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Of course it had to be the underwear suitcase that slipped from her hands. The ancient hinges ruptured on impact with the sidewalk and it split open like a bale of fiberglass insulation. Except, instead of bright pink slabs, what burst forth was dull white, black and beige –
“Panties!”
Jade planted her little feet on the cobbled drive leading to the Bramble House bed and breakfast, and glared at her mother accusingly. “Panties are private, Mama.”
Bob the dog cocked her homely one-up one-down ears, always alert to her little charge’s ever-shifting emotions.
Some teenage boys leaving the park across the street paused in their roughhousing. One of them handed his football to the others and began loping over to her.
“Hey lady, need a hand?”
If there was anywhere on the planet where you could still find old-fashioned courtesy, even when you didn’t exactly want it, it was Marietta, Montana.
Samara saw the instant he recognized the items flung about them.
He froze midway, seemingly paralyzed beneath the canopy of fall colors sheltering the street.
“It’s okay, I’ve got it,” she said. “Thanks anyway.”
The boy rejoined his pals and they loped away, but not before she heard hoots of laughter.
Spare her from adolescent testosterone.
“Mama! Panties!” insisted Jade, agitation making her voice quiver.
“I know, honey.” She squatted to shove the formerly neatly rolled items into the case, but it had been packed tightly and without hinges, the laws of physics just laughed at her.
“Stay here with Bob, sweetie,” she said. “Bob, stay.”
She popped the back of the mini-van and pushed and shoved stuff until she located a bungee cord. She could use it to hold the case shut. Naturally, it was underneath the spare tire and one of the s-hooks had become deeply attached, and resentful about being moved.
“You wanna fight?” she muttered. To herself or the stupid clingy s-hook, she wasn’t sure. She yanked hard and, suitably chastised, the cord let go. Of course, being a bungee cord, it snapped back with great gusto and the metal hook, in an illustration of karma or retaliation or, more likely, that darn physics, grazed her chin.
She stumbled against the curb and landed on her butt in front of Jade, who was now clenching and unclenching her fists. Bob shoved her head under the girl’s arm but it didn’t have much effect.
“I wanna go home, I wanna go home, I wanna go home,” Jade chanted, her voice rising with each repetition.
I know exactly how you feel, thought Sam, too weary to stand up.
Through tear-blurred eyes, she saw a pretty young woman burst out the door, a plastic garbage bag in her hand.
“Samara Davis, right? I’m Eliza Bramble. Welcome! I saw you arrive,” she said somewhat breathlessly, hurrying toward them. “I was on my way down, but then I saw your suitcase break and I went to get a bag first.”
“Thank you.”
“Looks like your little one isn’t very happy at the moment.”
“It’s been a long day.” Samara got to her feet, one hand on her chin, the other reaching forward, hoping to distract Eliza with a handshake.
Too late.
She squatted down in front of Sam’s quickly dissolving daughter, her voice friendly, her face open and helpful. “I’m Eliza. And you must be Jade.”
Instantly, the dog moved to stand between Jade and the new person. Eliza looked at Sam, eyebrows raised.
“That’s Bob. Don’t worry, she’s friendly, but Jade is... wary of strangers.”
Sam shoved her underwear into the bag, heedless of order or anything other than getting them out of public view, making a mental note to get rid of every single piece, as soon as she had a chance to buy new ones.
A whole drawer-full of new undies.
Starting over from the bottom up. Literally.
Eliza moved to touch Jade’s hair. Sam knew it was a well-intended gesture but Jade shrank away. Before she could begin crying, Sam scooped her up, the bag dangling from her arm.
“She’s very shy,” said Sam. “It’s been a really long day.”
“Then let’s get you to your room.” The woman stepped back, her smile less sure now. “Don’t worry. I’ll get your luggage. You take care of your little one. There’s some supper in the warming oven, for whenever you’re ready. We’ll get better acquainted then.”
As Samara hurried up the weathered stone path to the front door of Bramble House, her chin throbbing, her arms shaking, her heart broke again for her little girl. It was too much. It was all too much.
