To which her mother had replied, “And just where did you get the idea that dishes were always the mom’s job?”
Holly had frowned. Her father had just smiled to himself and averted his eyes. “Whaddya mean? Isn’t it?”
“Well, let’s see. Who dirtied these dishes?”
“We all did,” Holly said.
“So then shouldn’t we all clean them? Doesn’t that make more sense?”
Tipping her head to one side, Holly thought on it. “I guess it does. But if that’s how it is, then how come I don’t just wash the ones I dirtied, and you and Dad and Noelle wash your own?”
“We could do it that way, if you want to. Noelle’s too little yet, of course. But I think it’s nicer to take turns. That way you get two nights off after taking your turn instead of having to spend time in the kitchen every single night.”
Holly nodded slowly. “I guess you’re right.” Then she thought some more.
“Dad and I take turns doing dishes, but you make dinner every night, Mom. That’s not really fair, either, is it?”
“No, it’s really not,” her mother said. “But your dad’s a terrible cook.”
At which point Holly had nodded hard, dried her hands on a towel, and marched into the living room, where her father had gone. “From now on, Dad, you and I should take turns with the dishes, and leave Mom out of it. She cooks every night. It would be more fair.”
Her dad grinned at her and nodded hard. “You got it, kiddo. I think that’s a great idea.”
Holly smiled as the memory faded. She finished the cookie sheet and emptied the water, then grabbing a paper towel to wipe her hands dry, she went to the door and peeked out.
Even as she looked, he came tromping through what had to be six inches of snow already, toward the house. She opened the door for him just as he reached for it.
He stomped the snow off himself as best he could and came inside.
“So is it rude to say I told you so?”
“It’s coming down so hard out there I doubt I could see to drive anyway. And there’s so much snow in the road you can’t tell where the shoulders are.”
“And so you decided to try to leave anyway, because…?”
“I didn’t.”
“I heard the motor—”
“Oh, that. No, I just thought if I could turn the car around, I’d have a better chance of getting out once the roads are cleared.”
“Oh.”
He peeled off his coat, shook it, and hung it on the peg by the door. He was pulling of his boots when she said, “Just so you know, breakfast will be on you. Both prep and cleanup.”
He lifted his head slowly.
“We share chores in this house,” she told him. “And I did dinner.”
“I brought in the wood,” he countered.
“I’ll get the next load.”
“If I make breakfast, we get to have meat.”
“If you can find any meat in this house, besides the turkey, you’re welcome to cook it.”
“I might just go out and shoot something.”
“If you can find a gun in this house—”
He held up a hand. “Yeah, yeah. I know. I was being sarcastic.” His boots were off, and he carried them over to the fireplace, set them on the hearth, and then turned and went still. She’d taken all the blankets and pillows he had carried down the stairs and made up the sofa bed, and she had to admit it looked awfully inviting.
And he looked awfully nervous.
“There’s no other bed,” she told him. “Nothing that can be used for one, and if we divvy up what few blankets there are, we’re both going to freeze.”
“So we’re gonna sleep together?” he asked.
She grinned broadly. “Yeah. You don’t need to worry, though. Your virtue is safe with me.”
“Gee, I’m very reassured.”
“What, you don’t trust me?”
“It’s nothing personal. I don’t trust hippies as a rule.” He was teasing her.
She smiled even wider. “I don’t think there are any such things as hippies anymore.”
“I’m not sure we’ve come up with a slang word that describes you better.”
“Fine. You call me Hippie. I’ll call you Ebenezer.”
“Whatever.”
She shrugged and headed for her bag, which she’d slung on the floor near the stairs. “I’m going up to change.”
“I’m going down to light the water heater,” he said.
“It won’t do any good. Power will be out by morning. You’ll have a tank full of hot water and no electric to pump it.”
“I’m willing to risk it.”
“Have it your way.”
She headed up the stairs with her bag, so she could change clothes in the bathroom. And while she was thinking about it, she ran the bathtub full of cold water, just so they could bail buckets full to flush the toilet if the need arose.
And it did. No sooner had she changed into her favorite flannel pajamas, than the lights flickered and died.
It was the bang, followed by a deep shout from the cellar that made her go running down the stairs blind, but knowing the house by heart.
Eight
HE’D FIGURED OUT THE INSTRUCTIONS, FOUND THE MAIN gas valve, cranked it on, and was holding a match to the pilot, his thumb on the required button, when the lights went out.
Just as they did, the hot water heater lit with a soft “whoosh” and he let off the button, watching the flame inside. It stayed lit. Good.
Or not so good, depending. If the lights stayed out this time, Miss Know-It-All upstairs would probably never let him hear the end of it. Then again, it had to come back on sooner or later. And when it did, he would have hot water for a shower. So there.
He put the cover back on the hot water heater’s control panel, and rose, turning to make his way across the cellar to the stairway, but finding himself immersed in ink-thick darkness.
No problem, he could find his way out. It was straight ahead, about ten steps or so, and then—
He walked as he thought, and promptly banged his knee on something solid as a rock with an edge to it, which caused him to yelp in pain.
Dammit!
Her footsteps pattered rapidly up above, and seconds after that, there was a light at the top of the stairs. “Don’t move,” Holly called. “Let me get down there with the light first.”
“My hero,” he muttered, returning her earlier comment to her, just as sarcastically as she had delivered it. But his knee was throbbing big time, and he thought he’d done some damage there. So, okay.
She was beside him a moment later, holding the flashlight and examining his face while burning out his corneas. “Are you okay?”
“Yep. Fine. Let’s go upstairs.”
“What did you hurt?”
“Knee,” he said.
And he shouldn’t have, because then she was hunkering down, holding her light as if she could see something, when his jeans covered it anyway.
“Hell, it’s bleeding right through the denim. Come on, I can’t do anything down here.” She slid an arm around his waist, held him firmly against her side as she moved the both of them to the stairs, and then up them. He almost told her he didn’t need any help. Right up until he stepped on the leg, that is. The second he did, he knew from the surge of pain that he did need help. And she was the only one around to give it.
Hell, just what he needed: to be dependent on a damn happy hippie—much less one so damn sexy he could barely keep his hands off her as it was. And to be stuck with her for God only knew how long to boot.
Just shoot me now, he thought. And then the thought faded, because she smelled so damn good. He hadn’t been close enough before to realize it, he guessed. Or maybe she’d put some scent on when she’d been upstairs changing. Just for him?
HOLLY LED HIM TO THE FOLDED-OUT SLEEPER SOFA. HE SAT on its edge, tense as a bowstring. “Just relax. I’m not going to amputate, I promise.” She met his eyes, tried to put a reassuring light in her own, but he didn’t look reassured. He looked nervous.