More than a feeling, p.1
More Than a Feeling, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Reviews for C.J. Carmichael’s previous Frost Family & Friends novel
MORE THAN A FEELING | A Cozy In Carol Falls Story | By | CJ Carmichael
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE
Also by CJ Carmichael
About the Author
Reviews for C.J. Carmichael’s previous Frost Family & Friends novel
"What a fabulous, heart–warming story this was. Carmichael moved me to tears with her realistic characters and vision of small town life. Well written and moving, I recommend this book to any lover of romance." Katie O'Conner, Amazon Reviewer
"This...is a wonderful read! I enjoy C.J.'s style of writing. She keeps you interested, from start to finish. (I kept thinking what a great movie, this story would make.)" PATucker, Amazon Reviewer
"I really got pulled into this book. I've always liked small towns and this to me, is the picture perfect place to be." Jamie, One More Chapter Reviews
MORE THAN A FEELING
A Cozy In Carol Falls Story
By
CJ Carmichael
Copyright, 2013 by Carla Daum All rights reserved
This e–book is licensed for your personal reading enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Designer: Kim Killion at Hot Damn Designs
Editor: Linda Styles
Formatting: Anessa Books
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my writing partners, Roxy Boroughs and Brenda M. Collins.
It’s a joy to continue to build the world of Carol Falls with you both. Thanks for reading early drafts of this story—and for all your suggestions.
I also want to thank my editor, Linda Styles, who helped this become a better story.
And thanks to copy editor Ted Williams, who added that final polish.
Dedicated to the memory of my mom.
CHAPTER ONE
From her perch at the sales counter, Robin Redmond kept her eye on the older man perusing the classics section of the bookstore. She tried to be surreptitious about it, pretending to study the papers in front of her, and only occasionally lifting her gaze to follow his progress along the aisle.
The man was in his fifties, with salt–and–pepper hair, stooped shoulders and a plump physique. He was dressed in baggy, gray wool trousers, a button–down shirt and a knitted vest. The outfit made him look like a cerebral, absent–minded professor, when, in fact he owned a little Fix–It Shop just off Red Bridge Avenue —and had a twin brother who was a registered sex offender.
The last time Robin had met him face–to–face, he’d been in his early twenties and she’d been six. They’d lived on the same street, just four doors down from one another. But she could see no sign of that long–ago young man in this older version, just as she was quite confident that to him, she would appear to be a stranger, as well.
“How ya’ doing Mr. G.?” Merry Palmer, on staff with Robin today, pulled out a stepladder so she could add some books to one of their displays. Merry was in her early twenties, barely five feet tall with short spikey purple hair.
Robin guessed that Merry’s casual shortening of his last name didn’t please their customer. But he frowned for only a second before replying smoothly, “I’m well, Merry. And you?”
“Awesome, thanks.” She slotted in the books, then moved the ladder farther down the aisle.
At that moment the customer made his selection, pulling out a volume from the “D” section. He opened the novel, flipped through the pages, and then snapped it shut. Quickly Robin lowered her gaze, sensing he was about to make his purchase.
Robin had just moved to Carol Falls, Vermont, last week, this was her third day on the job. Though she’d worked in bookstores most of her adult life, this customer had her totally off balance. She was afraid her hand might tremble with nerves as she took the book from him. And it did, but only a little. She hoped he wouldn’t notice.
“Heavy reading,” she commented as she scanned the bar code for The Brothers Karamazov.
“Indeed,” he responded with the sort of rich baritone suited to narrating documentaries on cute wild animals. “Have you read it?”
“It was required for my degree. I have to admit getting through the story was a struggle. But the experience was ultimately rewarding.”
“You may find it worthy of a revisit.”
“One day I’m sure I will. Do you have a loyalty card with us?” As she asked the question, she heard the tinkle of bells at the front door, announcing a new arrival. In walked a tall, good–looking man wearing a thick coat and a plaid scarf tied carelessly at his throat. He headed straight to the display of local authors.
She returned her attention to her paying customer.
“I do.” The man pulled out a black leather wallet, and from there a tattered rectangle of cardboard.
She noted the name, Alistair McGuire, before adding a stamp. “Want to choose another book? You’ve earned a freebie.”
“May I use it next time I’m in?”
“Sure. Just keep your card to prove you’ve bought nine books with us.”
After she’d put through his credit card, he pulled out a cloth shopping bag—it was the kind sold here at Book Marks, with the store name and address stamped on the front. As he added his new book, she saw he already had a paperback in the bag.
“You like Westerns, too, Mr. McGuire.” From the battered shape of the paperback, he’d probably borrowed it from the library.
“Not enough to buy them new, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, don’t apologize. I’m sure even my bosses own library cards. I know I do.” She couldn’t believe she was conversing with him as if he were any other customer. It helped that he didn’t look like the brother of a monster.
