Snow Way Out: A Mystic Snow Globe Romantic Mystery (The Mystic Snow Globe Mystery Series Book 2) Read online

  Evanee grinned. “Lanterns? Do I ever!” She motioned for Bluebell to follow her. “Lanterns are my favorite. I literally pick them up anytime I see them. I’ve got this whole shelf here full of lanterns.”

  Bluebell’s eyes widened as she took in the wide assortment of vintage pieces in all shapes and sizes. “I knew I came to the right place.” She swept her hand through the air. “I’ll take them all.”

  Evanee shot a glance in Gemma’s direction. Gemma’s mouth gaped.

  “All of them?” Evanee swallowed hard. There had to be at least two dozen lanterns there, and Evanee didn’t exactly give them away.

  Bluebell nodded. “What my Annie wants, my Annie gets. I’m sure her father would agree.” She strode towards the counter, motioning for Evanee to follow this time. “Would you like me to pay now, or would you prefer to bill me? And would you mind delivering them for me? I just don’t have time today to load them all up, and besides, I’ve only got the Lexus with me. But if necessary I can come back tomorrow with the Highlander.”

  Evanee shook her head. “No, no. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll get these wrapped up and delivered later this afternoon, and I’ll tuck the bill into the box.” The Adamses lived in a sprawling mansion tucked away on thirty wooded acres. Evanee had delivered there before, but with the trees starting to turn, Evanee was excited at getting a chance to see the place once again.

  “Thank you, Evanee. I appreciate it. You know, Annie was supposed to get married next spring, but we’ve had a change in plans and they’ve moved the wedding up to the end of the month!”

  “The end of this month?” Gemma balked, her eyes wide.

  Bluebell’s head bobbed. “Yes! So much to do and so little time. And now Gracie has had to cut her year abroad short to come home for her sister’s wedding. I’m supposed to pick her up from the airport this weekend. It’s just been one thing after the other with the Renaissance Festival coming up too.”

  “Well, if we can help in any way, please, let us know,” said Evanee.

  Bluebell shouldered her purse and strode towards the door. “Oh, the fact that you had this many lanterns has been a huge help. You’re simply a lifesaver. I hope to see you Monday night.”

  “I’ll certainly try and be there, Bluebell.”

  “Oh, and a word to the wise, you best start looking now for a Renaissance dress. They’re difficult to find. You may even want to consider ordering one online now.”

  Evanee brightened. She got to go dress shopping? Yes, please. “I’ll start looking right away! I appreciate the invitation.”

  “Thank you, Evanee. You girls have a nice day now.”

  “You too, Bluebell.”

  When the woman was gone, Evanee turned to Gemma, who had jumped up to sit on the counter. “See? Now that is what I want to be when I grow up,” she said, beaming.

  Gemma frowned. “What? A Renaissance Festival performer?”

  Evanee giggled. “No! Bluebell Adams. That woman has everything I want. She’s got a big, beautiful house. She’s got perfect children. A prince of a husband. She’s involved in everything. The whole town loves her. She’s like a princess! I want what she’s having!”

  “Here we go with the princess thing again. You know, there’s nothing wrong with living a normal life, Ev. I did it and I’m perfectly content with my life.”

  “But I’m not you, Gemma. I want the fairy tale. I want the castle and the valiant prince and his white steed.”

  Gemma winced. “I hate to break it to ya, Ev, but if you’re looking for a prince and his steed, you started your life over in the wrong town. The only prince in Stoney Brook is the self-proclaimed tire prince, Arlan Higgins Jr., and I’m quite certain he won’t fit the bill.”

  Evanee shrugged. It had occurred to her on more than one occasion that perhaps she’d gone about picking the place to start her life over again in the wrong manner. She’d originally hailed from Seattle, but after a nasty breakup with her long-time boyfriend, she’d needed a change, so she’d pulled out a map of the US, closed her eyes and pointed. Her finger had landed on Vermont’s lower quadrant. Of course she hadn’t known a single thing about the area, so when she’d Googled it and seen how quaint the area was, it had seemed like it was meant to be.

