February Kisses Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Keep Up With Hildred

  February Kisses

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Join Me On Facebook

  NEXT MONTH

  Author Bio

  February Kisses

  A Year In Paradise #2

  Hildred Billings

  BARACHOU PRESS

  February Kisses

  Copyright: Hildred Billings

  Published: February 10th, 2019

  Publisher: Barachou Press

  This is a work of fiction. Any and all similarities to any characters, settings, or situations are purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  Keep up with Hildred’s latest releases by joining her mailing list! Behind the scenes, first looks, and even some free snippets!

  February Kisses

  Chapter 1

  SALAMA

  Salama faced every writer’s worst enemy: the blank screen.

  Okay… blank screens aren’t the end of the world. Except it had been two hours since she sat down in Heaven’s Café, intent on completing her next article for an online publication. The deadline was in three days, and she had yet to come up with a unique pitch that wasn’t the same old, same old.

  It didn’t help that the busiest café in Paradise Valley was, for a lack of a better term, distracting. Granted, Salama came to cafés and occasionally went to the library to get the hell out of her studio apartment. Otherwise, she’d be shut up in there every single day, watching the small town go by in its endless churn of errands, work, and school. A woman could keep time from looking out her big window and seeing what the townsfolk were up to. Was that the only mailman in town? Must be eleven in the morning. School bus? Two in the afternoon. A big, loud truck ambling down Arizona Street? Lucky Dupree was home from his welding job. Must be almost six. Dinner time!

  Salama couldn’t stand that for more than half a day. When she had real work to do, she packed up her laptop, notebook, and pencil case to head to the café, library, or the other café – more like a restaurant, really – across the street. Yet Heaven’s was the best. Not only was it open late, but proprietress Heaven served decaf coffee and tea for women like Salama who never took the plunge into the world of caffeine.

  That Sunday afternoon, however, the place was packed. Enough so that Salama found a plethora of distractions to keep her eyes off her MacBook screen and people watching, searching for ideas to get her creative juices flowing. She primarily wrote about social issues and stream-of-conscious like articles about what women like her experienced. Specifically, women who were no longer Muslim but still wore hijab out of habit and because they were not yet ready to make that transition. Bonus points for her lesbianism.

  In a small town full of people who barely stepped inside a church, let alone knew much about Islam. People stared at Salama as much as she stared back at them. Before, it used to bother her, but at least the people here in Paradise Valley kept to themselves beyond asking her name and if she was new in town. Not like the Portlanders. She was born and raised near Lake Oswego, attended an Islam-oriented primary school, and went to every event at the local mosque with her family, but people still asked her inappropriate questions on the bus or when shopping at the mall. “Does your hair smell under there?” “Does your dad make you wear that?” “Do you have sex with that on?” “I thought girls had to cover up their whole face?” So when a middle-aged couple sat at the table next to her in Heaven’s Café and continuously glanced in her direction, Salama prepared for the onslaught of questions she was used to back “home.”

  They never came. As soon as the couple decided what they wanted to have for brunch, they were lost in their own conversations about their kids in college and whether they should drive to the coast for a weekend. Salama squeezed her earbuds back into her ears and allowed the sweet notes of Loreena McKennitt to fill her head.

  Maybe I should write another article about the differences in city life and rural life… No, her editor had enough of those for a while. Salama wrote a whole series about moving to Paradise Valley when she first came six months ago. “The founders of the lesbian commune called it Paradise because there were no men, no heterosexuals to tell them who to be or what to do with their lives. Even now, with official town status and men everywhere you look, there’s still a matriarchal attitude that suggests the women are in charge, and they won’t tolerate your dirty looks for holding hands while taking the kids to the only school in town. It’s no wonder women like me are drawn to it. Lesbians who wear hijab are constantly dealing with frustrations from every direction. At least here in Paradise Valley, I can embrace one aspect of myself…”

  After rereading that bit from an older article, Salama decided to expand upon that. Maybe something would come out of her ramblings. Maybe not. She had to write something, however, because she would be damned if she spent five bucks on decaf tea and a cookie and didn’t make the most of her time.

  “For the first time in my life, I feel free to smile at a cute girl and strike up a conversation. Maybe she will judge me for other reasons, but it’s not because of my attraction to her. I don’t have to fear the homophobic slurs that sometimes licked at my heels in the city. To that end, this place is Paradise.”

  Salama stared at that, the haunting notes of “The Bonny Swan” drowning out the conversations, clattering dishes, and ‘90s singer-songwriter music playing over the speakers. Yeah, it sounded good, didn’t it? Yet she had a confession to make. Salama talked a good game in her articles, suggesting that she actually dated since coming to so-called Paradise.