And that he loved the classics. She’d been working in bookstores for most of her adult life and she could count on one hand the number of customers—excluding college students —who’d purchased a book by Dostoevsky.
Which only proved, genetics wasn’t everything.
“Thanks for your help, Miss —?” He glanced at her name tag, which only had her first name.
“Robin is fine.” Caution in giving out her surname was second nature to her, even after so many years, and despite having changed it after marrying Brad. She’d endured too many years of people giving her second glances, sometimes even asking, “Halse? Are you one of the sisters...?”
The sentences were never finished, because some things just didn’t bear saying out loud.
“Robin. Thank you, Robin.” Alistair McGuire gave her a courtly nod before leaving.
She took a moment to calm herself. Closed her eyes. Took several deep breaths.
She’d survived her first face–to–face meeting with the brother. That was a good first step. She tidied up her counter, waiting for her hands to steady, before seeing if her new customer needed help. He was pretty hunky, in his early thirties, tall, almost six feet, with dark wavy hair in need of a trim. His clothing was nothing special, just jeans, work boots and a jacket. But he wore them with an elegance that made him stand out from the customers she’d seen so far in this town.
“May I help you find something?”
He had a nicely balanced face, a smile that suggested good humor, and blue eyes that were bright with intelligence. “Since I’m new to the area, I was hoping to find a book on local history.”
His accent told her he was from Boston and well educated. She’d guess Harvard.
“I’ve just moved here, too. I found this book excellent.” She handed him a hardcover with beautiful photographs.
“Thanks.” He read the back cover, then gently opened the volume and glanced through a few pages. “Looks like just the thing.”
He gave her a warm smile and in the few seconds he held her gaze, she sensed he found her attractive. She noticed him glance from her name tag to her left hand, and instantly she also checked to see if he was married. He wasn’t.
“Glad I could help. Want me to ring that through for you?”
“I’m looking for something else, as well. By Robert Frost. I thought I might find a book of his poems in this section. Wasn’t he born and raised in Vermont?”
“A common misconception. He did own property in Vermont for many years, and moved here in his forties. But he was born in San Francisco, and spent a lot of time in New Hampshire as well as England. Still, we do keep his books in this section, of course.” As she worked to unearth a copy of an Anthology of Robert Frost’s Poems, she wondered about this man. Why would a Harvard educated man be living in Carol Falls and dressed like a common laborer?
Locating the book, she handed it to him.
“Ah—thanks. Last night I was reminded of a poem I read in high school. I was outside, watching the sparks fly out the Old Sugar Shack chimney. They look
“I remember that poem, too.” She didn’t want to be impressed. But it wasn’t often she met a guy who not only read poems, but remembered them. His comment about the sugar shack struck a chord, too. “So do you work on a maple syrup farm?”
“Yes. Frost Farms.”
She’d lived here less than a week, but had already been told they were the biggest employer in town, producing a wide variety of maple products from a farm about a mile out of town. “Any relation to the poet?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I come from a big family. Frost is a pretty common name, though.”
“We have one of the Frost Farm posters on our store bulletin board.” She’d looked at it a few times now, tempted by the invitation to “Tour a Real Maple Syrup Farm.” Underneath, a picture of a pair of beautiful draft horses pulling a wagon through snow–glistening fields, and frosty, bare–branched maple trees was irresistible.
“I’m a cousin of the family.” He shifted both books to his left hand, then held out his right. “Spencer Frost.”
“Robin.” She glanced at her name tag with a rueful smile. “Obviously.”
His hands were long and graceful. While they sported a few recent cuts and rough patches, they didn’t seem like the seasoned calluses of a farmer.
“So what about you, Robin?” he asked as he followed her to the check–out counter. “I was in the store last week and didn’t see you then.”
“I’m new. Moved here from Montpelier last week. Couldn’t believe my luck when I saw the “Help Wanted” sign in the window. Finding work in the bookselling business isn’t that easy these days.”
“Montpelier to Carol Falls.” Spencer folded his arms on the counter and leaned in toward her as she rang in his purchase. “Why?”
She couldn’t tell him everything. He would think she was crazy. Her ex–husband had certainly thought so. And, probably he’d been right. She was far from normal, that was for sure. So she settled for part of the truth. “My mother died about six months ago. I needed a change.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He sounded genuine and caring. Really, about the nicest, most attractive man she’d met in ages.
She stamped his loyalty card and handed him his bag of books. “Thanks, Spencer. I hope you enjoy the books.”
“I’m sure I will.” He glanced at the door then back at her. “You wouldn’t happen to have any interest in touring a maple syrup farm?”
“I do.” She pointed out the poster on the bulletin board behind her. “I was thinking of going on my next day off.”
“I could give you a private tour. We could go after hours —if you want to see the sparks.”