Just a few more days, she reminded herself, as she’d been telling herself every day for the past few weeks. A few more days and they’d be in their very own home, finally.
Shelter. Privacy. A place where she and Jade could finally rest and recover. Where she could hear herself think and be alone long enough to grieve the life she’d lost and maybe figure out a way to stop dreading each new day and embrace their future.
She stepped over the threshold, surveying the vaulted ceiling, richly textured walls and elaborate chandeliers. But what must have been a beautiful home at one time now had an air of faded gentility, unspoken and unacknowledged decay.
“Samara Kim.”
She jumped and turned to see an elderly woman who could only be Mabel Bramble. Tall and unbent by age, she stood motionless at the railing, her thin veined hands resting as if posed for a portrait.
Samara flushed, acutely aware of her travel-wrinkled, sweaty attire. Not to mention the unhappy child in her arms and their dog of questionable parentage that was no doubt already shedding all over the well-polished marble.
“I’m sorry we’re later than expected,” began Sam, desperate to break the silence.
“Never introduce yourself with an apology.” Mabel Bramble descended the grand staircase, no smile to soften her words.
Her real estate agent had given Sam an oblique warning about Mabel. Great-aunt to the Carrigan girls of Circle C Ranch, as well as one of the original founders of Marietta, Mabel had strong opinions on how her town had deteriorated, and who was to blame.
But great-aunt Mabel’s lack of lifetime achievement awards wasn’t her problem.
“My name is Samara Davis, actually. This is my daughter, Jade Davis-Kim.”
Mabel sniffed, as if rejecting a husband’s surname was a mark of ill repute never spoken of in polite society. But she stopped in front of Sam and extended her hand.
“Welcome to Bramble House.”
The older woman’s grip was surprisingly strong and instead of letting go, she held Sam’s hand, her eyebrows raised. Waiting.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Ms. Bramble,” said Sam, feeling her face burn.
“You may call me Mabel.” She nodded once, then released Sam’s hand. “And your child is called Jade, you say. Hello, Jade.”
Oh dear. If Aunt Mabel disapproved of Sam’s manners, things were about to take a sharp downward turn.
But Jade turned her dark gaze in the direction of this older woman who was keeping her distance and therefore safe to check out.
“Hello, tall lady. Are you mad at me?”
A bark of laughter shocked them all. Mabel lifted an elegant hand to her mouth.
“Gracious, child. You are an impertinent one. You may call me Aunt Mabel. Can you do that?”
Jade cocked her head in that particular way that told Samara she was uncomfortable but holding it together.
“Hello, Aunt Mabel.”
“Well done. Now, tell me, Jade, who is this creature with you?”
In their email communications, Sam had been careful to ensure that dogs were welcome at Bramble House. Eliza had been understandably cautious, but once Sam explained that the dog was very well-trained, and part of Jade’s coping mechanism after her father’s death, Bob had been approved.
“This is Bob,” said Jade, making the briefest eye contact with Aunt Mabel. “She is part Labrador Retriever, part Border Collie, part luck of the draw. Bob is my best friend. She is five. I am four.”
Samara felt a flush of pride. Jade had recited the explanation just as they’d practiced!
Aunt Mabel was unimpressed. “I’m not accustomed to bringing farm animals inside the house but I’ve agreed to allow it during your stay. I trust she will not be a nuisance.”
Thankfully, Eliza entered the room during Jade’s introduction and heard the veiled insult in her aunt’s response.
“Bob is simply lovely, isn’t she? And smart, too. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Aunt Mabel, I’ll show our guests to their rooms.”
Eliza herded them toward the hallway.
“Don’t mind my great-aunt. I think you’re going to love your stay with us. You’ve got a Jack-and-Jill bathroom connecting your bedrooms and there’s a sliding door to a patio off your room, Samara. Now, let’s get you settled, shall we?”
As she followed Eliza through the once-opulent hallway, Samara felt Aunt Mabel’s keen eyes boring into her back.
She feared they hadn’t made the best first impression on Aunt Mabel.
And that was before she remembered the display of underwear in the street.