  “Yeah, well, something inside me told me this was what I was meant to do, Gemma. I believe in fate and I believe in fairy tales. My prince will come along sooner or later.”

  “Let’s hope it’s sooner rather than later,” said Gemma with a grin. “Your clock is ticking.”

  A clattering sound from outside caught both of the women’s ears.

  “What in the world is that noise?”

  Gemma leapt off the counter and peered out the small square windows of the oversized garage doors that faced the road. “Oh! Our pumpkins are here!”

  “Our pumpkins? Why in the world do they sound like that?”

  Gemma giggled. “That’s just Steve’s truck. It’s pretty old.”

  “Well, one of us needs to go arrange the pumpkins outside and the other one needs to get Bluebell’s order put together. Which would you prefer?”

  Without hesitation, Gemma dashed towards the lantern display. “Tell Steve I said hello!”

  2

  Lane Dawson pulled the old red pickup to a stop in front of Woods Rustic Wares and threw open his door. The hinges squealed like a stuck pig, but he didn’t notice. Everything on his father’s truck made noise. From the squeaky hinges to the rumbling exhaust system, to the knocking when he turned a corner and the rattling when he went over bumps. He hated driving the darn thing, but he also hated dirtying his own truck making deliveries. And while his dad’s truck needed a good tune-up, there just weren’t enough hours in the day to put towards vehicle maintenance when there were so many other things to do on the farm during harvest season.

  With a wad of dipping tobacco tucked into his bottom lip, Lane walked around to the back of the truck and unhooked the tailgate. Chewing tobacco was not a regular hobby of his, but rather an indulgence he’d allowed himself that afternoon. After the day he’d had, he’d decided he needed the stress relief that the nicotine provided.

  Lane gave the front of the building a once-over. Beneath the old fire hall’s pitched roof were two overhead garage doors. Above them, and attached to the freshly painted red building, the store’s name was spelled out in vintage three-dimensional metal letters. To the right of the building, which was where the shop’s front door was located, a lean-to and covered front porch had been added on. Next to the front door, the blades of an old windmill had been fastened to the siding, and beneath them sat a white picnic table and a warmly dressed scarecrow with a fake blackbird on its shoulder. Lane thought the picnic table looked to be as good of a place as any to unload his truckful of pumpkins, and he got right to work.

  He’d already made three trips, unloading a half dozen of the bigger pumpkins to the picnic table, when he returned to his truck, lost in his thoughts. He was making a mental list of what he needed to finish up when he got back to the farm before he could call it a day. He gathered two more pumpkins into his arms and then leaned backwards and sideways to spit onto the dirt.

  Promptly, he heard someone suck in their breath in a gasp of disgust.

  Lane turned his head in surprise to see a tall, slender brunette looking down at her shoes, horror covering her face. His chew had fallen onto the toe of what appeared to be gray suede ankle boots. His eyes widened. “Oh, ’scuse me, ma’am, I didn’t know anyone was there,” he said, shooting her a haphazard grin. He only felt slightly bad about her shoes. That was what one got for sneaking up on a man while he was working.

  Her face burned red as she stared down at her shoe. “That is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen,” she breathed, staring at the stain.

  Lane sighed but put his pumpkins down on the tailgate and then obligingly squatted down to wipe his spit from the top of her shoe with his leather work glove. The suede only seemed to absorb the y
ellowy saliva, making it worse the more he rubbed. “Sorry ’bout that. I could clean ’em better if you like? I prolly have something back at the house that’ll get that out.”

  The woman’s green eyes flashed. “No, I’ll clean them myself. Next time perhaps you should watch where you’re… spitting.” She gestured towards her boots.

  On the rare occasion that Lane used dipping tobacco on the farm, he didn’t worry about where he was spitting. And it was very rare that he chewed while making a delivery, so to him, this was a one-off event. But he had a feeling the woman standing in front of him didn’t want to hear all that, so he simply shrugged.

  “Well maybe you shouldn’t go sneaking up on a man when he’s working.”

