soon can I move in?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you want hot water. Plumber’s comin’ tomorrow.”
“I’d like to talk with you about the work I need done downstairs. When would be a good time?”
“Now’s as good as any.”
While he went on working, she outlined her ideas for the first floor, explaining that she wanted to open by April fifteenth.
When she finished, all he said was, “Reckon I can handle it.”
She spent the rest of the afternoon selecting miniblinds, getting set up for trash pickup and ordering phone service. Until her apartment was ready, she planned to stay at Primrose House.
Later, at the drugstore, she ran into Janet Kerns, who greeted her by saying, “Welcome home.”
Laurel beamed. “How did you know? That’s exactly what it feels like.”
“I could boast it’s woman’s intuition, but, sweetie, the bounce in your step is a dead giveaway. Best of all, you’re back just in time for Twelfth Night.”
“Twelfth Night?”
“Tomorrow is January 5. Those of us who stick it out here for the winter get together for our annual Christmas-tree-burning party. It’s how we celebrate the official end of the holiday season. It will be a marvelous way for you to meet some of the year-round residents.”
“I’d love to come.”
Janet gave her the details, then, with a cheery wave of farewell, said, “Hope to see you then.”
Laurel paid for her merchandise and strolled back to Primrose House. Would Ben be at the Twelfth Night festivities? They hadn’t seen each other since their dinner at the Dunes Inn. Maybe she’d romanticized their kisses. Laurel shook her head. No way. There was something there—definitely.
B EN CLOSED THE BLINDS , donned his parka and left his office. The cold, clear night air fairly crackled. Christmas lights on homes and storefronts twinkled merrily, and in the distance he made out a glow in the city park. Then he remembered. Twelfth Night. He’d been so buried in work, he’d totally lost track of time. He checked his watch. He was supposed to meet his mother fifteen minutes ago.
Setting off at a jog through the light dusting of snow, Ben headed toward the park. He didn’t want to miss this long-standing Belleporte tradition, especially the refreshments afterward at the community center.
Clustered around the bonfire were children bundled in snowsuits, adults in boots and parkas, and old-timers with hats pulled low over their ears. Mike, bareheaded, stood with some of his buddies, and Ben spotted Megan huddling close to a tall blond kid in a Lake City letter jacket. The burning Christmas trees, now fiery skeletons, sent smoke spiraling into the sky. He sidled up to his mother, who was chatting with Mrs. Arlo, as everyone called Bramwell’s wife. “Did I miss much?”
“The traditional torching and