Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Funny that I hadn’t been able to get the chief out of my head since I’d seen him last. It was the shoulders, I decided, and all that hard muscle on his solid frame. I understood why people stopped and stared at the man; I might have as well if he wasn’t always growling at me.
Someone asked a question, jogging me out of my thoughts, and that was a good thing.
“Okay, everyone,” I began, “in front of you at your tables are eighteen-inch grapevine wreaths that myself, Millie, and others made yesterday and let dry overnight. If you want to do this yourself in the future, grapevines are the best, and we get ours donated by the wonderful Blue Water winery in Seneca Lake—that’s Millie’s hookup.”
Everyone hooted and whistled, and Millie blushed.
“Not that kind of hookup,” she chided before turning to me. “Xander Corey!”
I just laughed, and then there were questions about the process of making the wreaths, and I explained about soaking the vines in water for thirty minutes, making circles, using side branches to wrap around bigger ones and make it as uniform as possible.
“You can use other vines as well, and I have a list if anyone wants them after class.”
On each table were things that I had foraged for a month in advance. I explained that before they started, everyone had to close their eyes and imagine the wreath they wanted in their home.
“Once you see it,” I told them, “then you can begin.”
As they all got to work, every table of six with three hot-glue guns—an item I had never used in my life—the conversations began.
I had been taught to use melted beeswax if an adhesive was needed—nothing unnatural was used on any wreath I’d ever made. My magic, the earth magic I used, relied on the natural world.
Millie took me aside and said, “This is supposed to be an excursion for those who came here instead of going to class this afternoon.” She tipped her head toward the patio overlooking the river, where two girls were deep in conversation. “I think we have some class-cutting happening out there. Can you check what’s going on?”
I looked at her. “Why do I have to go?”
“You teach this class too,” she snapped at me.
“Yes, but you’re the actual art teacher.”
Her look told me to get my ass out there.
“It’s because you don’t have a jacket,” I groused as I started toward the glass doors. “Just that stupid sweater.”
She gasped. “I’ll have you know this cardigan is silk, and it’s Prada.”
I shook my head at her.
“Amanda gave it to me.”
“Of course she did.”
Stepping out onto the patio, I smiled at the girls. “It’s wreath-time, people. You wanna come inside?”
They both only stared at me like I’d said something they didn’t understand.
One of them was Delia Evans, whom I’d met a couple of months ago when her aunt visited me and brought her along, and the other was Cassidy MacBain, Chief MacBain’s niece, whom I knew only because she and her father had stood next to the chief when he was introduced to the town. Delia was now leaning against the wall, crying, and Cassidy was patting her back and handing her tissues.
“What’s wrong?” I asked gently.
Delia blew her nose while Cassidy studied me.
“Did you not want to be here?” I offered. I knew Delia wouldn’t be crying over having to make a wreath, but I was hoping to get her talking. She had the loveliest big brown eyes framed with thick dark lashes now wet with tears. Her hair, which had been up in a bun a moment before, had fallen out and now hung down her back in beautiful box braids.
“It’s not that,” she answered, taking more tissues from Cassidy to wipe her eyes and blow her nose.
“Could you tell me what it is? Maybe I can help.”
“You can’t.”
“But you can’t really know that,” I pointed out, “unless you tell me.”
We were back to the staring.
“I don’t know if you heard when I was introduced, but I’m Xander Corey.”
Cassidy offered me her hand. “I’m Cassidy MacBain, but you can call me Cass.”
“Cass,” I repeated, shaking her hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
With a hint of a smile, Cass let go, and then Delia and I shook hands as well. “I’m Delia Evans,” she said, sniffling. “But you know that from when my aunt brought me over to your house.”
“I remember.”
“And that’s one of the reasons I don’t want to get into it—because you’ll tell my aunt.”
“Okay,” I agreed, nodding, taking a step back. “But it is cold out here, so you should both come inside and—”
“You have twigs stuck in your hair,” Delia observed.
“I do?”
She nodded, and I could see her grin.
Bending over, taking my hair out of the bun it was up in, I shook it out and saw pieces of straw raining down onto the wooden planks of the patio. “For crying out loud,” I grumbled, realizing that Millie had let me look like a porcupine for my entire presentation. Not that you could tell straw from my hair—it was nearly the same color.