  “Sneaking up on a…” said the woman, her brow furrowed. “I certainly wasn’t sneaking up…” She stopped talking and pursed her lips as if she were trying to gather herself. “This is a place of business, sir. In the future, I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from using chewing tobacco on my premises.”

  Lane sighed. What crawled up her keister? He tipped his greasy baseball cap towards the woman. “Yes, ma’am,” he said before giving her his back and working to reload the pair of pumpkins into his arms.

  He thought that’d be the end of their conversation, but Miss High ’n’ Mighty felt the urge to continue. He sighed when he heard her voice again.

  “Has anyone ever told you about the dangers of chewing tobacco?”

  Lane kept unloading and quietly sighed to himself. Only every person in his family, except his father. He was the only one that had never said a word to him about chewing. “I think I’ve heard a few people mention something about that,” he admitted without turning around.

  “Not only could it give you cancer, but it’s really a nasty habit too.”

  Lane leaned back in the opposite direction and spat again. “Pfft.” He turned to face her then. “Is it?”

  She frowned. “Yes. It is.”

  “Well, thanks for the tip. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a truck to unload.”

  The woman stood with her hands propped up on both hips as he walked past her. Lane could feel her eyes on him as he carried the two pumpkins towards the front porch. His boots had no sooner touched her front porch than he heard her call out.

  “Sir, those don’t go there.”

  He’d just begun to lower a pumpkin to the picnic table when he stopped short and looked up at her. He quirked a brow. “’Scuse me?”

  She wiggled her fingers in his direction. “Those pumpkins. They don’t go here.”

  Lane frowned. He’d already made several trips with them, and they weren’t exactly bags of feathers. “Well, where do they go?”

  “Around to the other side,” she said, pointing towards the side of the building where a little pergola sat fronted by potted mums and decorated with orange-and-black Christmas lights.

  “Well, why didn’t you say that before I went and unloaded all of these?” He readjusted the two still in his arms and began walking with them towards the pergola.

  “You should’ve stopped inside first, and I would’ve told you where I wanted them,” explained the woman.

  “Right.” He kept walking. He could feel his temper growing. He’d had a lousy day. His hay baler had broken down. Some hens had gotten loose and he’d had to chase them around the yard, return them to their pen, and then set about finding out how they’d gotten out in the first place. And then he’d had to quit early to get a load of pumpkins ready for Miss Snooty Pants. And now she wanted to chastise him about his tobacco use and complain about where he’d put a couple of darned pumpkins?

  The woman behind him was silent as he walked towards the pergola. He heard her let out a heavy sigh. “Sir? I guess you could leave those ones over here. I’ll probably need a few to decorate the shop with anyway.”

  Lane stopped walking and closed his eyes. Did she seriously want him to go back? Taking in a deep breath, he let it out slowly, then turned around to face the woman.

  “Just tell me where you’d like ’em, ma’am, and I’ll put ’em there.” I’ll tell you where I’d like to put ’em, thought Lane.

  She pointed to the building’s front porch. “Picnic table is fine.”

  He grimaced but returned the pumpkins to the place he’d originally intended on putting them.

  “You can put the rest over on the pergola, though.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said through a clenched jaw.

  “And you don’t have to call me ma’am,” said the woman. “My name is Evanee Woods. I’m the owner here.”

  She hadn’t had to tell him. Lane knew who she was. She’d been in town a couple of years, and he’d seen her at the general store once or twice. Of course she’d never noticed him, not that he’d wanted her to or anything. She might’ve been a good-looking woman, but she carried herself a bit too much on the uppity side for Lane’s taste. He preferred women who were much more down to earth. Someone who wouldn’t complain about a little tobacco spit here and there and could maybe even drink a beer with him outside and listen to the crickets sing on a cool fall evening while enjoying a fire.

  Lane tipped his hat at her as he walked past to gather another load of pumpkins. “Ms. Woods.”

  “And you’re Steve Dawson?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m Lane Dawson. Steve’s my dad.”

