mother.
Eli hauled the snowblower from the back of his pickup, yanked the zip cord to start it. The motor churned to life, and he started down the middle, throwing snow toward the banks. Icy particles landed on his face, flaked into his eyes.
Okay, someone had tried to shovel. As Eli drew near the garage, he spotted a feeble swath near the edges. Someone had cleared about a three-foot chunk. Working by hand, it would take one person a week to shovel this drive. Why Lee didn’t hire one of the snowplow services from town baffled him.
Maybe she just didn’t want to bother anyone. What was it about these women in Deep Haven that made them so insistent on managing life on their own? Noelle still mowed their acres of grass by herself. And more than once Eli had come home to her covered in snow, blowing out the driveway.
At least, the old Noelle. The new Noelle had stared at their home with a sort of abject horror. He’d always thought it cozy, the dormer windows like sleepy eyes gazing out over the forest. They heated with propane, so it lacked the ambience of a woodstove-heated home, the sleepy relaxation of a crackling fire, but it had kept them warm and dry for twenty-five years.
He’d always intended to build Noelle a fireplace someday. Just never quite got around to it.
Eli turned and cut another path down the center, all the way back to the highway. He’d started to work up a sweat underneath his parka and wool cap. He’d need another shower when he got home.
But wow, he might never erase from his brain the look Noelle gave him when he’d said he was taking a shower. Now that made him feel dirty.
Noelle hated him. Couldn’t stand the sight of him, if her body language communicated correctly.
He turned again and cut the trail wider. At least now Lee could get her Jeep down the drive, but it took three more passes before his truck would manage it. By then, ice encrusted his collar, and icicles hung on his eyelashes.
Funny that Lee hadn’t even come to the door to wave. Eli loaded his snowblower back onto the truck, debated a moment, then turned down her driveway.
He had somehow always preferred Clay’s house to his own. The man hailed from a family of lumberjacks and had built it with his own hands, carved out the logs, unearthed the stones for the tall fireplace. Now a two-story log home with a loft, it seemed the perfect fit under the arms of the white pine and birch that surrounded their place. He noticed that Christmas lights still edged the house—he hadn’t had time to take them down—and now, as darkness approached, they twinkled, adding a homey glow to the forest.
Sure, they’d started in the garage, but the Nelsons had added on as they had money, which meant that Clay left Lee free and clear, without a mortgage.
But also without a man to help her take care of the cottage in the woods.
He knocked on the door, noticing that someone had sprinkled kitty litter on the trail between the house and the garage. So perhaps she had ventured out. “Lee?”
“Let yourself in, Eli.”
He heard the voice through the door, opened it, and stuck his head in. Usually the Nelson home smelled of something freshly baked—cookies, bread, a casserole. Today there was nothing but the hint of ash as if a fire had long ago gone out. And the house felt cool.
Even cold.
“Lee!”
“I’m here, Eli.” Her voice sounded wrung out.
He toed off his boots, then ventured into the house, and his breath seized. Lee lay in Clay’s recliner, her chin tucked into her chest, her arm drawn up, shivering under a white afghan. The fireplace lay unlit, cold.
“What’s going on? It’s freezing in here.”
She looked brutal—or would have if she wasn’t so pretty even in her pain. Her hair hung down around her face in a tangle of curls, and smudges of makeup marred her eyes as if she’d been crying. She wore yoga pants, a pair of wool socks. She tried to move as he came toward her, but she winced, crying
Eli hauled the snowblower from the back of his pickup, yanked the zip cord to start it. The motor churned to life, and he started down the middle, throwing snow toward the banks. Icy particles landed on his face, flaked into his eyes.
Okay, someone had tried to shovel. As Eli drew near the garage, he spotted a feeble swath near the edges. Someone had cleared about a three-foot chunk. Working by hand, it would take one person a week to shovel this drive. Why Lee didn’t hire one of the snowplow services from town baffled him.
Maybe she just didn’t want to bother anyone. What was it about these women in Deep Haven that made them so insistent on managing life on their own? Noelle still mowed their acres of grass by herself. And more than once Eli had come home to her covered in snow, blowing out the driveway.
At least, the old Noelle. The new Noelle had stared at their home with a sort of abject horror. He’d always thought it cozy, the dormer windows like sleepy eyes gazing out over the forest. They heated with propane, so it lacked the ambience of a woodstove-heated home, the sleepy relaxation of a crackling fire, but it had kept them warm and dry for twenty-five years.
He’d always intended to build Noelle a fireplace someday. Just never quite got around to it.
Eli turned and cut another path down the center, all the way back to the highway. He’d started to work up a sweat underneath his parka and wool cap. He’d need another shower when he got home.
But wow, he might never erase from his brain the look Noelle gave him when he’d said he was taking a shower. Now that made him feel dirty.
Noelle hated him. Couldn’t stand the sight of him, if her body language communicated correctly.
He turned again and cut the trail wider. At least now Lee could get her Jeep down the drive, but it took three more passes before his truck would manage it. By then, ice encrusted his collar, and icicles hung on his eyelashes.
Funny that Lee hadn’t even come to the door to wave. Eli loaded his snowblower back onto the truck, debated a moment, then turned down her driveway.
He had somehow always preferred Clay’s house to his own. The man hailed from a family of lumberjacks and had built it with his own hands, carved out the logs, unearthed the stones for the tall fireplace. Now a two-story log home with a loft, it seemed the perfect fit under the arms of the white pine and birch that surrounded their place. He noticed that Christmas lights still edged the house—he hadn’t had time to take them down—and now, as darkness approached, they twinkled, adding a homey glow to the forest.
Sure, they’d started in the garage, but the Nelsons had added on as they had money, which meant that Clay left Lee free and clear, without a mortgage.
But also without a man to help her take care of the cottage in the woods.
He knocked on the door, noticing that someone had sprinkled kitty litter on the trail between the house and the garage. So perhaps she had ventured out. “Lee?”
“Let yourself in, Eli.”
He heard the voice through the door, opened it, and stuck his head in. Usually the Nelson home smelled of something freshly baked—cookies, bread, a casserole. Today there was nothing but the hint of ash as if a fire had long ago gone out. And the house felt cool.
Even cold.
“Lee!”
“I’m here, Eli.” Her voice sounded wrung out.
He toed off his boots, then ventured into the house, and his breath seized. Lee lay in Clay’s recliner, her chin tucked into her chest, her arm drawn up, shivering under a white afghan. The fireplace lay unlit, cold.
“What’s going on? It’s freezing in here.”
She looked brutal—or would have if she wasn’t so pretty even in her pain. Her hair hung down around her face in a tangle of curls, and smudges of makeup marred her eyes as if she’d been crying. She wore yoga pants, a pair of wool socks. She tried to move as he came toward her, but she winced, crying
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