An hour later, lying on the bed beside her exhausted, maxed-out, melted-down-to-a-puddle little girl, despair threatened to overwhelm her, as it had so often in the bleak months since Michael’s death. To her shame, Sam barely remembered the grief, because of the devastating rush of tasks involved at the time. The mountain of paperwork at the hospital. Calling Michael’s family in Taiwan. Talking with the funeral director.
And the fear that chewed relentlessly beneath everything, of how she would raise the child screaming on her hip, without him.
Samara stroked her daughter’s damp forehead, sad again that this child had no one but her.
Then she elbowed up off the bed. There was nothing to be gained from self-pity.
She went to the window and pulled the drapes tighter, but a small ray of soft evening gold shone through, illuminating her sleeping daughter. Bob lifted her head watchfully, then sighed and tucked her muzzle up against Jade’s arm again.
Sam’s heart caught in her throat. For a moment, the fatigue and worry slipped away as she watched Jade breathe, slow and smooth, her face relaxed, her body loose as a rag doll.
This is what kept her going.
Samara shivered as she and Jade walked through the park the next morning. The late summer sunshine slanting through the trees wasn’t warm enough for her to go without a sweater in the morning.
“You excited to see our new house, sweetie?” Samara squeezed her daughter’s hand, hoping her mood had improved after a good night’s sleep. They turned onto Collier Avenue. Bob paced evenly beside them, her tongue lolling happily.
“We’re going home?” said Jade, hopefully.
Sam sighed. It was like beating her head against a brick wall some days.
Change was not a welcome event, in Jade’s world. Switching from her favorite brand of breakfast cereal to the store version ignited a three-day hunger strike that only ended when Jade decided she preferred eggs and toast anyway.
The first day of pre-school had become the last day of pre-school when the teacher took Sam aside and suggested that Jade needed “a bit more time to prepare.” Or a one-on-one aide. Which Sam knew would be a waste of time even if she could afford it.
Michael had left them well provided for, buying her some much-needed time. Leaving their tiny but expensive Upper West Side apartment had been a bad day for both of them, but there was no choice. She should have done it sooner.
However, seeing all her toys put into boxes, the walls cleared of her pictures and posters, had sent Jade spinning out of control.
And now, Samara had brought her daughter to this new strange place they’d be calling home.
Before she’d seen the ad, she hadn’t thought of Marietta in years. Then, memories of that one good school year flooded back.
The first place she’d belonged. The first school she’d enjoyed.
The first boy she’d loved.
Her house was part of a new high-school project in which the town of Marietta partnered with the local schools to provide work experience for underprivileged or challenged students, using derelict heritage houses owned by the city.
The houses would then be sold at below-market prices, the proceeds used to fund the next project.
She paused at Second. “What do we do here, Jade?”
“Look to the left. Look to the right. No cars? Cross. We’re going home now?”
It was a treat to cross two lanes with no cars, instead of being part of a sea of pedestrians navigating over six or eight lanes, at a light-controlled intersection.
“Not New York home. Montana home. Remember?”
“I wanna go home.”
Her voice was forlorn, little, hopeless, and Samara’s heart broke. Buying this place was a risk, certainly, a pig-in-a-poke sort of situation. But it was the only way she could afford a decent house in a nice town.
She wanted so badly for her baby girl to be happy, healthy, to give her the world.
But no matter your intentions when they first place that warm, wrapped, squirming bundle in your lap, you’re going to fall short. There are no super-moms. Eventually, you just have to hope your kid survives all your parental screw-ups.
At least here Jade would grow up safe, play outdoors, go to school with the same kids from kindergarten to graduation.
“This is our forever home now, sweetie,” said Samara, squeezing her daughter’s hand.
Once they’d crossed Third Street, she could see the old brick of the elementary school off in the distance. Their house was just ahead. She picked up the pace and then, she scanned the number – there it was.
She tugged Jade closer to her side.
“Look at the pretty house, honey,” she breathed.
Photos hadn’t done the place justice. All the homes on Collier were on oversized lots, as was typical at the time Marietta was established. Their half-acre was tiny by the standards of the day. But today? It was like having her own kingdom.
