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  Holly and Oak

  Familiar Spirits Book Two

  R. Cooper

  Copyright 2017 R. Cooper

  Smashwords edition

  Cover art by Kimieye Graham

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  Chester peeked out one of the windows as he fussed with the dust cover for the waffle cone maker. The rainwater glass didn’t give him much of a view, which was great when he was in the kitchen and didn’t want an audience, but terrible when he was trying to keep a lookout.

  Several wavy figures were visible a little farther up the road, probably heading toward the square. The square was the center of Old Town Ravenscroft, and, at the moment, a draw for locals and tourists alike. The cold night and icy streets would not deter them, not this week, anyway.

  He considered the pretty white lights on every tree that lined the sidewalk, and the old-fashioned street lamps with iron curlicues all decorated with plastic garland meant to look like holly.

  He sighed.

  “You don’t have to stay,” Miss Mercy called out from the front. The cash register chimed, although it was after six o’clock and Ravenscroft Creamery was technically closed.

  Chester was here before open and after the last customer left—at least in the winter when they closed earlier. Even if he wasn’t behind the counter, he was working. Which was frankly a better deal for everyone. Chester got to develop flavors and do the food prep in the back, and customers got to enjoy the ice cream without having to deal with Chester himself.

  “I’m working, Missy,” Chester snapped impatiently, although he did not have nearly as much to do in the winter as he did in the summer, and was actually finished for the day. He’d been done since around four. Goodwin was getting impatient.

  “Hmm,” Miss Mercy answered, expressing doubt with one loud hum. The cash register chimed again, this time with the kick of the drawer opening with it. She was probably tallying up today’s totals. She hadn’t locked the door yet and Chester could hear a customer by the counter, but Ravenscroft was that kind of town.

  And this building, in particular, should never have that kind of trouble. Chester was as sure of that as any witch could be.

  He reached out to scratch between Goodwin’s ears, and let Goodwin’s heavy purr soothe him while tourists skidded and nearly tripped on the sidewalks. They were probably distracted by how prettily the patches of ice reflected the white fairy lights. It had rained last night and the temperature had dropped another ten degrees. Tonight it would probably drop a few more. Chester should leave soon, go curl up at home in his most snuggly blankets.

  The three churches in Old Town had rung their bells promptly at six. It was now fifteen minutes past, and Chester was an idiot for staying this late.

  He moved from the window and went to the big sink to wash the traces of cat off his hands before he headed out front.

  Ravenscroft Creamery consisted of one large workroom, a walk-in freezer, a few storage closets and restrooms, and the front area referred to as ‘the parlor’ by anyone old enough to remember what a real ice cream parlor was.

  In the past, when only the few traditional flavors had been offered, the parlor had included a soda fountain and several small tables and chairs, presumably for the kind of couples who courted each other with egg creams before riding off to spark on a bicycle built for two.

  By the time Chester had gotten a job here as a teenager, the flavors had been numerous and the display cases had eaten up most of the space for the tables. Of course, the flavors then had also been mostly store-bought, and the back had been more of a storage room than a kitchen. Obviously, store-bought was an abomination that would not stand in his creamery—though he understood the need for ice cream could drive people to desperate measures.

  Miss Mercy sat on the stool behind the register, at one end of the refrigerated display cases. Alma Madison was at one of the remaining tables, loudly scraping her spoon across the bottom of a small paper cup. She paused when she saw Chester.

  “I swear the chocolate chip peppermint is better this year than it was last year,” she told him, with a smudge of chocolate chip ice cream by her mouth. “I was about to head to the store, and it’s such chaos in there this time of year, especially this week, and I said to myself, ‘Alma, you deserve a treat.’”

  “It’s the time of year for treats,” Mercy remarked. She was wearing a fuzzy Santa hat as well as red and green leggings. “A week ‘til Christmas.”

  “And the solstice in a few days!” Alma tried her best to get more from her empty cup. “The Solstice Celebration got covered in another one of the city papers. I think we’ll get even more tourists this year.” She focused warily on Chester, who hadn’t moved from the doorway to the back. “You got a write-up this year too, didn’t you?”

  Chester stared at her.

  “The Creamery did, I mean,” Alma continued quickly. “I don’t think the article mentioned you.”

  The article had, in fact, mentioned Chester. Specifically, how a twenty-eight-year-old lanky beanpole with hair six shades of blue was an unlikely person to make such delicious ice cream.

  “My hair is only two shades of blue,” Chester commented coolly. “Three, tops.”

  Mercy scoffed merrily. “Alma’s the last for the day, Chester. You really can go if you want.”

  As if he was going to let five feet, one inch high Mercy walk alone over icy streets in the dark to get to the bank.

  “I’ll take the deposit.” Chester came over to get the day’s cash from her and scan the displays as he went, although he had taken a quick inventory earlier. The mainstays—chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, banana—were low, but replacements were already chilling in the back freezers. The seasonal favorites were out or almost out, and the day’s special was completely gone. “Missy, see if Alma wants that last bit of the chocolate chip peppermint. No point in saving just that. Don’t charge her.”

