No Angels (Willow Creek Christmas)

6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Bianca

The realtor called me yesterday and asked if I wanted to tour the theater this morning. I don’t know why I said yes, because I still haven’t decided whether or not I’m going to stay. I was up half the night hemming the robes for the angel choir, and if I stay here and resurrect the community playhouse that’s what my life will consist of.

I’m barreling around the corner of the stairs when I collide with something solid. Strong arms surround me as I upend my hot coffee. I can feel the fiery liquid and his heat seeping through my shirt, and somehow I lost one of my ballet flats when I tumbled forward. “Ouch,” I mumble.

His face is suddenly right there and I should be hoping I’m not going to have red boobs from coffee burn or somehow wedge a splinter into my bare foot. Instead, I’m holding my breath and waiting for him to finally press those chiseled lips to mine. So I can compare the way they feel now to the way they felt then. Because they’re right there.

“What were you running from, Bumble Bee?”

It’s the first time since we were eighteen that he’s used the nickname he gave me. The rasp of his gruff voice hits me in the solar plexus and sends tingles up my spine. I’m pretty sure he’s using it to force me into remembering where we’ve been and what we were. What could have been if I’d stayed.

I try to lean away, but his grip is too firm. “Just now, I wasn’t running from anything.” I’m going to assume he was talking about the here and now, because I’m not going to revisit my reasons for running nineteen years ago. I hope he doesn’t press me for a deeper explanation, because it’s already hard to maintain my dignity when I’m balanced on one leg and clutching his upper arms for dear life.

He shakes his head and gives me a bemused smile. “Always cryptic and making me work for answers. If you weren’t running from something, what were you running to?”

“I have a meeting with the realtor this morning about the Majestic.” I brace myself for his reaction.

His eyes gleam down at me and I almost get lost in the sparks of gold nestled in the muddy brown depths. “Which realtor?”

“Your old flame, Cindy Houlihan. Except now she’s Cindy Davis.”

I expect him to jump on my words.

“Do you want company? I’d like to get a better look at some of the plumbing and electrical. And I didn’t have time last week to examine the floors.”

I should tell him no because when he’s near my decision-making ability is severely impaired. I should tell him no because he’s the reason I was distracted and tripped and spilled my coffee. Because he filled my thoughts so much I couldn’t sleep and ended up hemming robes until two o’clock in the morning. I should tell him no because he’s the reason I’ll probably get tetanus from stepping on a nail before I can find my shoe.

I’m weak – because I don’t tell him no. “Sure, if you think you won’t get bored.”

His warm chuckle floats between us and there goes another hit to my chest.

“One thing you’ll never do is bore me, Cassidy.”

He shifts me to the side so I’m leaning against the wall and I already miss his touch and the way his voice scratched when he used my old nickname.

“Hold onto the wall and let me find your shoe. You don’t need a splinter or god forbid, tetanus. Once I find your shoe, I’m grabbing you the hoodie I have stashed in the truck so you can change out of your wet sweater.”

He’s taking care of me just like he always did. And the way he read my mind just proves he can still see the wheels turning in my head. If I’m not careful, he’s going to figure out he’s the only one who can convince me to stay in Willow Creek.

When he comes back down the stairs, he’s holding a faded Hokies hoodie and my lost shoe. He kneels in front of me and lifts my foot to his thigh. He circles my ankle when he slips my shoe on and it makes my knees weak.

He stands again and tosses me the hoodie. “Strip and put this on. I’ll turn around so you can protect your delicate sensibilities.”

He crosses his arms and gives me his back. When I slip the hoodie over my head, I’m surrounded by the scent of cedar sawdust and lemon. I bury my head in the collar and inhale. It’s warm and comfy because the fleece is washed-too-many-times soft against my skin.

“Thanks, this is much warmer.”

He turns back around and his eyes darken. “I like seeing you in my clothes, Cassidy.”

