Songs of Christmas (14 page)

“Just a lucky shot,” she admitted. She wanted to look out from behind the tree but didn’t dare. “How long do you think they’re going to keep that up?”

The snowballs were still flying, but quite a few missed the tree and landed near their feet, or even behind them.

“Knowing my brother . . . they could be out there until spring.” He slowly leaned over and waved a gloved hand. “Okay . . . truce?” The snowballs kept coming. Gabriel reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his key ring, then waved it.

“You can borrow the truck,” he called out.

The snowballs suddenly stopped. “Really?”

Gabriel put his head around the tree. “For an hour. And don’t do anything stupid.”

Amanda felt safe enough now to finally step out from behind the tree, too.

“That’s pretty generous of you. Or desperate,” she added.

“We were supposed to go over to some sports store for a new basketball. He can go with his buddy. A small price to pay,” he added.

“Very clever,” she replied.

“I thought so,” he said with a smug but charming smile.

The two boys had run toward them through the snow. Now Gabriel’s brother grabbed the keys and shot him a victorious grin. “An hour isn’t very long,” he pointed out.

“If I tell you an hour, you’ll come back in two,” Gabriel said. “Just keep your cell phone on.”

“Okay, will do. See you later.” The boys dashed off, and Gabriel turned to her.

“Well, that’s settled,” Amanda said, amused. “But what are you going to do without your truck? Do you need a ride?”

“I might need a ride,” he answered with a thoughtful expression. “But first, I thought I’d take you to lunch. Unless you have plans?”

Amanda was surprised by the invitation, and very pleased.

“Sure. Lunch sounds great.”

“Where would you like to go?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere is fine.” She shrugged. “Anywhere that serves hot chocolate,” she amended.

“Good point. Hot chocolate is definitely required after a snowball battle. I think it’s a state law now.” His serious tone made her laugh again. “Let’s see . . . How about the Clam Box? They definitely serve hot chocolate . . . and it’s definitely anywhere. Or even nowhere, some people would say.”

She found herself laughing again. A light wind off the harbor blew a few strands of her hair across her eyes. She swiped them away with her hand.

“My parents always took us there right after church when we were in school,” she said. “They used to serve pancakes all day on Sundays, all you can eat.”

“Same here. That’s what made me think of it. You can’t go wrong with their pancakes.”

“As opposed to the rest of the menu?” she asked.

“Exactly.” He nodded and smiled, then met her gaze. His eyes were so blue, as blue as the sky or the water in the harbor. She felt herself blush and hoped he would think it was just the cold air.

He was dressed for church and looked very different than he did in his work clothes. Though he was more than attractive in either style, she thought.

“So you belong to this church?” she asked curiously as they began to walk across the green toward town. “I’ve never seen you here.”

“My family has belonged for a long time, but we were never that regular about attending. On holidays, mostly.” He stuck his hands in his pockets, and their steps fell into sync. “But I’ve been coming more since my dad died. Reverend Ben was a big help to our family when my father passed away. He’s great to talk to, and I like to hear his sermons.”

Amanda nodded, feeling sad about his loss, though she hardly knew him. “I like his sermons, too. He manages to take spiritual ideas that I never really understood and makes you understand how they apply to your everyday life. It’s hard to explain,” she added, wondering if she had managed it at all. “But I usually get something helpful out of what he says.”

“I know what you mean. I do, too.”

They walked along a little farther without talking. They had taken the path that wound along the harbor, and Amanda enjoyed the view. The harbor was empty this time of year, with only a few hardy boats tied up on their moorings—fishing and clamming boats mainly.

“That’s too bad about your father. Did he pass away recently?” she asked.

“It’s been about two years now. Sometimes, it still feels like yesterday,” he admitted. “My mom’s had a rough time. He was pretty young and it was very sudden. He left for work one day and didn’t come back.”

“Oh, how awful,” Amanda said sincerely.

“It was a heart attack. He worked too hard and never took care of himself.”

“What did he do for a living?”