  The truth couldn’t be farther from that, however. Not only had Salama remained single all six months while in town, but she didn’t have any friends, either. There weren’t many clubs in town that interested her. She appreciated the beauty of nature, but not enough to immerse herself in “the great outdoors.” She was a homebody in her core, preferring to watch Netflix to going out with a loud group of people who wanted to drink alcohol, something Salama still did not partake in. She straddled such a weird line of identities that it was difficult finding likeminded people, even in the city. Coming to Paradise Valley was supposed to help her transition from one part of her adolescent life to full-blown adulthood. Her parents and older sister had moved back to the Middle East after Salama received her bachelor’s in writing and communication. While her brother remained in Portland, she saw it as her opportunity to embrace independence and her version of an “American life.”

  If only she knew what the hell that meant.

  All right, I have another confession… The reason she started coming to Heaven’s when she first moved to town was to get out of the house and find a vibrant place to write. However, the reason she kept coming to Heaven’s was right in the name.

  Heaven Mossberg. The proprietress who named this humble café after her fitting name. She was the reason Salama was there up to three times a week, guzzling drinks and sampling the home baked goods while getting a pathetic amount of work done.

  Salama c
ould write a whole series of articles about her crush on Heaven.

  “Imagine a woman who is everything you want to be. She’s extroverted, confident, and so affable that even the crankiest old codger can’t help but smile when she makes small talk with him over the cold case. She remembers your orders after only two visits, and when she calls you ‘hon,’ you know it comes from a place of small-town adoration. There are women who fake it until they make it, but there’s no faking it with Heaven. This is who she is. The townspeople remember when she was a little girl, screaming at snakes to ‘get the hell out of my yard!’ and being carried down the street by her family’s Great Dane. Her parents still live in town and come in frequently. I’m pretty sure her mother makes most of the cookies for sale in this quaint slice of heaven.”

  Uh oh. She typed that, hadn’t she?

  Embarrassment flushed Salama’s cheeks. She may have a corner table, but she was close enough to the restroom that people constantly filed back and forth before her. Any one of them could catch her in the act of pining after a woman who barely knew she existed.

  It didn’t help that the woman herself stepped out from the kitchen, her bushy brown hair announcing her presence before her golden aura or the knowing smirk on her face. In her hand was a sandwich and a pile of chips on a plate. She walked right by Salama’s table and deposited it in front of the middle-aged man who had been discussing his brother’s herniated disc.

  “Here you go, hon.” Heaven pulled a plastic straw out of her apron pocket before the man could ask for one. He was so impressed that she remembered his Parkinson’s that he was too gobsmacked to thank her. “Freshly made BLT. Saved the salt and vinegar chips for you.” She patted his shoulder. His wife laughed at the look on his face.

  Salama wasn’t laughing. She was mildly jealous. Heaven had never patted her shoulder when bringing her lunch. She remembered that Salama wanted decaf and was cool with non-vegan baked goods, though. Did that count for something?

  “You good with your tea, Mrs. Baker?” Heaven kept her hands in her pockets as she addressed the former schoolteacher. “Or can I get you some milk or sugar?”

  “Oh, this is fine, dear. Just fine. Thank you.”

  Heaven flashed them one last smile. Before Salama turned her head away, however, Heaven glanced up at her and shot a wink in her direction.

  Oh, my God. She winked at me!

  Heaven returned to the front counter. The part-time barista on duty asked for a little help as he voided a transaction. He couldn’t be older than a high school student, yet he spent more time with Heaven than Salama could ever dream of for herself.

  She’d say it wasn’t fair… but who could she blame, beyond herself? The woman who couldn’t carry on a conversation for more than two minutes, because she was afraid that people would judge her as annoying. It happened in every social group she encountered, be they her mother’s cooking group or the book clubs over at the library. After a few minutes, she was convinced that everyone found her annoying, so she shut up.

  She still had her MacBook, however.

  “Talking to women doesn’t become easier simply because you’re in a LGBT safe space. For one, you still don’t know if the woman you fancy is like you. She might be straight.”

  Heaven had an ex-husband. Everyone in town knew this. It was one of the first things Salama learned about her, because people liked to gossip when there was nothing else to do while in line at the only checkout counter in the supermarket.

  What were the odds? Did Salama ever stand a chance? Or was she doomed to merely talk about her feelings to the nameless audience clicking on her headlines and reading her sorry tales of identity and growing up?

  She looked up at Heaven again. The proprietress was hard at work greeting the men and women who frequented her café on such a busy day. She threw her arms around a few, exchanged kisses, and kept her hand on their shoulders while showing them the cold case and discussing her specials of the day. Maybe the secret to gaining her touch was that everyone knew her. Maybe that was Salama’s problem. As usual, the obvious solution was to put herself “out there.” Wherever that was.

  Salama almost worked up the courage to go and strike up a conversation. That was before the door jingled open and admitted a woman on the verge of tears.

  Chapter 2

  HEAVEN

  Sundays were often peppered with people who looked as lost as the next tourist, but this was February, and tourists were few in a place like Paradise Valley. So when Joan Sheffield stumbled through the door looking like a haggard mess who had to put her dog down, Heaven almost mistook her for a wayward tourist who had broken down on the outskirts of town.

