Holiday Kisses

“But acknowledging you have an issue is the first step to fixing it,” she continued. “Come on, Ophelia. Let the man inside, please.”

“Ophelia, huh? I have a sister named Ophelia.” One who was currently as irritated with him as the rest of his family.

“It’s a good name. A strong name. Despite Shakespeare’s interpretation.” Calliope watched as her cat led him inside. “A bit delicate in the heart, perhaps?”

“Yes.” Xander thought of his sister, newly remarried after a disaster of a first go-round. “She’s stronger than she thinks.”

“Hmm.” Calliope nodded and latched the gate behind him. “Seeing as you’re here, you can help me finish setting up. After you have some breakfast, of course. Careful you don’t slip in those fancy shoes of yours.”

“Ah, breakfast?” Xander ignored the slight to his imported leather loafers even as he admitted he should have packed his running shoes. “Have we called a truce?”

“For today at least.” She set the jars down on one of the black iron café tables at the foot of her front porch. A collection of small pots spilling over with brilliant red cotoneaster and delicate snowdrop blossoms was only the first hint of holiday splendor on Calliope’s land. “I don’t have the energy to deal with negativity. I’m choosing to pick my battles from here on in.”

“So I’m a battle to be fought, am I?” He hoped so. He’d come to like the idea of battling wits with this eccentric woman.

She stopped, her hand on the doorknob of her home, and turned to him. “That depends. How tied are you to the plans you’ve already made for the butterfly project?”

“Hardly at all.” How could he be when the flaws seemed so obvious to him now. Not that he had other ideas. Yet.

Calliope lifted her hand, touched her palm to his cheek and stepped closer. Her eyes darkened, and the gold flecks in their depths sparked like flame. “We aren’t going to get along well, Mr. Costas, as long as you continue to lie to me.”

“Ah.” It was the only sound that came out of his mouth. Could one freeze under such warmth? His entire mind had gone blank, as if her touch had erased every thought coursing through him.

“Until you see.” Her voice was as light as a feather brushing against his skin. “Until you understand what it is we have to protect, what it is we need to do, your mind should be open to all possibilities.”

“All possibilities are never an option.” He’d managed to get out a reply as he struggled to be coherent. When he felt the pressure from her fingers ease, he reached up, caught her hand in his and looked deeper into her eyes. Surprise softened her gaze, but she pushed away the emotion almost as quickly as it had appeared. It was then he realized he could stare into her eyes—into that face—forever. “You’re meant to be my guide through the process. That I am open to.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Quick with a word, aren’t you? Let’s hope your heart can follow.” She pulled from his grasp as easily as water trickling through his fingers. “I’ve scones coming out of the oven and fresh eggs from a neighbor’s chickens. Coffee to start with?”

“Yes, please.” He trailed behind her without a second thought. Entranced was a word that had come to mind yesterday and he had yet to find another that fit. He stepped onto the porch as she disappeared inside, and took a few moments to look over the vast expanse of lush vegetation that stretched almost as far as he could see.

He’d done a bit of research last night, not that there was much to be found on Calliope Jones and her farm. She didn’t have a website or social media page. What he had found was on the city site, where the Friday and Saturday farmers’ market was listed as a tourist must. The menu outside Flutterby Dreams touted its dedication to farm to table. All its produce came from Calliope, as did local deliveries to homes and other businesses.

She was both a throwback and a progressive when it came to her business model. And she lived in a house made of stone. Stone older than Xander had seen in a long time.

He ran his hands across the grey river stones that made up her house as he wiped his feet on the mat. The weathered red door reminded him of a cottage he’d rented in Ireland one summer during a college break when he’d consulted on some historic restorations. Homes like that, and like Calliope’s, were built to stand the test of time.