“Stained-glass artist.” He glanced at her and smiled. “I was at RISD,” he added, referring to the Rhode Island School of Design. “But I came home and decided to stay, take over the business. My mother works, but she doesn’t make enough to take care of herself and my brother—he’s a junior in high school now, but he was only thirteen then. So I took over the shop. I used to work with my dad when I was in high school, so I already knew the business. It won’t be forever. I mean, if I don’t want it to be. My mom went back to school last year, part-time. She’s studying to be a teacher. She’ll be certified soon.”

“Oh, that’s great,” Amanda said.

It was noble of him to have put aside his own plans to help his family, she thought. Not too many guys her age—well, he was a few years older, but still—would have made that sacrifice and sounded so comfortable with it. The admission made her see him in a different light.

The Clam Box wasn’t too crowded, considering it was a Sunday at noon. A waitress with dark red hair seated them at a table near the window and handed them two menus. “The specials are on the board,” she said as she filled their water glasses.

Gabriel folded his menu and put it aside. “I already know what I want. But you take a minute,” he said to Amanda.

“I know, too,” she said, closing her menu.

The waitress pulled out her pad. “Shoot,” she said, looking at Amanda.

“I’ll have the three-stack hot cakes, with a fruit cup, and hot chocolate, please.”

“I’ll have the same,” Gabriel said.

“You got it. Be right back with the hot chocolate.”

“I was going to order a side of bacon, but the fruit cup is much healthier,” he said as their waitress hurried off. “See, you’re a good influence on me.”

Amanda laughed. “Don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you if you want to have some totally unhealthy breakfast meat.”

“That’s okay.” He shook his head, looking fine with his decision. Then his hand suddenly popped up. “Waitress?” he called, making Amanda laugh.

Their waitress didn’t hear him; she was nowhere to be seen.

“I was only kidding. I fooled you, right?”

Amanda nodded. “Yes, you did. What did you study at RISD, stand-up comedy?”

“Exactly. A double major in stand-up comedy and fine art. I was planning to be a post-Impressionist comedian. I still might try for it,” he added.

“That act would be original.” Amanda guessed he was only half-joking now. “Do you still paint?” she asked, eager to know more about him.

“It’s funny—not so much anymore. Now that I’m working with glass all the time, I find that my ideas for my own artwork come to mind in that medium. A lot of the work I do nine-to-five is repair and renovation, like at the church. Interesting but not that creative. That’s why I enjoy making my own pieces, which are more original.”

She knew that there were great works of art in stained glass—the windows in many of the medieval and Renaissance churches, or those of the artists Louis Tiffany and Marc Chagall. But she understood what Gabriel was trying to say. It was the difference between practicing your craft and being truly creative.

“I feel that way about some jobs I’ve had playing the piano or cello. They’re sort of routine, not too much creativity involved. But when I have the time to play music I really love, it’s much more satisfying . . . and it makes up for the rest.”

“You play the cello, too? What are you, a one-woman orchestra?”

“Hardly,” she said, feeling her cheeks get warm again under his admiring gaze. “Most professional musicians have some knowledge of keyboards. But the cello is my main instrument. I’m hoping to play professionally in an orchestra somewhere.”

Their waitress returned with their orders, setting down the food and adding a pitcher of syrup and a bowl of butter pats. “Anything else?” she asked.

Amanda liked cinnamon on her pancakes and French toast . . . on a lot of things, actually, but before she had the chance to ask, Gabriel said, “Could you please bring some cinnamon when you have a chance?”

She disappeared again and he sat back, looking at his pancakes. “You go ahead. I can’t eat them without cinnamon.”

She leaned back, too, placing her fork on the side of her dish. “I can wait . . . I like cinnamon, too,” she admitted, feeling a strange, secret bond with him.

This was so silly, she almost wanted to laugh. She would have to call Lauren later. She had already told Lauren about the super cute guy who got the free pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving.

“He sounds like a total hottie. I think you ought to follow a trail of pie crumbs or something and find out where he lives,” her sister had advised. Amanda hadn’t spoken to Lauren all week; she was going to love hearing there was more to the Pie Guy story.

“You have a funny smile on your face, Amanda. Is it the cinnamon pancakes?” Gabriel’s question broke into her rambling thoughts.

