Excerpt of Hot Chocolate on A Cold Day by Roz Denny Fox

St. Ignace, Michigan

WHERE WERE THE NEW RENTERS? Megan Benton parted heavy drapes designed to shut out the cold, and for the umpteenth time in half an hour scanned the street below her top-floor Victorian rental. The thermometer she'd set in her window box said twenty-six degrees. Practically balmy compared to the minus fifteen that had gripped Michigan's Upper Peninsula at her arrival on New Year's day. Last week, March blew in and the ice had finally begun to break up in the channel and harbor.

Steam rising from her cup of hot chocolate obscured her view of the marina at the bottom of the hill. She let the drape fall, then made her way into the bedroom to dress in her Coast Guard uniform. As she struggled into long johns and skier-weight overalls, she thought enviously of her last duty station in Mobile, Alabama. Having been born and raised in northern Missouri, she never would've guessed that her Midwest blood could have thinned so much in the few weeks she'd spent in Mobile's helicopter training school. After a scant two months in the northland — and as the only woman at this station — crew mates who were like a mob of brothers still ribbed her mercilessly about how she bundled up whenever they had to navigate the Mackinac Straits.

A knock sounded at her front door just as she downed a last swig of chocolate. Leaving off her jacket, Megan pasted on a smile to welcome the new folks her landlord had said would be moving in downstairs.

The house owner, crusty old Hank Meade, was off fishing warmer waters. He'd phoned to ask if Megan would mind if his rental agent left a key with her to make it easier for the renters to pick up. A family, Hank had indicated. With kids. Megan loved kids. Nevertheless, she had mixed feelings about acquiring neighbors. For two months she'd had Lady Vic, as she called the place, to herself. Usually she ran five miles every morning for exercise. But because it was so cold, she'd fallen into the habit of an early a.m. aerobics program in her bedroom, where she cranked hip-hop music up high to get her blood moving. Neighbors meant she'd have to use earphones, she lamented, yanking open the door.

The face staring down at her wasn't one she expected. Stunned, she gaped at Mark, her brother. Two years younger than her twenty-five, Mark had shot up and surpassed her skinny, five-three frame when they were still in high school. She wondered now if she was hallucinating.

This past Christmas, she'd spent a week at home. Mark had remained at his university in Western Missouri, determined, according to their mom and stepdad, to graduate in January with his master's in psychology. When Megan had last called home, their mom had said Mark would walk straight from school into a job at the college in Columbia, where their folks lived and worked. Yet here he stood. "Hey, did you take a wrong turn in St. Louis, or are you just plain lost?"

Grinning, Mark blew on red-chapped, gloveless fingers. "Invite me in and I'll tell you my sad story. It's colder than a coal miner's patootie out here."

Whooping with delight, Megan launched herself into his arms and let him swing her around and around until they both stumbled inside, punching each other happily. "I can offer you a cup of something warm. And shut the door, you goof. You weren't born in a barn. Wait — do the folks know you're here?"

"Yeah, they know." Shrugging out of a Gore-Tex ski jacket, Mark Benton removed his knit cap and tossed both on his sister's flowered couch before following her into a bright yellow kitchen. Using his hands to bring order to his unruly auburn hair, he propped a hip against the counter as Megan darted from cupboard to stove, where she lit the gas burner under a well-used saucepan.

"Something in your tone tells me all isn't well in little ol' Columbia. Okay, brother, out with it. I have to leave for the station in fifteen minutes. When we talked after the holidays, you told me you were flat broke. Mom said if you finished your dissertation on time you were a shoo-in for a counseling job at Wellmont. So what's up?"

Mark wrinkled his lightly freckled nose. "Right! Mom's campus. Where she's head of women's studies, and our stepdad teaches history. Where Aunt Sherry's in charge of the crisis center, and Uncle Garrett's just been made vice- chancellor. On top of that, there's a whole danged wing at Wellmont named for our great-grandfather."

"Campbell Hall is a dormitory, not a wing."

"So? It's intimidating," he mumbled, watching Megan pour steaming water over mounds of cocoa she mixed with a dash of salt. Once the mixture had heated through, she added sugar and milk, and let it come to a boil, stirring absently. Then she removed the pan from the burner and dumped in a splash of vanilla, poured a crockery cup full and topped it with two fat marshmallows. Megan thrust the mug into her brother's hands with a frown.

"And...you're here because you don't want to join a place where most of the family works? Where you're guaranteed good pay and benefits? Have you seen the U.S. jobless stats for new grads, Mark?"

He fished out a gooey marshmallow and popped it into his mouth. "Now you sound like Mom and Camp," he said. Both of them had long ago begun calling their stepfather, Nolan Campbell, by his nickname. "I just... well, thought you'd understand, since Mom did her level best to steer you into education. Yet, here you are, a Coast Guard officer."

"That's different. I made up my mind to go into search and rescue the summer I fell off that cliff and Camp risked his life to save me...." She let her statement trail off. "That fall I joined ROTC. My career choice shouldn't have shocked anyone. But you, Mark, have spent the better part of six years getting a master's in child psychology. You interned for a year. And starting at Wellmont doesn't mean you have to stay there forever."

