Walk on Water (25 page)

Lexa couldn’t breathe.

Her phone went off in her pocket.

“Crap.” Fishing it out with her free hand, she glanced at the caller ID and groaned. “It’s my grandmother, the weather satellite. I told you she’d want me home the second it started to snow.”

His eyes didn’t waver. “What if I don’t want you to go?”

“Then you’re going to have a problem.”

Leaning forward, he closed the last small distance between them. A snowflake rode on his lashes. He paused for the length of a heartbeat, then brought his mouth to hers.

His kiss was gentle, undemanding. His lips lifted away almost as quickly as they landed, leaving him looking into her eyes, an unspoken question in his.

“I can be a little late,” she said.

He smiled and kissed her again. Somewhere far off she heard frenzied ringing, followed by a choir launching into “Carol of the Bells.” Ian’s arms circled her waist. She gripped his parka collar. Nothing could have been more perfectly, life-alteringly romantic. And yet . . .

“What is this?” she asked, pushing back. “With us?”

His shoulders lifted, then fell. “I honestly don’t know. But it’s something. Right?”

“It feels like something to me.”

“Do you want to find out what?”

She thought for only a second, then pulled him close again. “Yeah. I kind of do.”

The rising sun was tingeing the world beyond Lexa’s window pink when she got up Christmas morning. The snow that had fallen overnight lay like a rosy blanket tossed over the trees and hills. She watched her breath fog the glass and felt like the only living person on Earth.

Beth wouldn’t be up for hours; she had made that clear the night before, when they’d said good-bye to Weston after a late night involving mulled wine. Now that Lexa was basically grown, she’d said, there was no reason Christmas couldn’t start at a civilized hour. It had started at dawn anyway. As Lexa watched, the sun edged above the horizon, transforming the new snow in its path into a swath of sparkling crystal. The threatening clouds of the night before had cleared away after dropping a mere foot of fluff.

Huddling in her warm pajamas, Lexa remembered other Christmas mornings romping in powder with Blake. He had never believed that Christmas needed to start at a civilized hour—he’d woken her more often than she’d woken him, eager to have her see a new bike or sled or whatever “Santa” had brought. The thought of him waking up alone that morning, seeing the same snow and remembering the same past, made her unbearably sad. She wasn’t angry anymore. She hadn’t been angry for months. She wasn’t afraid either.

She just missed him now.

She stepped away from the window. Maybe he missed her too. There would never be a better day to find out.

Dressing hurriedly in multiple layers, Lexa retrieved the gift hidden under her bed, crept down to the kitchen, left a note for Beth, and grabbed a gingerbread man for the road. Her boots were in the garage where she’d left them to dry after her date with Ian. She smiled as she pulled them on.
Date,
she thought happily. She could definitely call it that now.

The edges of Maplehurst’s drive were marked by trees and winter stakes all the way to the road. She could have found her route even without the ghost of Weston’s late-night tire tracks to guide her. She eased the Ford through the gates and onto the plowed road beyond.

The sun continued to rise as she drove, glinting off icy rooftops. The streets of her old neighborhood were bathed in light. Plastic Santas, wicker reindeer, and snowmen with carrot noses held court in frozen front yards. Lexa rolled slowly down her old block, soaking everything in. She had missed living there, surrounded by other human beings.

All that Maplehurst nature is nice, but it gets lonely,
she thought, waving to a pair of boys she used to baby-sit. They were towing sleds down the side of the road, headed for a vacant lot at the corner. Nostalgia hit her hard as she remembered the hours she’d spent sledding there herself.

Her old house came into view, completely undecorated for the first Christmas she could remember. Blake’s truck wasn’t in the driveway. Her heart stalled with disappointment, but a moment later she grew hopeful again.
He must have parked in the garage.
 

With the Explorer gone, he could do that now. The walk and driveway had been shoveled, so he was definitely awake. Before she could think long enough to chicken out, she parked, grabbed his present, and headed for the front door.

She peeked through the garage window as she passed, expecting to see Blake’s black pickup. It wasn’t there. Lexa stood with his gift-wrapped sweater dangling from one hand, staring into emptiness. Where could he have gone so early on Christmas morning?

