Sugar Plum Season. Mia Ross
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composure, she carefully straightened to her full height, which was still a foot shorter than his. “Yes, I am.”
The smile warmed, and he offered her the biggest hand she’d ever seen. Covered in scars, some old and others more recent, it clasped hers with a surprisingly gentle touch. “Jason Barrett. My day job’s building custom pieces out at the sawmill, if you’d like some references for my work.”
“Amy Morgan.” When she registered his name more clearly, she asked, “Are you related to the Barretts who founded the town and run Barrett’s Mill Furniture?”
“Yeah, I am.” He pointed across the street to the trolley facade of the town’s famous diner. “I made the new planter benches for the Whistlestop and replaced the park benches and seats around the old gazebo in the square.”
Amy had admired the handmade pieces many times and was impressed with his obvious skill. “They’re very nice. You did them by yourself?”
“Start to finish.” Cocking his head, he grinned. “I take it that means you’re looking for someone who’s good at working alone.”
“And quickly,” she clarified with a sigh. “My uncle Fred was building sets for our production of The Nutcracker, but he hurt his back during our family football game on Thanksgiving Day. I’ve only got three weeks until the show, so I need someone who can pick up where he left off and get everything done in time.”
“Sounds doable. Mind if I check things out before I promise something I can’t deliver?”
Unlike my ex-fiancé, she grumbled silently. He’d promised her the moon and then bolted when she needed him most. Still, her schoolgirl reaction to this towering stranger bothered her. The last time she’d followed her foolish heart, it hadn’t ended well. Who was she kidding? she chided herself. It turned out to be a complete disaster, and she still wasn’t over it. But she was a dancer, not a contractor, which meant she needed someone’s help. If she waited even a day or two longer to give other people time to respond, there was a good chance the charming sets she’d planned would have to be trimmed back to something less elaborate that could be completed in time.
Being a perfectionist by nature, that simply wasn’t acceptable to her. “Sure. Come on in.”
“This is real nice, by the way,” he said, motioning toward the huge display window. It was decked out with a rendering of Tchaikovsky’s famous ballet in miniature, and she’d just finished framing the scene with twinkle lights. “Makes me wanna come see the show.”
“I hope lots of people feel the same,” she confided. “The studio hasn’t been doing all that well in this economy, so Aunt Helen turned it over to me, hoping some new ideas will bring in more business. I’m doing everything I can to make sure she doesn’t regret it.”
Pulling open the entry door for her, he said, “Helen gave classes here when I was a kid. My mom used to drag my four brothers and me here to get us some culture to go along with the hunting and fishing we did with my dad.”
The way he phrased it made her laugh. “Did it work?”
Spreading his arms out, he looked down at his clothes and battered work boots, then grinned at her. “Whattaya think?”
“I don’t know,” she hedged, tapping her chin while pretending to study him carefully. “Looks can be deceiving.”
“Not with me,” he assured her in his mellow Virginia drawl. “What you see is what you get.”
How refreshing, she thought as she led him into the studio. In her world, you never knew what was truly going on behind the performer’s mask. Here in Barrett’s Mill, it was a relief to find people who were content being who they were, rather than acting like something else altogether. Knowing that didn’t totally make up for the glittering life she’d left behind, but it helped ease some of the sting that had a way of sneaking up on her when she wasn’t prepared for it.
Putting past regrets aside, she surveyed her studio with a sense of pride for what she’d accomplished since Aunt Helen handed over the reins to her. After plenty of scrubbing, painting and refinishing, the original plaster walls and wide-plank floors had a fresh, timeless quality to them. The wide-open space was dominated by the stage, bracketed by faded burgundy velvet curtains she’d replace as soon as she had the money. Structurally, the platform was as sound as the days when she’d starred in her aunt’s dance recitals.
So long ago, she thought wistfully. If she’d known her ballet career would end before she was twenty-five, she’d have valued those productions more.
“This music is nice,” her visitor commented in a courteous tone that made it clear he’d rather be listening to something else. “What is it?”
“One of Mozart’s violin concertos. Number four, I think.”
“Pretty,” he went on with a grin. “It suits you.”
She wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she didn’t say anything. As they made their way to the stage, she found herself appreciating the self-assured nature of Jason’s long strides. He was well over six feet tall, with wide shoulders and a powerful build to go with the outdoorsy history he’d mentioned earlier. He had a strong, solid look to him; it made her think of an oak tree that could stand up against any storm nature chose to throw at it. And yet he moved with a confident grace she envied. She’d give anything to walk that freely again.
When he stopped to look at the framed pictures displayed on the wall at stage left, she knew what had drawn his attention and braced herself for the inevitable question. He turned to her with an amazed expression. “This is you?”
“They’re all me,” she replied politely, the way she always did when someone asked. “Back in my performing days.” Sometimes, they struck her as being from another lifetime. Other days, she felt as if she’d just stepped off the stage after taking her bows. When she allowed herself to think about them, she missed those days with an intensity that made her wonder if teaching was really the right decision for her. The problem was, dance was all she’d ever known, which didn’t leave her with any other options. She’d simply have to find a way to make the best of things.
“I’m not an artsy kinda guy, but these are incredible. What’s this move called?”
Going to join him, she saw where he was pointing and did her best to smile. “An arabesque jump. It was my favorite to perform, so I renamed the studio Arabesque.”
His eyes roamed over the rest of the grouping and stopped on one of her dancing Clara in a youth production of the holiday ballet she’d chosen for this year. The photographer had caught her in midair, making her look as if she was flying. It was by far her favorite shot and the one she would have most liked to shred into a million pieces.
Staring at it for a few moments, he looked down at her with a remarkably gentle smile. It was as if he’d sensed her reaction and was making an attempt to ease her discomfort. “Incredible. How old were you?”
“Twelve. I’d been taking classes at a ballet school in D.C. for four years, and that was my first Christmas production.”
“Not really,” he teased, tapping his finger on a framed print of her as a six-year-old Rosebud. “I was here for this one, and I remember you.”
“You do not,” she huffed. “I barely remember it myself.”
“You came onstage after the other flowers,” he corrected her with a grin. “The older ones all stayed in line, doing their thing, while you floated around like a butterfly. They were good dancers, but there was something different about you. Not to mention, I thought you looked like the pretty ballerina in my cousin’s jewelry box.”
Amy felt a blush creeping over her cheeks, and she blinked up at him in total bewilderment. She’d always assumed boys that age were more interested in bugs and snakes than classical dance, and that he still remembered her all these years later was astounding.
Realizing