  He returned to the back so he didn’t have to deal with Alma fluttering in surprise at the free gift, or going so far as to make herself thank him. He added the money to the money dropped into the safe earlier and stuck it all in a deposit bag.

  Another glance out the window made him sigh again.

  “This town wouldn’t be the same without this place.” Alma was still talking when he returned. “I’m grateful it’s been kept open, even if—ah, tradition is what keeps this town going,” she finished, catching sight of Chester.

  Chester couldn’t have cared less about whatever she’d been going to say, although it had probably been about him.

  He stopped on the verge of coming into the room, regretting that he’d put his cardigan and coat on already, and then that he hadn’t buttoned anything, so his blue flannel with the holes from Goodwin’s claws was clearly visible. His dark jeans were stained from work in the kitchen, his sneakers more comfortable than fashionable. It was no worse than he looked after any long day, and yet it felt a hundred times worse, because it was only a few days until the solstice, and Will was there.

  Will didn’t come in near closing time every day during the rest of the year, but he usually showed up each evening like clockwork as the solstice approached. He probably couldn’t help himself any more than Chester could keep a stupid flush from turning his face an unsightly pink.

  Will was smiling, a pleasant, polite expression that, combin
ed with his face itself, tended to leave men, women, and everyone else in a state of flustered contentment. He gave the appearance of listening earnestly to anyone who talked to him, and he probably was—Chester had never known him to lie. Will either had incredible patience or all that hiding in his workshop for days at a time was his chance to escape the small town pressures. Perhaps both were true.

  But his genuine interest and warm, sparkling eyes made people practically glow in response. Like waking up from a nap on a day in early spring and finding the sun had emerged from the clouds.

  Chester cleared his throat completely unnecessarily and Will turned toward him with this small, nearly imperceptible hesitation. Chester tried not to think it, but couldn’t help but feel that Will had to force himself to look at him at all.

  Chester could have worn his best shoes and a lovely, patterned, cashmere sweater vest with a crisp button-down and cute bowtie. He could have worn the tailored gray three-piece he wore to the rare meetings with his family’s lawyers, with no tie. It wouldn’t have mattered.

  The small, plastic heart-shaped clip that kept his bangs out of his face while he worked abruptly gave out. It snapped in half and two pieces of red plastic skittered to the floor.

  Thick strands of royal blue, ice blue, and white blonde hair immediately fell over Chester’s eyes. Thankfully, most of the rest of his hair was shaved close to his head, which meant only the swoop of his bangs had to be dealt with.

  Mercy got up to hand him another clip from the bowl under the register—a purple clamshell this time. Chester stuffed it into his pocket and huffed at her and successfully avoided having to deal with the not quite six foot tall, black coat and hat wearing, dark-skinned, square-jawed, quietly attentive presence talking to Alma.

  Will was in a red plaid flannel button-up, which, first of all, how dare he choose a color that festive and bright and warm and noticeable when the rest of his outfit was stark, sturdy black? He probably had a henley underneath the red plaid, but both had apparently shrunk in the wash since they were stretched over his broad chest and ever so slightly soft stomach. Will’s body spoke of years of hard work, but also someone who had always known plenty.

  Rude, Chester decided, with a flutter in his gut and hand shoved into a coat pocket. He hadn’t heard the door open. That was also Will’s fault. Like coming here late, again, or showing up without a scarf or anything more practical than a black felt beanie with the high school football team logo on it.

  Will didn’t even like football. He just seemed to take no interest in buying proper winter clothes. In the summer he wore fitted black jeans and thin, white, sleeveless T-shirts as he worked, displaying the chest and arms that drove Chester—and much of the town—to distraction. His style was clearly meant to be practical and to give the impression he didn’t care what he was wearing, and yet Chester did not believe for a second that Will hadn’t deliberately chosen to dress this way, whatever his reasons.

  His work boots were caked in mud and ice but he left not a single footprint in his wake. Chester held in his pained sigh with effort and turned on his heel to head to the walk-in. He tried not to think about the faint green lines in the pattern of Will’s red plaid, or the warm grin Will had given Mercy.

  Little Miss Mercy was—for the most part—a good and patient person, who deserved a grin or two from a handsome single man who wore flannel as it was meant to be worn and who worked with wood for a living.

  Chester stayed in the freezer a few seconds longer than necessary, letting the sharp cold take the heat from his blood. When he stepped out, Goodwin was waiting.

  “What?” Chester held onto the cup in his hands. “Don’t judge me. One of these years I will learn, but this is not that year.”

  He stepped over his judgy Chocolate-point Thai and walked out to the front, where he busied himself at one of the back counters.

  Will was by the wall where the allergen information was posted, backlit by the white lights in the Creamery’s front windows. He shivered slightly as his body adjusted to the heat indoors because of course, he hadn’t worn gloves either. His hands were probably cold and rough.

  Chester put down the cup he’d brought from the freezer with a little too much force and got one of the last of today’s waffle cones.