The rink
? The rink was closed on Christmas, so working wouldn’t be his normal pattern, but nothing about that year had been normal. Lacking a better idea, she got back in the car and drove to Ashtabula Ice.

The parking lot was a flawless field of white from the curb to the front door. Not even a rabbit had crossed it since the afternoon before. She pulled a U-turn in the deserted street. The smart move now was to get back to Maplehurst before Beth woke up.

Lexa wasn’t feeling too smart.

Would he have gone to the lake again?
The idea hit her like inspiration. Her radio churned out Christmas carols, but she didn’t hear them, intent on remembering the route and driving it as quickly as possible.

An eighteen-wheeler was parked in the Debbie’s Donuts lot, but the little shop was closed. Lexa imagined the driver curled up inside the cab, sleeping alone on the side of the road, and her hands tightened on the wheel.
Please let him be there
.

The turnoff she’d taken with Ian was blocked by plowed snow. She continued past it, looking for another way in. A half mile farther on, a set of tire tracks turned off Blackthorn and down a snowy lane. Lexa aligned her wheels and followed the ruts into the trees.

If I get stuck out here on Christmas, Grandmom’s going to pop.
Explaining what she’d been doing wouldn’t be fun either. Anxiety forced a clammy sweat up Lexa’s neck as the snow on either side of her tires grew gradually deeper. She was on the verge of shifting into reverse when she rounded a curve between pines and spotted a black truck parked at the edge of the frozen lake. Far out on the ice, a dark speck surrounded by white, Blake was skating alone.

Parking her car behind his, Lexa retrieved her skates from the cargo area, laced them in a rush, and waded out through her father’s footprints until she reached clean ice. He hadn’t noticed her yet. Tossing aside her blade guards and parka, she took a few tentative strokes onto Lake Erie.

She had only rarely skated outdoors, mostly in flooded then frozen backyards. Natural ice was largely ungroomed, exposed to the elements, and—according to Blake—way too dangerous for a girl whose father owned a rink to risk falling through. Yet there he was, far from shore on a glossy patch, stepping through intricate footwork as if in a world of his own.

Lexa adjusted quickly to the feel of lake ice beneath her blades. It started bumpy and rough, but got smoother farther out. Lengthening her strokes, she was struck by the sudden realization that she wouldn’t have to switch to crossovers to make the curve. There
was
no curve. Ice stretched all around her, laid out like a crisp white sheet beneath a clear blue sky. The air smelled piney sweet—not a trace of the mildew or rotting rubber that permeated indoor rinks—and above the trees the climbing sun lit the scene like a fairy tale.

The old rush of freedom charged her blood as Lexa built up speed. Her chin lifted. Her arms reached wide. She threw an easy single axel, high enough to clear barrels, and when she turned out of her landing, Blake had spotted her.

He watched her close the distance between them, his footwork falling to half speed as he continued on autopilot. Lexa recognized the pass from an early Lennox and Walker routine, one she had secretly practiced many times.

Drawing up beside him, she smiled uncertainly then turned to match his steps. “Keep skating,” she urged.

“Merry Christmas to you too,” he said with a wry grin.

There wasn’t any music. Lexa didn’t need it. After a lifetime of watching this tape, she could hear every note in her head. Blake was still skating below tempo. Sinking into her edges, she reached for his hands and forced the pace faster; the throw double axel was coming up.

“You can’t be thinking . . .” His steps faltered, but she pulled him along.

“Let me try. If I fall, I’ll get up. I always do.”

He stiffened, then gave in, speeding up just enough to power her through the two and a half revolutions. “Ready?”

She answered by swinging her free leg forward. Blake threw. Her rotations were tight and effortless, miles above the ice. Landing easily, she found him there to catch her.

“Not too shabby,” he teased. “You looked like a Walker up there.”

“You look like a Walker down here,” she said, grinning.

They pushed into side-by-side combination spins. Lacking the music, lacking any practice together, their unison should have been terrible, but Lexa had learned to adjust her speed and Blake was still a pairs master. He flowed effortlessly through spin positions, syncing to her rotations with ease.

“I’m not lifting you,” he warned as they came through the spiral sequence and approached the platter lift.

“What?” she asked, stalling.

