No matter how long the winter, spring is sure to follow.
–Proverb
Prologue
One Year Ago
Cheer rang long and loud in the little pub in Stonebridge. The sounds of happiness echoed off the old pine walls in walloping gusts, flittered through the air in a merry, meandering breeze, and barked loud and boisterous like a gregarious beast on a contrastingly soft spring evening.
Ben Roberts gazed over the crowd jammed into the Plumber's Pub, taking in the many smiling faces, most of them rosy from the gushing overflow of booze. There was barely room to lift an elbow to pull a drink, but somehow the people managed to get heartily plastered in the name of love just the same.
The loyal herd had come out to support his sister, Abigail, in her marriage to Declan Fitzgerald of the Connecticut Fitzgeralds. Not that Abigail would enjoy such a label, being part of the "anyones" of anywhere. She certainly wasn't known for her love of pomp and circumstance. Instead she was known for her fiery tenacity, generous spirit, and, now, for being the wife of one of the wealthiest men in the country.
A wife, Ben thought to himself. His sister was now a wife. Funny how quickly life could turn directions on you.
As the eldest male in the family, he had walked his beaming sister down the aisle and handed her over to the love of her life that afternoon. And, to his mind, his sister deserved all the love and happiness crammed into that after-party at their family pub, and more. Even after Abigail and Declan left on a private jet for their honeymoon, Ben dutifully continued pouring beer and whiskey for the motley crew of regulars, and he was as proud a man behind the bar as he'd been standing beside his sister in the ceremony.
The wedding itself had been enjoyable enough, though Ben hadn't attended any other weddings to compare it to. And he'd gotten through the whole tuxedo business without itching too badly. His younger brother Beckett had, of course, disappeared for a time with one of the perky blond wedding guests, while Ben had observed the elegantly attired crowd—the "important" acquaintances of the Fitzgeralds—with his usual, deep-rooted stoicism.
Beckett often referred to him as a stick in the mud, and—on most days—meant it in the most loving of ways. But Ben wasn't a stick in the mud. He simply knew what it was to ground deep and stand tall through whatever blew in his direction.
And because what had blown his way that day was a wedding reception, he'd found himself eating—and disliking—Beluga caviar, while comparing where he, Beckett, and Abigail had come from. The lavishly decorated, extravagantly orchestrated afternoon provided an anchor to look back at what their lives had been like not too long before. The three of them—the Roberts kids—had been dirt-poor outcasts from even the most trivial collections of society, had gone to bed hungry most nights, and had barely owned a thing to their name. And now the trio proudly owned and ran the Plumber's Pub—a local watering hole in their small Connecticut town. And their afternoon was spent surrounded by scents of flowers Ben couldn't have possibly known the names of, eating food fancier than any he'd ever seen, and being catered to by a staff of men and women clothed in white tuxedos and pressed gloves.
While they'd been on the verge of losing the pub the prior year, his sister's tenacity had ensured they not only kept the pub, but also could complete the construction renovations necessary to ensure the building was back in good standing with the health department. And somehow along the way, she'd managed to get engaged to her high school sweetheart who was, inarguably, the richest man Ben figured he'd ever know.
He thought it would change things, change the way day-to-day life ticked along, knowing his sister would never be poor again, but not much was different. And, because Ben was attune to changes and shifts in mood and meaning, there was a certain blanket of relief that soothed, knowing that his sister was taken care of.
In the monetary, sense, he added to his thought, chuckling as he poured three generous fingers of whiskey. His sister was extremely capable of taking care of herself. He'd once walked through the pub's kitchen door in time to see her physically tossing out a man three times her size. The drunkard had enthusiastically reached for—and made contact with—her ass after too many tequila shots. And out the man went, on the sidewalk—nose first—with little sweat from Abigail.
"You as drunk as I am?"
Ben glanced over to his brother who sidled up behind the bar. "No one's as drunk as you are," he told him, then slid the whiskey to their meat supplier who'd joined the celebration.
"Then why were you laughing by yourself?"
Ben eyed Beckett. "Because I'm just that hilarious."
"Yeah, you're a regular riot." In response, Beckett jabbed Ben with his elbow, on purpose of course, as he hefted a collection of to-go containers onto the bar.
The noise rose and roared—someone's story had caused fits of giggles and table thumps in the corner. Ben and Beckett looked toward the commotion, the two pairs of golden eyes sharpening for just a flash.
"Old Barley Bill, telling tales," Beckett announced.
"Same stories, same crowd, same laughs." Ben loved the reliability of it, the hold of knowing that the crowd of humans crammed into the pub would return, laughing and telling tales, day in, day out. It was like a baseball mitt that had been worn in through the years and fit your hand—the curves and movement of it—just perfectly.
Plus, it was springtime, Ben thought with a slightly whiskey-sodden, meandering mind. Which meant baseball season. And that, too, was just perfect.
"So what's all this?" Ben motioned toward Beckett's delivery of goods as he pulled another pour of pale ale.
"A to-go order."
Ben looked at his brother. "I can see that much. You went back and cooked in a closed kitchen during a private party?"