I gulp. “Don’t read more into this than spilled coffee, Callihan,” I say to cover my confusion.

“I know better than that. You’ve made it pretty clear your non-negotiable agenda has a begin and end date. I’m not trying to convince you, just stating a fact - I like seeing you in my clothes .”

I wonder what one of his worn t-shirts would feel like and if it’d brush the tops of my thighs or hang to my knees.

“Well, thanks again for the save, regardless of whether you had an ulterior motive.”

“No ulterior motive. Because I didn’t expect to like it as much as I do. But I should have known.”

He mutters the last two sentences under his breath, like he’s afraid to voice them out loud.

“Come on.” He grabs my hand. “Since you’re letting me tag along we’re taking my truck instead of the tin can your mom calls a car.”

I love driving my mom’s candy apple red Mini Cooper, but he would look like a gorilla smashed into one of those tiny little dune buggies. “Fine. Can I replace my coffee on the way?”

“Yeah, I need a refill too.”

By the time we stroll into Cupcake on Main, the morning rush is over. Emma gives me a knowing look when we get to the counter.

“Hey Mike, are you having your usual?” She asks him.

“Yeah, gimme an Americano. And whatever Bumble Bee wants.”

Emma raises a brow and smirks. “What’ll you have, Bumble Bee?”

I give her the evil eye I to let her know it is never okay to call me that. “I’ll take the Hazelnut Mocha on ice.”

Mike hands her a twenty before I can protest. “I’ve got this. Don’t argue,” he tells me when he sees my facial expression.

“Your bumble bee is slowly making her way through the entire fall drink menu.”

“So you take your coffee with more than half and half now?”

I shrug. “When it’s available.”

Cindy is waiting outside the theater when we park at the meter. She waves her hand excitedly and I wonder if she’s going to revisit her head cheerleader days and jump up and down.

“Let’s go inside. I can’t wait to show you the potential. It just needs a little elbow grease and it can be the star of Main Street again.”

When a realtor from one of the boroughs tells you something needs a little elbow grease it usually means it’s barely salvageable and they’re desperate.

When she opens the door and flicks the switch, nothing happens. Mike and I exchange a look because this doesn’t bode well for “the potential.”

“No worries. I always carry a flashlight in my purse.” She hauls out a high beam like the one exterminators use to crawl under houses. It’s huge. And very, very bright.

The first thing I notice is the chairs. They all need reupholstering. The vintage red velvet is faded and full of tiny moth holes.

The second thing I notice is the floor. It’s sloping on one side.

“Rotten boards, maybe the joist too,” Mike mutters.

“The heirs have been fighting over the estate for eighteen years, and it’s sat here empty that whole time.” It looks like it’s been empty for much longer than that.

“Do you think it’s salvageable?” I whisper from the corner of my mouth.

He nods. “Definitely.”

I motion Cindy over. “Hey Cindy. I think we have all the information we need. I’m going to speak with Farrah and Zane.”

She takes my hand when I offer it, her eyes glowing. “Thank you, Bianca. I want you to know how excited my girls and I are that you’re here. We saw you in Rent and we’ve been starstruck ever since.”

Well, that’s a development I never expected. I was way beneath Cindy Houlihan’s radar in high school. “Thanks, Cindy. I’m very grateful for all the opportunities I’ve had.”

She hasn’t stopped smiling. “I’m so honored to have renewed our acquaintance. I hope you decide to settle here again. Your star power would really help Willow Creek.”

Once we’re standing on the sidewalk again, Mike throws his arm over my shoulders.

The weight, both unfamiliar and familiar at the same time, makes my nape prickle. It feels companionable and proprietary. I wonder if Cindy Houlihan Davis is watching us.

“So, Cassidy, how’s a waffle cone sound?”

“Mike, what person in their right mind has ice cream for lunch in the middle of November?” It used to be one of our Sunday rituals. Rain or shine. Sleet or snow. Kind of like things that aren’t supposed to prevent the mail delivery. But it was just for kicks because we were kids and had a lot of energy and were never cold. My adult internal barometer isn’t exactly compatible with ice cream in late fall.

