Vermont Valentine

“Isaac went ahead and lived in it even without Sarah Jane. He died pretty young—basically drank himself to death.”

How could something so beautiful come from tragedy? “It’s incredible, like something you’d see in Newport, Rhode Island. Tell me it didn’t just stay vacant.”

“Oh, different people from the family lived in it for a few years here and there. Never for long, though.”

“Bad karma?” she asked, but it didn’t feel forbidding. It seemed like a house that would welcome life and warmth.

“It was too remote, I think, even when we tried to rent it. Hard to find people who want to be so isolated.”

“So what happened?” She trailed her fingers over the antique wallpaper and turned to him. “Did it just sit empty?”

“More or less. My dad and my grandfather did enough to keep it from falling apart, anyway. You know, replacing windows and that. When I read Isaac’s journals, it really got to me. After that, I did some stuff here and there when I got the chance. I started in earnest when I moved in.”

“When was that?”

“About seventeen years ago. My parents wouldn’t let me until I’d turned eighteen, and then I wound up spending about a year working on major structural stuff first. Some of the subflooring had rotted out, and the porch pillars. Once I got that out of the way, it just came down to a lot of interior detail work.”

“Which you excel at,” she murmured, trailing her fingers over the gleaming moldings around the French doors leading to the living room. “May I?” she asked, tipping her head.

“Sure.”

The carpet was Persian and swirled in a complicated pattern of geometric wines and blues. An ornate plaster ceiling medallion surrounded the chain that held up the bronze-and-crystal light fixture. And the walls were almost entirely lined in bookshelves, bookshelves groaning with books. Some were leather-bound and perhaps dated back to Isaac’s time; mostly, the shelves were filled with the splashy color of paperbacks. She’d understood from Ray that Jacob read; she’d had no idea how much.

“Were the bookshelves Isaac’s idea?”

Jacob shifted his feet a little. “No, those were mine.”

“A house like this ought to have a library.”

“Yeah, but I like my books close at hand.”

Actually, the room felt like a library with its shelves and green lamps and its leather couches and chairs. And then she was surprised again, because next to the chair that faced the fireplace and sat under a brass floor lamp, the chair that was obviously Jacob’s favorite sat…

“You play guitar?” She sat down to admire the satiny wood of the well-worn and perfectly cared for acoustic.

He looked suddenly trapped. “Yeah, some.”

“How long have you played?”

“Oh, I don’t know, since I was about eleven, I think.”

She looked at him in amusement. “A little, he says? Twenty-five years? What do you play?”

“Oh, different stuff,” he said, drifting toward the door. “Old Creedence, roots music, some classical, some blues.”

He was uncomfortable, she realized. Solid, certain Jacob Trask was embarrassed. There was something about it that tugged at her heart. “Well, don’t walk away, play something for me.”

He stopped and stared at her. “I don’t play for people.”

“You must have played for your family, at least.”

He shifted uneasily. “It’s mostly just for me.”

“So Murph’s the only one who’s gotten a concert?”

Hearing his name, Murphy raised his head and rose from his cushion in the corner.

Jacob played with the dog’s ears absently. “Playing for other people turns it into something else. It’s not about impressing people for me. It’s just something I like to do.”

“How about if I promise not to be impressed?” Celie offered.

That had him fighting a smile. “Later,” he said, walking to the door.

“Is there going to be a later?”

His glance brought warmth to her cheeks. “We’ll see.”

The light was fading to dusk. The living room was empty but for Jacob and Murphy. The soft and somehow plaintive strains of an Appalachian finger-picking piece he’d found sounded through the room. He stopped and frowned. Play for me, she’d said. It was absurd for him to feel bashful at the idea. He’d probably sounded more than a little eccentric when he’d told her he hadn’t even played for his family. Not that he should care what Celie Favreau thought of him.

But he was lying to himself if he tried to pretend he didn’t.

Only two days had passed since he’d found her crouched at the base of one of his maples. Only two days that she’d been lurking in his mind, dancing through his thoughts. Somehow it felt as though it had been much longer. It wasn’t as though he’d never been with a woman. He knew what it was to want, he knew what it was to bury himself in the warmth and softness of a woman he cared about.

And he knew what it was to watch them leave. There was little to keep a woman in Eastmont. Most of them wanted more, most of them wanted more of him than he was willing to give. Somehow, he was never ready, perhaps because he always saw them walking away, just as Sarah Jane had walked away from Isaac.

Idly, he began playing a slow blues riff.

It was the tag end of January and the pace of his life was beginning to pick up. Winter might be the dormant season for most, but for a sugar-maker, it was when things got exciting. Suddenly, there was more work to be done than hours to do it. He didn’t have time for a bright-eyed woman with a disconcerting tendency to get him talking. So what if she made him laugh? So what if she crept into his dreams?

He knew how it went, get involved, see a woman a few times and suddenly there were obligations. Suddenly he’d find himself defending the way he lived, defending who he was. Living with Murph, he didn’t have that problem. Alone was the way he was comfortable. Alone was the way he wanted to be.

Especially this year, of all years, when it felt as if everything was piled high on his shoulders. He’d always figured he was strong enough to take on anything that came along, but he was beginning to wonder. There was so much at stake, so much to lose if he screwed up. And now with this maple borer thing, who knew what the future might look like?

Without realizing it, he slipped into a slow, mournful gospel song. When the phone rang, he let it. The answering machine clicked and he heard himself. “It’s me. Leave a message.”

“It’s Gabe. Pick up the phone.” He heard his youngest brother’s voice. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re there. Hey Murph, you there?” Murphy gave a low whine. “Pick up the phone, will ya?”

Murphy barked and with a grin, Jacob reached out for the receiver. “What do you want?”

“I knew you were there.”

“So why are you bugging me?”

“I didn’t have anything better to do.”

“You get in a fight with Hadley?”

“Naw, she adores me. Can’t stop hanging all over me an—ow,” he complained to someone in the background. “That hurt.”