The two men were nearly identical in stature—both were built with the strength and solidity of naturally lean muscle, both featured chestnut brown waves of hair that tended to go unruly, and both had brilliant honey-gold eyes. But while Beckett's eyes broadcast the sparkles of his boyish charm, Ben's were warm and vivid with hints of darker waters that ran deep.
"Someone called with an order." Beckett lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "Couldn't say no."
Ben passed a beer along to the town's kindergarten teacher who'd just arrived, then flicked a look at Beckett. "You mean a woman called with an order and you couldn't say no."
Beckett's face widened with a smile. "I'm a sucker."
"Clearly. What'd you make her?"
"Three boxes of whatever the hell we had left of all the food back there."
"Is that what she ordered?"
"It's what she's getting," Beckett offered, companionably.
Ever the responsible one, Ben retrieved the containers from the top of the bar and set them out of the way. "And I'm guessing you're leaving me to explain that to her?"
"That's why you're the one running the bar and I just run the kitchen. Well," Beckett corrected, "that's the setup for several reasons. You're better with customers and money, and I'm better with food and all things that happen behind closed doors."
"You should try closing the door more often. That girl last night moaned like a machine gun."
"That was fun."
"Not for me. Abigail and Declan better move out of the upstairs apartment so you can move into it. Then I won't have to put in shooting range earplugs when I sleep. The neighbors probably backed away from their windows, just in case."
"You know what you need?"
"Better sleep."
"Sex. Machine-gun loud, meaningless sex." Beckett reached for a handful of peanuts from one of the many bowls on the bar, tossed them in his mouth. Most of them made it in while the strays tumbled to the floor.
The glare Ben gave Beckett was one only a big brother could give.
"Come on," Beckett continued. "When was the last time you got laid just for fun?"
"I already clean up your messes when girls come in here crying, looking for you. I don't need my own messes on top of it."
"Have I thanked you lately for that?" Beckett tossed another peanut into his mouth but made a show of missing it, letting it hit his cheek and bounce to the floor.
"No, you haven't. And I'm not cleaning up after you or anyone else tonight. You're on cleanup detail, so that's a start in thanking me."
Beckett, who'd attempted to score a laugh from his brother, sighed at the lost cause. "Fine, fine," he lobbed out then slipped into the crowd.
Loud music chimed into the conversations, keeping the rhythm of the evening going. So when Ben glanced up and saw the newcomer swimming among the sea of people, he had a beat already thrumming through him. But at the full sight of her, the beat pounded harder, like an army of drummers in his chest.
She wore a powder blue sweater that accentuated her long black hair. And her eyes—a smoky gray color—struck him, piercing through his pulsing insides.
The noise hushed—or maybe that was only in his mind—and the people cleared away like a parting sea for a split second.
Like a dream, he thought. If he was thinking at all...
She was at once familiar and exotic, like a mystery he wanted to solve and solve again. The mass of shimmering hair, light eyes, milky skin, and a wide, generous mouth... He all but drooled on himself as she continued her approach toward him.
For just that moment, he forgot that he was behind the bar, that he was in charge of the collective ruckus, that they were in a busy establishment celebrating his sister's marriage. And instead, he was, in the most primal sense, merely a damn lucky man, waiting while a woman approached.
"I placed an order," she called out to him, breaking the spell that had scrambled his brain.
"Ah, uh," he fumbled, then held up a finger to wait given that he'd lost his ability to form words. And, he thought ruefully, it was probably too loud—in the pub and in his brain—to hear much clearly at the moment anyway.
Regaining his composure as he moved away to lower the speaker volume, he retrieved the containers on his way back and set them in front of her, then reached down below the bar for a bag to carry the load.
"Is it always like this in here?" she asked, her voice finding a way through the thick chatter.
And it was music for him—the melody of her voice. The way her mouth moved as she spoke just added to the tune, mesmerizing him. Her lips were naked, unpainted, and her top lip bowed perfectly, he thought. And her bottom lip made a pout that he wanted to explore, to feel the warm pliancy of.
"You'll have to come back and see for yourself," he told her, his lips tugging into a side grin. "You live around here?"
"As of this week, yes." She lifted her wallet to the bar. "How much do I owe you?"
"On the house." He slid the bag of food toward her, leaning in to the movement, and took in the scent of her. It was light, clean, with some hints of floral, he thought. And it was intoxicating. "A welcome to Stonebridge gift. Plus, I honestly don't know what my brother packaged up for you. It may or may not be what you ordered, so the surprise dinner is on us."
He wanted to ask questions, to get her talking and find out if she was married, or had a boyfriend, if she would stay until the party thinned out so he could have an actual conversation with her. But the woman looked like she had a goodbye on the tongue. And having watched his own mother disappear, he'd become acutely cognizant of those subtle signs, those small hints a person gave when their sights were set somewhere else.
"Oh," she said to him, puzzled. "Well, that's nice of you. Thank you."
"Trust me, it's my pleasure. You going to tell me your name? Since I'm buying you dinner and all," he finished. His golden eyes flicked into playfulness, though his gut felt a hard punch of serious lust. It really had been a pleasure—if even a shortly lived one.
"Kara."