“Us persons.”

His loaded answer takes me back to a day I’ll never forget and I swallow. “Sure.”

The Dairy Freeze hasn’t changed in the twenty years since I left and I bet the plastic menu with the red retro type nailed to the side of the building has been there since my mom was a kid.

The only difference is who waited on us. Mabel Sinclair was like a grouchy cafeteria lunch lady. Her granddaughter, Jenny Sinclair runs it now. Her eyes widened when we walked up to the take-out window.

“Oh my gosh. You’re Bianca Cassidy,” she’d breathlessly said.

“Yep, that’s me,” I’d replied.

She fumbled the order a little bit, and Mike whispered. “Another starstruck fan.”

We ordered the same thing we used to order when we were sixteen. Vanilla for him and chocolate with sprinkles for me.

“So, a taste of yours for a taste of mine?”

When he leans in, I want to meet him halfway. I thrust my ice cream cone in front of me instead and offer it to him. “Sure.”

I watch his tongue lap up a rivulet of chocolate, and a bright blue sprinkle gets caught in his mustache.

I want to climb onto the table, crawl forward and lick it off.

Even though his vanilla cone is dripping onto my mittens and over his hands, I can’t look away.

When he licks his lips, I copy him, and catch a drop of the vanilla bean infused soft serve sliding down the side of his cone.

I can’t believe the Dairy Freeze is still open year-round, and even though this isn’t technically a date, it feels like one. Trading tastes of our waffle cones at one of the weathered gray picnic tables is just like it used to be.

We’re so much more now than we were when we did this as smitten teenagers who refused to admit the way we felt. I watch him and it doesn’t matter how much we were then or how we came back to this déjà vu moment that’s like a hook in my chest.

I feel the same way I did that day – when I finally realized Mike Callihan hung the sun and moon. Breathless anticipation. Smoldering eyes underneath those sooty lashes that make me blush. The tingle that starts in my toes and settles just behind my lips.

“You’re looking at me like you want to kiss me, Cassidy,” he says as he grins.

“That’s how you’re looking at me too,” I tell him and give into temptation. I lean in and brush the sprinkle from his mustache with my tongue.

When I go to sit back down, he clasps my upper arms. “Not yet,” he murmurs. “Turnabout is fair play.”

And then his lips feather over my cheeks and kiss the corners of my mouth. That’s all he does. I want to feel the full press of his lips on mine, but he’s not going to oblige me today.

“You had a speck of ice cream too,” he explains.

I raise a skeptical brow. “On my cheeks? I don’t think I believe you, Callihan.”

He shrugs. “Since you don’t have your compact handy, you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

That evening when Farrah picks up the twins, she pulls me aside. “My friend Mari told me she saw you and Callihan kissing at the Dairy Freeze this afternoon.”

“We weren’t kissing. Not exactly. When we were kids, we used to go there every Sunday and trade bites of each other’s cones.”

She gives me a mischievous smile. “Sounds like a ritual to me.”

“Just a moment of nostalgia. Nothing more.”

“If you say so. At least tell me how you ended up at the Dairy Freeze.”

“Cindy Houlihan wanted me to look at the Majestic and he tagged along.”

She squeals. “Yay! Does this mean you’re staying?”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet. The theater needs a ton of work. Mike thinks it’ll need something pretty close to a ground up restoration.”

Her expression sobers. “That’s what I told Zane, so I’m glad the two of you are corroborating it. I’m going to start looking for some grants that can cover the acquisition and the restoration. Let me know if there are any you think we’re eligible for.”

“That’s not really my realm of expertise, but I have friends I can reach out to.” I need to catch up with Cheryl, anyway. She left Broadway seven years ago to go back to northwestern Ohio and care for her parents. She’s been waist deep in the community theater there ever since.