Mark stepped over to a window, staring out as he sipped his hot chocolate. "I wish I could say that counseling's what I want to do for even part of my life, Meg. If you recall, Gina Ames got me hooked on photography the same summer. Last year, at her urging, I sent one of my photos to a contest. I won! I'll be doing a one-man show in New York City."

"Gosh, a one man show sounds impressive, but —"

"It is," he hastened to say. "Yet Mom dismisses photography as a silly hobby. What I'd like," Mark said, turning and sounding eager for the first time in their discussion, "is to try my hand at freelancing. Gina has contacts. All I have to do is create a portfolio of worthwhile photos."

"Oh, wow! I see your dilemma. Mom and Camp paid for your schooling, and you're thinking of taking off in a whole different direction."

"If photography works out, I'll pay them back. For now, Gram volunteered to grubstake me until the show in New York this fall."

"Gram? As in Mona Gram? You took Benton money?" The Benton wealth had caused a serious rift between their mother and her former in-laws.

"Mona can spare the bucks. Did you get the news article I sent outlining her net worth after Grandpa Toby died? He left Mona a millionaire twice over."

"That's not the point. Mom will have a cat-fit if you take one red cent from her."

Mark's temper flared. "Mona's our blood grandmother, Megan. And she's getting on in years. It hurt her that you were home at Christmas and never drove seventy miles to visit her. Since Toby died, she rattles around in that big house."

"I only had a week at home. I bought and wrapped a cashmere sweater, signed both our names like we agreed and sent it for her Christmas." Megan tucked her thumbs under her bright orange suspenders and twisted her lips to one side. "She smothers me, Mark. Plus she makes snide comments about Mom marrying Camp. It's been eleven years. Why can't she let it go?"

"Then she'd have to admit Dad was a jerk. She'll never do that. Dad was their only child. Their pride and joy. But Megan...we're her only relatives now. I'm not like you, I can't flip a switch and erase the fact that I'm a Benton."

Megan didn't want to argue. "So, uh, how long can you stay? A week? Two? Longer?" The last sounded hopeful.

Mark's eyes grew guarded. "Is a month too long? Maybe two? I'd like to stay for a while to see if I can produce quality photos. I figure the landscapes around here should be pretty interesting."

Megan broke into a wide grin and smacked his arm. "You stay two months, buddy, you're no guest. Starting tomorrow, we split household chores. Cooking, cleaning, laundry. The works."

"Speaking of cooking, I'm starved. You got anything to eat around here?"

"Peanut butter cookies that I made this morning." She hauled out a fat pink pig-shaped cookie jar. "I probably have cheese and crackers on hand. If the cheese isn't moldy."

From his superior height Mark gazed on her with amused affection. "Some things never change.You always had terrible eating habits. Point me toward the local grocery store. After I unpack, I'll make a list and shop. If you don't object to me using Mona's money, that is."

"I'll pay," Megan said quickly. "I make a good salary. I don't want Mona's handouts. If you're willing to split chores, I'll gladly feed you, Mark."

"Okay," he said. "But I wish you wouldn't be so hard on Gram."

"Uh...come with me. I'll show you where you can bunk. Isn't this a great old house? I have more space here than we did in that dinky duplex Mom rented after Dad died. Oh, say, will you do me another favor? I'm getting downstairs neighbors." She pointed to a key lying on her kitchen table. "They were supposed to be here already, but they're late. I'd planned to leave them a note and take the key across the street to Mrs. Ralston. She's a busybody, so I'd rather leave it with you. Will you hold off going to the store until after the new family puts in an appearance?"

"Sure. They got a name?"

"Don't know what it is." She shook her head, then laughed. "But who else will come asking for a key?"

STERLING DODGE PAID the toll and eased his dirt-streaked black four-wheel drive Land Rover onto the five-mile suspension span of Mackinac Bridge, which connected Michigan's Upper and Lower Peninsulas. Below, the wind whipped angry whitecaps into a froth across a broad expanse of blue so dark that in places the water looked black.

"Je-zus. It's the ends of the earth," spat Sterling's fourteen-year-old brother-in-law, Joel Atwater. A comment seconded by Joel's older sister, Lauren, who jammed a pillow behind her head.

"Joel," Sterling snapped. "I'm not telling you again to watch your mouth. Next time it'll affect your allowance." Sterling called attention to his son, the youngest of his three passengers. Tyler was kicking rhythmically against the back of his dad's seat. At four, he mimicked the older kids, who'd lived with Sterling and his wife, Blythe, since their wedding. Now with Blythe gone, Sterling was left the sole guardian.

His wife's siblings had gotten out of hand back on Long Island, and he knew that was primarily because of Blythe's inattention. The kids had cultivated bad friendships and worse habits. That was the catalyst for Sterling's seeking this new job. He hoped it wasn't too late to turn their lives around.

The teens were angry about the control he had over them and their trust fund. He couldn't blame them, as thanks to Blythe's resistance, he'd never taken a hand in raising them before. This wasn't a situation he'd ever envisioned. At the time he married Blythe, he would never have believed life would change so drastically that he'd uproot everyone and move to a state miles away from where they'd all been born.