  Hey, it had happened before…

  “Afternoon, Joan.” Heaven knew how this worked. Local comes into my shop looking like a total emotional wreck… I ply her with sweets and a latte. Joan practically screamed that she needed a scone and a small coffee. The only reason Heaven didn’t order it up right away was because it was a toss up between the cranberry orange scone and the chocolate chip. Joan got both, depending on the time of the month.

  Hm. She was definitely hormonal. Better start reaching for the chocolate scone.

  “Afternoon, Heaven.” The destitute owner of the only dedicated craft store in town gazed into the case as if she didn’t know what day it was. By the time she made it to the counter, half of the café suddenly cleared. The only other person within whispering length was Dwayne the part-timer, and Heaven could easily get rid of him by asking him to fetch a non-existent item from the back pantry.

  “What’s got you down, hon?” Heaven leaned against her counter, conveniently ignoring the growing pile of dirty dishes in the bin. “Something didn’t happen to Lorri, did it?” That would be a fine thing, since Heaven saw Lorri Abrams earlier that day. Came in for her usual coffee before heading off to work this fine Sunday. Usually, Joan was with one of her crafting groups at her store on the weekends. Whatever had happened, it made her take the day off.

  Joan looked back and forth before letting out a mighty sigh and wiping her eyes. “It happened again, Heav.”

  It took Heaven a moment to realize what she meant. When the knowledge came, it was more heartbreaking than the conversation she overheard earlier about a parakeet singing its last song. “Oh my God, Joanie, I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah, well… God’s will, I guess?”

  That defeated shrug roused Heaven from behind her counter to give Joan a big hug. A little bit of a tearstain was left behind on her long-sleeved shirt, but she didn’t mind. Joan and her partner Lorri had been trying to have a baby for over a year, and this was the second – that Heaven knew of, anyway – miscarriage poor Joan had endured. That was when they actually got a round of IVF to take. While Joan and Heaven weren’t the bestest of friends, they got along enough that Joan told her about these things when nobody else was really around. Maybe it helped Joan to talk to someone more impartial than her friends and family. Heaven’s own mother always said, though, that some people were better for confessin’ to than others.

  “It’s gonna happen, hon.” Heaven kept one arm around Joan’s torso, her other hand on her own hip. “Pretty sure you’re gonna come waltzing in here like Sally Greenhill and her brood of babies.” Now there was a couple who got lucky with the fertility wheel. Ever since Cadence Greenhill became town deputy several years ago, she and the wife got to spending that paycheck on babies, babies, babies. How many did they have now? Four? Five? Who could keep track when a set of twins was thrown into that mix? Only reason I’m invested is because that oldest boy likes to trash my napkins when Sally comes in here. “Takes some time, I guess.”

  “Yeah… yeah, I know.” Joan absentmindedly picked up a menu, as if she were actually reading it. “Just hurts like a bitch. Especially since it costs so much money…”

  Heaven suggested she get her favorite scone and a cup of coffee, the drink on the house. Joan, of course, insisted on paying. She also asked for everything to go, be
cause she couldn’t bear to start crying again in the middle of a happy café.

  Heaven escorted her to the door once she had her coffee and snack. After another goodbye, she summoned Dwayne from the back to take care of the dishes in the bin.

  “Excuse me?”

  That mousey voice almost shot Heaven’s head into the ceiling. Good thing she wasn’t the one carrying the bin of dirty dishes. Dwayne looked at her as if she had lost her mind, but he was a good boy who minded his damn business. He silently took the bin back to the industrial-sized sink in the kitchen and began the spray of water that almost drowned out the young lady standing behind Heaven.

  “Uh… hey, hon.” Heaven regathered her bearings. Her memory also failed her, which was embarrassing to admit. Everyone and their mother recognized the newcomer who wore colorful headscarves, but could any of them remember her name? Serena? Sabrina? Damnit. Heaven was thrown off her game. First, Joan’s misery. Now this? Sundays were weird. Busy, but weird. “What can I do for you?”

  The young woman opened her mouth, but no words came out. It didn’t help that Heaven was distracted by the little pink lips that matched the hue of her headcover. A brown pullover sweater gave her a youthful yet sophisticated appearance that probably scared half of Paradise Valley away. Sophistication? Terrifying. Which was a pity, really. Heaven was of the opinion that some of her fellow townsfolk could use a bit of fancying up now and then. A woman could only wear so many rain jackets and boots before she forgot what the wind against her skin felt like.

  “Ah, sorry.” A shy smile illuminated the young lady’s face. “I do that a lot. Forget what I was going to say when I… ah…”

  Heaven leaned against her counter, the most genial demeanor she could conjure overtaking her space. “Cat got your tongue? You have to watch out for those pussies in Paradise, hon. They like takin’ tongues, if you know what I mean.”