The butter-yellow Queen Anne style cottage had a small front veranda with white picket rails and gingerbread touches at the corners. The red roof was steeply pitched over what she knew would be Jade’s room. The windows had been replaced but their deep-framed casings remained true to the period.
Lattice-work enclosed the three steps leading to the front door. From the street, a gold-leafed shrub and soaring red maple accentuated the colors, dappling the sunlight and making her feel as if they were about to enter a fairy tale turned real.
Except that Samara didn’t believe in fairy tales.
“Mama!” Jade tugged her hand away. “You’re squishing.”
“Sorry, honey.” She squeezed her own hands together as nervous excitement bubbled through her.
For better or worse, she was a property owner now, a have finally instead of the have-not girl she’d been for so long.
A man stepped out of the sleek black sports car parked at the curb. A flash on the door read Tod Styles Real Estate. Getting YOU Home!
“Hello!” he called. “You must be Samara and Jade.”
She was surprised to see him. Due to the reduced price and the unusual nature of the deal, Tod was only getting a fraction of his commission. As a result, she’d received a fraction of service. Her search had brought up two Styles realtors; she wondered if she’d have had better luck with the other one.
Tod glanced at the truck across the street.
“Foreman’s here. Let’s go see what you bought.”
“I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting for this moment,” she said.
Samara hadn’t been involved with any of the design or restoration; she had no idea who the workers were. But surely having the foreman stop by, even now that the work was completed, was a good sign. He must be conscientious.
The door complained noisily when she pushed it open.
At triple the space of their Manhattan suite, even the relatively modest front room of this house yawned before them.
“Mama?” whispered Jade. “I wanna go home.”
Samara lifted her up onto her hip, unease creeping over her.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” she repeated, to convince herself or Jade, she wasn’t sure.
“No. It’s dirty.”
Bob trotted over the threshold into the front room, leaving paw prints in the thick layer of sawdust on the hardwood. A beam of sunshine slanted through the chilly room, highlighting the dust motes hanging in the air, waiting.
Jade had a point. But she knew it wasn’t the dust that bothered her child as much as the chaos. She craved routine, predictability and order; this was anything but.
“Looks like things are coming along,” said Tod. He brushed something off his tailored sleeve and walked ahead of her to the next room.
“Wait.” They weren’t supposed to be coming along. They were supposed to be already there. “You told me it was complete.”
“Yeah, today’s the date they gave me.”
She stepped into the small front room, with its wide windows overlooking Collier Avenue to the north. Samara ran the toe of her sneaker over the hardwood, to see the grain beneath, telling herself to stay calm. Polished up, it would be beautiful.
But on top of it, against the walls, baseboards lay in piles, ready to be nailed into place.
“This isn’t ready, Tod.” She bit back the stronger words clinging to the tip of her tongue. How long did it take to install baseboards? They still had a couple of days. She was probably overreacting.
Think positive, Samara. Don’t borrow trouble.
She imagined a lushly textured carpet being rolled up, so people could dance on that warm, dark wood. Jane Austen, the country-western version.
It didn’t work.
The central feature wall should be the proud home of numerous ancestral portraits, she thought with a pang, not their meager family photo collection.
And she shouldn’t be able to see the drywall tape.
The ceiling – painted at least – loomed above them, a single bulb dangling from a cord, shining down like a searchlight.
The brand-new windows still wore their factory stickers, jarring against the old, stripped and as yet unpainted trim.
These walls, so long neglected, wanted to be filled with friends and family, laughter and love and life and who were they getting? A lonely woman and her odd little girl.
Samara felt suddenly like she was trying on a princess gown, hoping it would transform her, knowing the whole time that no matter how she stuck out her chest, she couldn’t fill it.
She pushed away those thoughts and went to find Tod. Whether or not she had second thoughts, the deal had closed. She’d made furniture delivery arrangements based on Tod’s assurances that everything was on track.
And from what she could see, there was a month of work left.
Logan Stafford surveyed the mess in the master suite bathroom, shaking his head. His students were in class all morning, giving him time to examine their work and do any necessary fix-ups.
There were always fix-ups.
