It's That Time of Year. Christine Wenger

down, she must have seen that her hand was still on his arm. She snatched it away, and he missed that simple contact between them.

      “Melanie,” he began, but she interrupted him.

      “Forgiveness. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

      He blinked in surprise. She was right. He wanted forgiveness. Peace of mind. Absolution. Whatever she wanted to call it.

      “I’m not sure that I can give you what you want. I’m just not ready.” She looked into his eyes, and he thought he saw a glint of regret. “I’m sorry.”

      He nodded. “I’ll wait.”

      “I don’t know when—”

      “I’ll be in town for a while, doing whatever it is a grand marshal does. When you want to talk, give me a yell. I’ll be the one with the crown and scepter.”

      He could have sworn a slight smile touched Melanie’s lips before she walked away.

       Chapter Three

      The next day, Melanie reached for the rag in the pocket of her coveralls and wiped a damaged piece of the doorjamb on a four-door, 1929 Franklin dualcowl Phaeton. Studying the damaged car part, she knew that it was made from wood and not metal. It was commonly made from ash, and she knew she’d have to cut a new one herself. Luckily, she had just the right board in the storage room.

      She’d been working on the Phaeton for a collector for the past eight months. It was one of about five or six left in the world, and she was trying to talk him into donating the vehicle to a museum. She believed that everyone should have a chance to appreciate a classic car like the Phaeton.

      It was good to think about her work, rather than the turmoil of her life.

      She rubbed her hands together to warm them in the cold garage. Although the four industrial heaters hanging from each corner of the ceiling were turned on high, it wasn’t enough to penetrate through all the layers of clothing she wore to warm her bones. Her fingers were like icicles.

      Glancing out the window in the big doors of the bay, she saw it was snowing outside—big, fluffy flakes. The picture-perfect snow was a reminder of the picture-perfect Christmas she wanted to give Kyle.

      Tonight, someone else would again dress as Santa and read The Grinch Who Stole Christmas at the public library. Tomorrow, there’d be a snowman-making contest back at the town square. After that, a peewee hockey game at Tucker’s Pond, complete with bonfire, then a free skate and a craft sale. Events were scheduled for nearly every day throughout the next three weeks, and she and Kyle would be attending or participating in all of them.

      Soon, she and Kyle would cut their own tree and bring it home and decorate it. They’d go caroling with the church choir and do some Christmas shopping together. They might be small steps to take, but they were important to her—and hopefully special for Kyle. In the meantime, though, it was business as usual.

      As she removed the rest of the doorjamb from the car, Melanie heard voices in the office. She assumed it was her father coming in to have some coffee and talk. Since his “retirement” from Hawk’s Garage, he hadn’t missed a day. Jack was probably with him, anxious to get to work on one of his race cars. Then again, maybe it was Brian, ready to work on one of his endless spreadsheets or to hunt down some parts for her on the Internet.

      She looked at the office and saw her father and her two brothers waving and grinning from behind the floor-to-ceiling glass wall that separated the office from the garage.

      Coffee and doughnuts, a little gossip with whoever stopped in, then work. That was the usual routine at Hawk’s Garage, built on the site of Ezra Packard Hawkins’s smithy. In time, Ezra’s sons had turned it into a carriage-repair business and called itHawkins Livery. With the invention of the automobile, the business was renamed Hawk’s Garage and transformed into a gas station and auto-repair business.

      Melanie’s father had added another wing to the garage for classic car restoration and their race-car division. Jack kept the division purposely small, preferring to be very selective in the projects he undertook. Melanie had taken a shine to the intricacies of making antique cars new again, although she still liked to keep her mechanical skills up-to-date in the main repairs and maintenance garage when she had the time.

      Brian was less mechanically inclined. Armed with his MBA, he handled the business end and was in charge of finances. Their dad freelanced whenever the spirit moved him.

      Melanie always felt secure and loved just knowing that her family was around her. They were her strength, her lifeline. Sure, they worried about her too much and they were overprotective, but she loved them for their support and caring, especially after Mike died.

      Melanie sighed. Since last night, she couldn’t stop thinking about Sam LeDoux. Her entire family liked him—and so did everyone else in Hawk’s Lake. What did they know that she didn’t? Was she wrong not to hear him out?

      Maybe that would make him feel better, but not her.

      She’d always tried to keep her pain to herself. As a kid, she hadn’t had any girlfriends—they couldn’t understand why she’d rather rebuild an engine than chase boys. Her brothers were always hell-bent on teasing her, so they’d be the last two on earth she’d ever confide in. Nor could she talk to her mom, who’d had health issues, and her father had enough worries between her mother being sick and the garage.

      So little by little, she’d built a wall around herself—a wall that had become thicker and taller since her marriage.

      Lately, she was starting to see the defects in that wall, hairline cracks that continued to grow until it was threatening to fall down around her, leaving her defenses exposed for what they were—lies, halftruths and face-saving devices.

      The real truth was that Melanie was afraid of what she might see if she looked inside herself—and too deep into her marriage. There was an empty void in her mind the night of the ice storm. She knew something had happened that night that she couldn’t—or didn’t want to—remember.

      Melanie sighed. It’d be so much easier to continue to blame Sam LeDoux than to try and see through the gauzy recesses of her mind.

      Tossing and turning all night, she’d thought about the tree lighting and how she’d reacted when she’d found out who he was. She’d become a different woman from the one who had nearly flirted with him earlier—and she didn’t like that side of herself. After all, Sam had only wanted to explain what had happened that fateful night—and she’d shut him down.

      It had been easier to dislike him when she hadn’t yet met him, and hadn’t seen the pain in his eyes, an ache so similar to her own.

      Did that make her a horrible person?

      She found the piece of wood she’d been looking for and walked back into the garage. Another noise signaled that she wasn’t alone. Instead, there was Sam LeDoux himself, leaning against the wall of the garage, wearing a black leather bomber jacket and snug, faded jeans. To her utter mortification, something inside her sizzled.

      Why was she so aware of every little detail about him?

      “Hello, Melanie. I hope I’m not interrupting you.”

      She turned her attention back to the doorjamb, trying to calm the flickers in her belly caused by his deep, sexy voice. “You are.”

      Ignoring her response, he asked, “How did you become involved in fixing up antique cars?”

      She shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. I guess I always liked restoring things to their original state—especially old things. My aunt Betty got me into restoring antique furniture first, and cars came next.”

      Why was she telling him all this? She focused on the wood in her hands, preparing it for the jigsaw.

      “I think it’s wonderful that you’re so successful