She shook her head. “I was thinking about my sister, Lauren. My stepsister, actually. But we’re super close. We were best friends in middle school when our parents got married,” she explained.

“Really? That must have been fun.” Their waitress had returned with the cinnamon, and he politely offered it to Amanda first.

“It was like having a sleepover with your best pal every night. It still is,” she admitted, thinking about their all-night gabfests. “I was just thinking of something funny,” she explained.
About you,
she secretly added as she handed him the spice.

“Sounds like you miss her.” He shook some cinnamon onto his pancakes and took a bite.

“I do,” she replied. “I have two other sisters, Jillian and Betty,” she added. “Jill is away, too. She’s still in college. Betty is six. She’s growing up like an only child, since the rest of us are living away.”

“Yeah, that can happen. But . . . you still live here, don’t you?” He looked puzzled, as if wondering if he had missed something.

“Good point. I was just trying to make sure you were paying attention,” she joked.

“Oh, I haven’t missed a word, Amanda. Don’t worry.” He looked up and caught her gaze for a moment. His blue eyes were pretty amazing, like diving into the deep end of a swimming pool on a very hot day.

She almost forgot what she was about to say.

“I was living in New York City,” she explained. “I moved there after grad school and had an apartment with a few friends. But it didn’t work out, and I moved back to Cape Light a few weeks ago.”

She practically swallowed the last few sentences. It was hard to admit. She knew it wasn’t really a failure—just a temporary setback—but it still stung. It still felt hard to say the words out loud, especially when Gabriel Bailey seemed so . . . so impressed with her or something.

He didn’t say anything at first, and she wondered if he thought less of her now. “New York’s loss, Cape Light’s gain, I’d say. So, what were you doing in New York? You weren’t a church music director down there, were you?”

Amanda laughed. “Everything but. I took a lot of different jobs, some musical and some not. I worked as an accompanist at a dance studio, played evenings in a restaurant, and waited tables at the same restaurant other nights, too,” she admitted. “I was really trying to find a place in an orchestra with my cello and was auditioning a lot.”

“I see. So you’re a serious musician. You want to play at Carnegie Hall, or Lincoln Center, something like that?”

“Something like that.” Right now she would settle for the most unknown orchestra in the most obscure city in the country. But she didn’t tell him that.

“I took the job at church because it’s better than working in my mom’s shop, but I’m still sending out my tapes and waiting to hear about auditions.” She wondered if this would dampen his interest in her. She suddenly hoped not.

Gabriel nodded. “That’s good,” he said. “It’s important to set your sights high. Anyone can see that you’re very talented.”

“Thanks . . . We’ll see.” She rarely talked about herself this much, and she was curious about him. “So what are your stained-glass works like? Are they in any special style?”

He looked pleased at her interest, but there was a teasing light in his eyes, too. “Let’s see . . . how can I describe them? They’re sort of . . . flat and square . . . though some are curved around the edges,” he added in a perfectly serious tone. “And colorful,” he added thoughtfully.

She played along. “And made out of glass?”

He looked pleased by that response. “Yes, exactly.”

She couldn’t keep a straight face any longer and started laughing. “Seriously, is your work abstract? Realistic? Somewhere in between? . . . Or maybe you don’t want to tell me? That’s all right, I understand. Sometimes it’s hard to describe an artistic style. I was just wondering.”

Gabriel shook his head. “I didn’t mean to be facetious. It’s nice of you to ask. I guess you could say the style is sort of abstract, but not just mosaic designs. You can tell what you’re looking at, most of the time . . . Does that help?”

She nodded. “It helps a lot. Do you enter any exhibits or show your work in any galleries?”

She wondered then if she was asking too many questions. He looked a little put off by that line of inquiry.

“I sell a few pieces in my shop. But mainly, I just enjoy making it,” he explained.

Amanda decided not to press him. “Maybe I could see your work sometime,” she said finally.

He smiled again. “Yes, I hope you can . . . Hey, I almost forgot, you did a great job today at the service. Were you nervous?”

“A little,” she admitted. “Did it show? I know I hit a few bad notes.”