This time, someone had dripped blobs of spackle into the luxurious clawfoot bathtub, then tried to scrape it off. He’d have to get someone in to refinish the surface.
He guessed the new owners would be arriving soon – the real estate agent’s communication left much to be desired – but everyone knew that house construction rarely came in on time or under budget. His original estimation of being ready for final inspection in a week was off by at least two weeks, probably three. The chances of moving in on schedule were slim to none.
He examined the millwork on the bathroom cabinets. Original maple, over a hundred years old, and more beautiful than ever. His students had stripped and refinished them, installed new hardware and assisted in the reinstallation.
Time-line aside, the kids were doing a great job. They’d done their assigned tasks with care and precision, eager to get their shop credit, determined to finish high school with a leg up toward a career in construction. Their enthusiasm was a joy to behold.
Helping struggling students succeed was the best part of his job.
But if they couldn’t meet their deadline, if the new owners weren’t flexible, he’d have to bring in outside help. His students would still get their credit, but his hard-won project might not be renewed for next year.
Education politics was the worst part of his job.
Footsteps sounded from below.
“Stafford, you here?”
Tod Styles. Getting YOU Home!
He didn’t dislike the man, exactly, but Tod hadn’t made his opinion of this project a secret. He clearly considered his time a precious gift he couldn’t afford, rather than a partial donation to a worthy cause.
The other Styles real estate agent – Tod’s brother or cousin, maybe? – had a similar reputation. Rick, that was his name. He couldn’t imagine how they survived, splitting Marietta’s flat housing market between them.
“Hey, Tod,” he said, descending the stairs.
“There must be a mistake.” He heard a voice from around the corner.
A woman’s voice, melodious, modulated.
Familiar.
A black and white dog bounded up to him then, wagging her tail and slipping on the hardwood steps. “Whoa. Who are you?”
“Bob?” called the woman. “Come on back, girl.”
His mind raced as he walked toward the voice, unable to place her, but aware of a desperate urgency to do so.
Then he rounded the corner to the kitchen and came face to face with her. She stopped short, one arm tightening on a child who clung to her back like a limpet, the other gripping the doorframe so tightly her knuckles were white.
A child.
Then memory snapped into clear focus, shutting down rational thought for an endless split second, allowing emotion to flood in and take over.
Years fell away and he was back in high school, waiting for his calculus class to end so he could run out to their spot, under the bleachers. She would already be there, waiting, her slender form poised with eagerness. He’d watch the tension fall from her face as she broke into a smile. How he’d loved that, being the one who made the new girl smile and laugh.
It couldn’t be her.
It couldn’t be anyone but her.
Apparently she was having a similar reaction. She shifted the kid – a little girl with Asian features – onto her hip, holding her close with both arms.
He shouldn’t be surprised she had a child. But children come with daddies and that thought carried a surprising amount of distaste.
“Logan?” she said, finally, the bell in her voice cracked.
Her face was paler than he remembered, her dark eyes huge. Her slenderness had progressed to the hard thinness he associated with long distance runners. He could see tendons stretching between clavicle and throat and small lines bracketed her mouth.
“Samara.”
He reached back for the teenage agony that had sliced through him when she’d disappeared from his life, wondering if it was still there. It wasn’t.
The only movement she’d made was to blink but he could see a muscle flicker in her jaw. Whatever life had handed her hadn’t been easy. She was still Sam. Guarded, careful, trying to hide her vulnerability. Failing.
He took her hand, pressing it between his like a damn politician, unable to resist touching her more. Her skin, against his. Her small bones, as he remembered.
Then he stepped in for a quick hug, a kiss on the cheek, and then another squeeze. The smell of her hair caught him like a right hook to the jaw, staggering him with a rush of memories.
The new girl, books held tightly against her chest, dark eyes wide and cautious. The first time their eyes met, the flare of recognition that lit up inside him. The sensation of her lips opening against his, yielding, giving, so, so sweet –
The kid in her arms squirmed as if frightened and Sam shifted away.
“I can’t believe it,” she said, her voice steady and impersonal once more. “Is it really you?”