She could feel the pink rising on her cheeks—had he intended the double entendre? “I wouldn’t want to cause any extra work.”
“It’s a twenty–four–hour a day operation this time of year. So it would be no extra work at all. How about this evening, after dinner? I could pick you up.”
Instinctively she shook her head.
“We won’t be alone, if that’s what’s worrying you. And if you’d rather drive out with your own car, that’s fine, too. Please come. It’s really worth seeing, especially at night.”
She intended to say no, again. She wasn’t sure if this was a date, or even if she wanted it to be. But there was something about this guy’s eyes and the way he was looking at her.
“What time?”
* * *
The women Spence Frost dated were friends of friends, people he met at galas, fundraisers or through work, already connected to his social and professional network in Boston. This was the first time he’d ever asked a girl out based on a split moment of connection. That moment had occurred when he’d referred to the line about sparks in the night sky and she’d replied, “I remember that poem, too.”
And then, proving it, she’d made the leap to assuming he worked on a maple syrup farm.
Which had been absolutely right.
Everything about the pretty bookstore girl intrigued and pleased him. Her long, thick hair, her amber eyes, her sweet, but tentative smile. She seemed smart, but apprehensive, and totally lacking in calculation. He could tell she hadn’t tried to figure out his net worth or future earnings potential when she’d accepted his invitation.
In fact, getting her to agree to the tour had been downright difficult.
With some care, Spence placed his new books on the passenger seat of his SUV, which he’d parked outside the pharmacy. He’d already run the errand which had brought him into town in the middle of a working day, picking up pain–relievers for Harold Frost who’d been ordered by his wife, Sylvia, to let the younger men handle the work this spring, but who wasn’t listening at all.
Until two weeks ago, Spence had only seen his Vermont cousins a handful of times. But he’d heard lots of stories about them from his father who had enjoyed a number of memorable Christmas vacations at Frost Farms when he was a boy. Their branch of the family had originally settled in Vermont after emigrating from Suffolk County in England. In the late eighteen hundreds, Adam Frost had managed to accumulate a large tract of land less than an hour northwest of Montpelier and had helped to establish the town of Carol Falls.
Adam —Spence’s great–grandfather —had four sons, only one of whom stayed on the land. The others headed to various urban centers, in Spence’s grandfather’s case, to Boston, where he’d studied law and founded the firm Frost, Barrows and Irving. The firm where Spence’s father, Peter, was currently Managing Partner.
And where Spence, himself, had just been offered a partnership.
There wasn’t really any doubt that Spence would take the partnership. Except—if that were really true, would he have taken this working holiday?
Probably not.
The farm was only a mile from town and soon Spence was pulling into the recently plowed lane. Whistling, he made his way in through the back entrance so he wouldn’t track any slush into the main foyer.
“I picked up Harold’s prescription,” he announced, after removing his boots and heading into the kitchen. Sylvia was peeling potatoes at the sink, while the hired housekeeper, Verna Belmont, mixed batter in a large ceramic bowl. Feeding all the workers during sugaring off season was a big task in itself.
“Thanks so much, Spencer. That was really sweet of you.” Sylvia, trim with stylish, silver–colored hair looked elegant, even when her outfit was covered with an apron. “Would you like some coffee and a snack before you head back outside?”
Every time he showed his face around here, seemed he got an offer of food. “Still full from lunch,” he assured her. “But I better get out there and earn an appetite for dinner.”
Sylvia sighed. “Always so busy. I wish you would at least let Garret put you on the pay–roll.”
Garret was Sylvia and Harold’s oldest son. Since Harold’s supposed retirement last year, Garret was running the operation now. “Room and board is payment enough for me. Honestly. I’m loving this.”
Out the door he went, anxious to get back to work. What he’d told Sylvia was the truth. For once his body was working harder than his brain and it felt good. He’d been exhausted and burned out after his last trial. The hours he put in had paid off, since he’d ended up with a favorable verdict for his client. But he’d felt far from satisfied as the guy was clearly slime.
Everyone at the firm had been happy, however, especially his father.
As for Spence himself, he’d needed a vacation in a big way. His parents had offered up their Florida condo, but for once that hadn’t appealed. He didn’t want to laze around. He just wanted a change.
And he sure was finding it at Frost Farms. Thankfully Harold and Sylvia had welcomed him like a prodigal child, offering him the bedroom and bathroom over the garage, and all the delicious food he could eat.
As far as he was concerned, he was getting the better deal.
He shut the back door gently, then stepped out into the slushy snow, heading toward the new barn which was really more of a factory—a place where the sap from the maples was processed into syrup, then bottled for sale.
Judging from the landscape, most onlookers would assume the farm was still in winter hibernation. Snow covered the fields and tree branches were bare. But spring was coming. The slightly longer March days were warming the earth, bringing the temperature just a little above freezing every day, then dipping colder again at night.