  “Oh, I thought Steve was the one that was coming out today.”

  “No, ma’am. I do most of the delivering.” Lane wondered when she’d just go on back inside and let him do his work.

  “Oh, alright. Well, thank you for bringing out the pumpkins. I do appreciate it. We had some type of moth larvae they call a vine borer get into our patch this year. They destroyed everything we’d planted.”

  “That’s what I hear. You really should spray for those in July.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “Well, now I’ll know for next year.”

  Lane turned to her then and propped one hand up on his hip. He squinted into the sun. “You really don’t need to be outside for this, ma’am. I’ll take care of unloading, and we’ll send you the bill for the produce.”

  “Right.”

  He continued to move pumpkins, but Evanee Woods didn’t move from her place right next to his truck. When he’d unloaded another half dozen pumpkins, she finally followed him to the pergola. She stood watching him from there. One of her long fingers absentmindedly tapped against her nose.

  He looked up at her. “Is there something you need, Ms. Woods?”

  She gave him a tight smile. “Do you mind if I just rearrange these while you unload? They aren’t quite like I pictured them.” She pulled on a pair of gloves he hadn’t noticed her carrying and squatted over to move a couple pumpkins around.

  “You want to rearrange the pumpkins?” He stared at her as she worked, quickly arranging the pumpkins so that they varied in size, shape, and color. She put some up on the picnic tables in the pergola and others on the floor. It bewildered him.

  “You can keep unloading,” she said as she worked, glancing up at him.

  He lifted his hat with one gloved hand and rubbed his wrist against his blond curls, damp from sweat. “Why are you doing that?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Moving the pumpkins around? What’s wrong with the way I unloaded them?”

  She didn’t stop to look up at him but instead kept working. “They just weren’t aesthetically pleasing,” she said. “See, if I mix the small ones with the big ones and put them at varying heights, they look so much more attractive.” With a huff, she stood back to look at the pumpkins she’d just rearranged. “There! Doesn’t that look so much better?”

  Lane cocked his head to the side. Pumpkins were pumpkins. What difference did it make if they were all mixed up or stacked on top of one another? He shrugged, his arms dangling by his side. He was tired and didn’t have the energy to deal with the batshit crazy lady in front of him.

  “Whatever pops your cork, la
dy. Where do you want me to put the rest of these?”

  “Just keep bringing them to me,” she said shortly. “I’ll just keep arranging.”

  “Fine,” he bit back just as shortly.

  For the next fifteen minutes, the two of them worked wordlessly side by side, unloading his truck. At one point, she’d dragged over another picnic table and found some wooden crates and a couple empty bushel baskets. She’d tipped the crates over and stacked the pumpkins on top of them, while the bushel baskets, she just tipped sideways. When he was done unloading, her pergola and the surrounding yard were filled with pumpkins mixed with the potted mums. He passed the last two pumpkins to her, and she put them where they needed to go. He noticed the rust-colored sweater she wore had gotten smudged with some good old-fashioned dirt along the way, but surprisingly, she hadn’t seemed to mind.

  Lane took a moment to watch as Evanee readjusted the last load, twisting a pumpkin around to put the bad spot in the back and adding a smaller pumpkin next to it. How someone got so hot and bothered over something so minor, Lane wasn’t sure, but ultimately, he didn’t mind watching her work. She happened to possess a lean, athletic frame that was quite pleasing to the eye. He didn’t get much of that out on the farm.

  When she was done, she stood up next to him and turned to face him. “Well, what do you think? Don’t they look nice like that?”

  Lane rubbed a hand against the back of his neck and then shrugged. “I suppose they look nice.”

  “Thank you,” she said, clasping her hands together in front of herself proudly.

  “But they looked nice in my garden too. I grow a nice-looking crop of pumpkins if I do say so myself.”

  Evanee frowned at him. Lane fought back a smile. He found that it was actually kinda fun pissing the woman off.

  She stared at him hard until he no longer wanted to smile anymore. Then she lifted one brow and said sharply, “You didn’t bring my gourds?”