How quickly she’d collected herself, put up her shield and donned the guarded face she presented to her unknown and potentially hostile world.
“In the flesh,” he answered. He forced himself to smile. “And in shock. You’re not about to turn into a totally traumatized Girl Guide selling cookies to a man who’s seeing things, are you?”
Her cheeks colored and a smile, an authentic one, broke through the mask.
Tod appeared then, clicking off his cell phone and slipping it into the breast pocket of his monkey suit. As usual, he seemed oblivious.
“Good, you’re both here. Logan Stafford, general contractor, meet Samara Davis, purchaser. Nice job, Staff.”
Staff. As if they were friends. As if Tod Styles knew plywood from cork board.
He wasn’t just the general, either.
“Listen,” said Tod, “I’ve got to run. Lock up when you leave, Staff.”
“I will, Tod.”
Like he did every single day.
Sam turned to the door then, as if remembering something. “Tod, hang on a second.”
But it was too late.
Then the penny dropped for Logan.
“Wait. You’re the purchaser?”
“Me, my daughter, Jade and her dog, Bob.”
“You’re S. Kim? You bought this house?”
He recalled the name on the transfer papers, the new owner purchasing this neglected beauty from the city.
She nodded, as if unsure how to react to his shock. “Kim’s my married name.”
Of course she was married. A woman like her would hardly have stayed single.
And of course, Samara’s marital status was absolutely none of his business.
“Good,” he said, like she needed his permission or something. “Lucky guy! Can’t wait to meet him.”
Shut up, Logan!
“You won’t,” she said, stepping around him. “He passed away.”
A widow. That’s how a woman like her would be single.
Not married. No daddy. Relief surged through him, followed immediately by shame. What kind of a selfish jerk was he?
He could feel his mouth opening and closing. Thank goodness no sound was coming out.
The kid squirmed and Sam put her on the floor.
“Stay with me, honey,” said Sam, gesturing to her daughter. “What do you think of our new old house?”
“I wanna go home.” The little girl plunked herself down on the hardwood and crossed her arms. The dog promptly flopped down beside her, as if her sole purpose in life was to hang with this kid.
“So, let me get this straight,” said Logan, brushing over the whole widow-situation, “you’re S. Kim and you’re moving to Marietta? Coming back, with your daughter and your dog. After all this time?”
She nodded. “Long story. Anyway, I’m back and moving in next Friday. I wanted to check in.”
She straightened up and began moving down the hallway to the kitchen.
“This is the first time I’m seeing it in person,” she continued. “I found out about it from my agent in New York. I’m a teacher myself – well, I was before Jade – so I’m thrilled to be part of a project like this.”
There was pride and excitement in her voice.
“Yeah,” said Logan, as his heart sank.
He heard her footsteps stop abruptly. She’d found the kitchen, then. The kitchen, where the plumbers were still working to connect the original iron sink to modern up-to-code pipes. The kitchen, where his students were slowly and painstakingly installing the slate flooring. The kitchen, which was still at least a week away from completion.
She turned to him. “How long will that take? It’s supposed to be approved for occupancy by now. I’m moving in next week.”
They’d managed to stick to the budget, because of the free labor, but the free labor had, yeah, put them behind schedule.
Then she frowned, as if remembering that Tod Styles had referred to him as the general contractor.
“If you’re in charge, then you can speed things up, right?”
Logan ran a hand over his face. “I am in charge. I’m the curriculum designer, teaching out of Livingston High. The sub trades go through me but my main focus is educational.”
“Okay.” She lifted her eyebrows and drew out the last syllable, making it into a question. Teacher-Sam was impressed; home-buyer-Sam was not.
“The students work with the tradesmen, under my supervision and we work to our students’ abilities. That’s why we’re behind schedule. Having never done it before, delivery dates are subject to change. Didn’t Tod Styles tell you?”
Obviously not. No wonder the guy disappeared so fast.
Samara blinked. Confusion and anger washed over her features. She crossed her arms, then raised her fist to her chin, shaking her head.
“We’re moving in next Friday. My furniture is heading out tomorrow, the last eighth of the truck. It’s a milk run and the schedule is tight.”