  “The special today was vanilla bean with warm bourbon-peach preserves?” Will read from the large chalkboard sign up on the wall behind the register. “My aunt ‘Sia makes preserves like that. They could tempt a Puritan into sin.”

  “It was all gone by the time I got here.” Alma heaved a regretful breath even as she scooped up the last of her gifted chocolate chip. “Don’t know why you don’t make the seasonal ones the specials. The gingerbread for example, or the pumpkin pie in November.”

  “Those sell out anyway,” Chester explained curtly. “The specials are different.”

  “Always just right for the day. Always exactly what you want.” Will continued to stare determinedly at the board, as if the answer to his most pressing question was written there in white chalk. “If you can get them.”

  “Do not remind me of summer.” Mercy grunted. “I’m already tired thinking about the lines out the door and the people pissy over whatever is sold out.”

  “Summer is your busy season. You should love it!” Alma insisted, getting up to throw her trash out in the bin by the counter. Now they had to empty that bin again. Chester bit his tongue and didn’t say anything.

  “Summer is the worst!” Mercy declared, but with a smile that made Will give her another soft grin.

  “Who shows up at closing time and complains about something being sold out?” Chester muttered, just loud enough for Will to look over at him again. Will slowly lost his smile. “Summer customers, that’s who,” Chester added, in a much weaker voice than he should have used. He cleared his throat and regrouped. “Where’s Tabitha?”

  “Since she’s not a service dog, she’s outside,” Will explained, after a moment’s hesitation and a glance at Alma.

  Chester looked out the front windows to where the large black and brown Rottweiler was sitting patiently, with her butt to the glass door and her eyes on the street.

  “We’re closed.” Chester clucked his tongue then raised his voice. “Tabitha, get in here.”

  Tabitha sprang to her feet and turned to nose at the door. She pushed it open with the ease of practice and went straight for the counter. Chester leaned over, small cone of doggy-ready ice cream held out for her to chomp down in two bites. “Obviously, he doesn’t love you the way I love you, Tabitha, my sweetheart,” he cooed at her. Tabitha wasn’t convinced, the smart girl, but lolled her tongue at him anyway.

  “It’s safe for dogs,” Mercy explained to Alma. “Chester makes it. It’s got less sugar and stuff.”

  “That’s what I mean!” Alma declared, and Chester looked up in time to see Will quickly turning away. “This place, it’s almost more than a tradition now. You should get written about in the city papers. Specials, doggie treats, and all that gluten-free whatsit over there.”

  “Optional flavors for people with dietary… never mind.” Even Miss Mercy’s patience seemed a bit stretched, but, after all, it was the end of the day. She came over to poke Chester playfully in the side. “He’s really turned this place into something.”

  “Yes, he has,” Will agreed, his mild tone barely covering some stronger emotion, as was typical with him when around Chester. It was probably his temper.

  Chester tensed, then straightened up. “William,” he greeted Will with as much calm as he was capable of.

  “Chester,” Will said in return, impossibly quiet.

  “I have turned this place into something,” Chester insisted. “Someone wrote about it.” Will’s deep brown eyes were full of caution. Chester crossed his arms over his chest. “My family’s money helped. I have never denied that.”

  Will lost his dimple, then clenched his fabulously strong jaw. He had to unclench it to speak. “I didn’t say a word about
money.”

  “No one did!” Mercy cut in, voice getting high. “We were talking about the Celebration, before you came out here anyway, Chester. You guys going this year?” She frowned. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you there, either of you.”

  “I assure you, Missy, I have attended the ritual every year since I was a child.” Chester tore his gaze from Will and went to wash his hands again.

  “Huh.” Mercy’s thoughtful pause was a worry for another time. “What about the actual celebration part afterward? They’ve got live music in the park this year. Those poor musicians, freezing their asses off. Then Christmas Eve-Eve there’s Marjorie’s big Christmas party. You’re definitely going to that, right? You aren’t going to grump out now, are you? You said you would go.”

  “Well, you young people have parties to discuss,” Alma interrupted, although she was only in her early forties and would probably end up at that party too if she found a sitter. “Thank you again for the free treat, Mercy. You’re such a good girl.”

  Chester closed his eyes and took a breath.

  “Merry Christmas!” Alma wished them as she finally left.

  The door swung closed and then locked behind her with an audible click.

  “Merry Christmas!” Mercy called after her, then shook her head. “Chester, the door is closing and locking itself again.”

  “It’s the cold,” Chester quickly explained. “I’ve told you that before.”

  Mercy didn’t appear to be interested in Chester’s lie, or the effect of cold temperatures on metal. “So you are coming out with me this week, right, Ches?” She came out from behind the counter to bag the now-dirty trash bin. “It’s the party week in this town. Maybe because we’ve got nothing else to celebrate until like… June. Well, if I don’t count New Year’s.”

  Chester pulled away from the back counter in order to drop a medium-sized paper cup full of vanilla bean ice cream and a dollop of warmed bourbon-peach preserves onto the counter. He had no particular ability to see the future, but this one thing he was good at.