"It's nice to meet you, Kara." He wiped his hand on the nearest dry rag before reaching over the bar to shake her hand. And when her slim hand met his, a quick bolt of electricity charged through him. "I'm Ben. Part owner of this crazy pub."
She nodded, her face polite, reserved. "Thank you, Ben. I appreciate the food."
He was right, he decided, watching her take the bag from the top of the bar. She itched to get out of there just as he'd itched to get out of his tux earlier that day.
But he was still wearing the slickly lined, black and white get-up. He'd somehow managed to make it through the events of the day and evening wearing the thing. And now, just as surprising, he was damn smitten with the woman who was a mysterious combination of day and night. Light eyes, dark hair. Sparkling scent, and a serious set mouth. Vibrant and, if he wasn't mistaken, a little sad.
On a charge, he rounded the bar, abandoning post and leaving a few regulars without their refills, then quickly pushed through the crowd to reach the door before she did.
Tugging it open, companionably elbowing back those in the way, he held the door for her to walk through.
"Thank you," she told him, a thin line of puzzlement creasing once again between her groomed dark brows.
His head dipped forward, acknowledging her words, while he enjoyed watching the woman's face. It was fascinating—it gave away nothing, yet there were traces of thoughts, skims of emotions, revealed for the taking if one paid close enough attention.
Instead of continuing through the door, she faced him squarely, and looked up at him. He was almost a foot taller than she was, so when her head tilted back, the chipper ceiling lights twinkled in her smoky eyes.
"This day was kind of a hard one," she said to him. "You made it better."
After a beat, she left through the door, walked swiftly down the sidewalk, then made a hard right at the end of the block and slipped out of sight.
People shouted his name from inside the pub, Ben was aware. But he couldn't move, couldn't take his eyes off the path she'd disappeared from.
And wasn't that a wonder, he thought, mildly registering that a beer was being handed to him.
Not caring where it came from, he drank deeply, grateful—for the beer, for the exchange with the woman. Kara. The woman of sun and moon, the woman who'd stung him like a lightening bolt.
And he wouldn't mind, he decided while draining the pint glass, being stung again. By her, he corrected. Not in general. General didn't interest him.
But Kara certainly did. Interested didn't even begin to explain it. Not even in the slightest of ways.
Or maybe there was just something in the air, something making his brain fog over from the abundance of sentiment and gushy matrimonial love from his sister's wedding.
Maybe.
But he would damn well find out.
"Now are you glad I took the to-go order?" Beckett stood next to Ben, holding his own beer, both men looking out to the town green and the tidy shops and shadows that lined it. The day had turned to night, with the streetlights of the town shining in a steady gilded glow just as the gaslamps had in the eighteen hundreds.
And for that breath, Ben wondered how many a man had stood as he was, watching with intrigue as a woman disappeared from reach.
When Ben didn't respond, Beckett drank from the IPA in his glass then continued. "So, you've met Kara."
Of course his brother had met the woman already, Ben thought grimly. The boy used his charm as though it were his greatest asset. And, quite possibly, it was his greatest asset. "You know her?"
"I know a little."
Finally, Ben glanced over. "Don't make a man beg."
"It could be fun. Especially from where I'm sitting."
"Spill or you're on cleanup indefinitely."
"Kara Keaton," Beckett said quickly, enjoying himself. "Moved here this week. Bought that old white dollhouse-looking place over on Maple. The one with all those willow trees in the front. The one we always thought was haunted."
"The house across from Stacie Fleck's place?"
Beckett winked knowingly. "How else do you think I know all this?"
"Naturally." Ben took a deep breath of impatience. "What else do you know?"
"She lives alone, at least as far as I can tell, and she's a widow. Her husband died a year ago. She's a writer. A mystery writer."
"You got all this from spending the night with Stacie Fleck?"
"I got all this when I talked Stacie into going over to Kara's place with me. A neighborly introduction."
Ben scowled. "You talked a woman into going with you to meet another woman?"
"Hey, it was a kind gesture."
"If you used your powers for good instead of evil, you'd be a superhero by now."
"Don't beat up on me, man. I went there for you. She's too old for me."
"How old is she?"
"Twenty-seven."
"That's only four years from where you're sitting."
"I wouldn't discriminate on that alone. In fact older women tend to know things. Maybe I will—"
Ben shot him a warning look.
Beckett bit back a chuckle. "Or maybe not. Plus, being a widow...that screams complex. I'm not into complex. That's your department."
Beckett handed Ben a piece of torn paper.
"What's this?"
"Kara's number. I asked for it when she called with the order. Figured it was her when she called. No other Karas around here that I know of."
Ben stared at it.
"You're welcome," Beckett told him then sauntered off toward whatever trouble he could find.
Sliding the slim paper into his pocket, Ben finally closed the door to the warm-toned evening that still held hints of winter. It was that time in the season that fluttered between the two worlds—cold and hot, what was and what would be.
Unable to look away just yet, he kept watch through the paned windows in the door, looking out after the woman who'd fascinated him.
A widow... He heard the word echo through his mind. Must be a tough deal. Was that why she said she'd had a rough day? Or was there something else?
He didn't know the answers, but he sure as hell wanted to find out.