“I said—”

She launched herself into the lift, forcing him to press her up or let her fall. He lifted, supporting her with both hands as she stretched into a horizontal swan dive above his head. The forested shore circled through her view as they turned slow loops down the lake. Lexa breathed in deeply and arched her back, wanting never to touch ground again.

Blake’s hands shifted, reinforcing his hold, lifting her as high as she’d always yearned to be.
He feels like I do,
she realized. Despite his fears and reservations, he needed this as badly as she did. Walker and Walker was gone . . . but the two of them were still Walkers. They had their own connection.

He finally lowered her to the ice, setting her down as if upon glass. They glided to a stop.

“You’re still good,” she said.

He snorted. “I’m old and slow.”

“Slower than before, maybe. But if you keep skating, you’ll get that speed back.”

The sun in Blake’s face highlighted new lines as he shook his head. “There are things in life you never get back. We’d both be better off if I’d faced that a long time ago.”

“You faced what you could,” she said, trying to head off an apology she no longer needed. “I understand that now.”

“No, Lexa, I’ve been wrong. Worse, I’ve been stubborn about it.”

She laughed, surprising him. “I’m told stubborn’s the family specialty.”

A tentative smile crossed his lips. “Weston? Or Beth?”

“Take your pick. They’re in total agreement on that one.”

“Right, because they’re both such pushovers. Talk about glass houses.”

“Anyway, that’s my excuse,” she joked. “I’ve got stubborn at both ends of the gene pool.”

“You do. I should have coached you in pairs. I knew how much you wanted it, and you have every skill. I was just so wrapped up in past mistakes I couldn’t see I was making new ones.”

“I made mistakes too,” she admitted.

“Yes, but I’m the adult. Supposed to be, anyway.” He took her hands and squeezed them. “Weston’s twice the coach I’ll ever be, so that part probably turned out for the best. But if he ever needs to retire . . .”

“Are you saying you’d coach me now?”

“In a heartbeat. Gratefully.”

“In pairs?” she pressed, just to be sure. “At your rink?”

“In pairs at
our
rink, if you’ll have me. Or you could train there with Weston, if he’s willing. And if you ever want to move back home—”

Tears of longing welled into her lashes. “Some days it’s all I want. I never should have left you the way I did.”

“I shouldn’t have let you. Will you give me a chance to do better? We can work out the details later, whatever you want. I just want to be back in your life.”

Lexa nodded, dislodging tears. Blake was crying too, though, so she didn’t try to hide them. For so long she’d believed that the emptiness inside her could only be filled by skating with a partner. She knew now she’d been wrong. That desperate ache, that hunger, had never been about pairs.

The connection she had craved all her life was a connection with her father.

The final videotape came to an end. Lexa had just finished watching them all, every last frame of Walker and Walker footage in her entire collection. Rising slowly from her bed, she ignored the blinking VCR and crossed to the window instead.

Christmas night was as beautiful as that whole day had been. Stars like handfuls of glitter lay strewn across a black velvet sky. Lexa wondered if her mother’s soul was out there beyond them somewhere. Kaitlin must have believed it could be—she’d worn the cross—and that gave Lexa hope.

“He still misses you,” she whispered. “We all do.”

Images of Kaitlin from the videos skated through Lexa’s brain. Blake was in there too, a younger, happier version, openly smitten with his delicate partner. No wonder audiences had loved them; their hearts had not only beat as one, they’d worn them on their faces for the entire world to see. Lexa understood now that a bond like her parents’ couldn’t be forced by skating pairs, but she still yearned to be so transparently, incandescently in love one day.

A sudden noise downstairs startled her away from the window. Beth had said good-night hours before. Lexa had assumed that her grandmother was long since in bed.
Maybe she can’t sleep either,
she thought, wondering why not. She had arrived back in plenty of time to open presents and eat brunch with Weston. She had never even mentioned Blake, so Beth couldn’t be stressing about that.

She will be,
Lexa thought uneasily.
But not tonight.

Moving quietly past her closed door, Lexa ejected her final tape. She nestled it into the box with the others and ran a finger over their worn labels. Each tape felt like a chapter of her own life. But they were someone else’s story. And she needed to put them away. She couldn’t make becoming her parents her goal anymore. She had to learn to be whole on her own before she could ever become the other half of someone else.