Thanks for nothing, Styles.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Sam.”
Logan looked around him. No wonder she was upset. There had to be something he could do to push the project and meet her deadline.
Something. Anything to take away the disappointment on her lovely face.
“I’ll see what I can do to speed things up, okay? Now, let me show you the rest of it.”
She took a deep breath. “Might as well. Jade? Come on, honey.”
“No!” said the kid, still sitting in the corner. “I wanna go home.”
Despite her sulky tone, Logan sensed that the kid was more scared than anything.
“There’s a perfect little girl’s room up there,” offered Logan, grateful that they’d put the bedroom closet doors on yesterday. But Jade wouldn’t be moved. She clung to that dog like a life-preserver, rocking back and forth.
Samara looked torn.
“We’ll just be upstairs,” he said. “She’ll be fine.”
“I’ll be right back, okay, honey? Bob, stay.” She dropped a kiss onto the kid’s head.
“Upstairs, Sam. Not off planet, I promise.”
Samara lifted an eyebrow at him. “She’s my child.”
“My bad.” He lifted both hands in apology, then turned to Jade. “I’ll bring your mama right back, okay kiddo? Don’t grow up and start driving in the meantime.”
Sam’s lip twitched. She walked past him to the staircase, her eyes on the reclaimed hardwood stretching across the great room.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. “My boys did a great job on the flooring. It would have been much easier to buy a package from Costco, but this floor is unique and in keeping with the character of the home.”
“It’s lovely.”
She looked up and down the staircase. It was the original structure, with only a few risers replaced, plus a total refinish. These stairs were a particular point of pride for his boys and he found himself exhaling in relief at her nod of approval.
She trailed her hand over the banister, then continued up to the bedrooms, feeling the texture of the carpet, running her hands along doorframes, windowsills, even the walls, as if she was blind.
“It’s going to be just lovely.” Uh-oh. Her voice was crackly, like she had a cold.
“Painting is next.” He spoke quickly, hoping to sidestep the threat of tears, recognizing how far from done everything must appear to her. “The swatches are on the paint cans. A professional decorator handled the color choices.”
She barely glanced at them.
“They’re fine.”
She pushed open the door to Jade’s room. A small squeak sounded.
“I’ll oil that tomorrow,” said Logan, before she could ask. “And the front door, too.”
“Thank you.”
“And we’ll have the cleaning crew in once we’re finished creating dust,” he said as she brushed her hands together.
“Of course.” She walked through the bathroom, touching the surfaces and checking doors without comment, then went toward the master bedroom.
And stopped abruptly in the doorway. She cupped one elbow tightly against her stomach and her other arm crept between her breasts, her fingers against her throat.
Logan couldn’t help but stare.
Damn. Those fingers, that throat. Those breasts.
But even after all those years, he recognized the defensiveness in the gesture, her need to guard herself.
Against what? Disappointment?
“This is the best room in the house,” he said, touching her back lightly. They’d combined two small rooms into one to allow for the ensuite bathroom. They’d salvaged the original tin-tile ceiling. They’d installed a much larger window, complete with a hinged window seat running the length of it, and flanked on either side by built-in bookcases.
It couldn’t have been designed better, even if they’d known it was for her.
“You always were such a bookworm-”
She waved away his words, her fingers now pressed against her mouth, holding herself very, very still. She hadn’t stepped forward, and now they were standing close enough that Logan could feel the warmth coming from her body.
“I’m sorry we’re behind schedule,” he began desperately. “I’ll get everyone in first thing in the morning. We’ll work night and day to make sure it’s ready for you. And if you don’t like the bedroom-”
“I love it.” Her voice was hoarse. She walked into the room, finally, as if entering a cathedral.
He had no idea what was going on. Was she mad? Happy? Disappointed?
Ten minutes with her, and he felt like the only task that had any importance in his life was to make her smile. To hear her laugh. To see the tension ease from her body. To feel her soften against him. To earn her trust.
“Anything you want changed, we can change. I’ll do whatever you want, Samara.”
She gave her head a little shake. “It’s perfect, Logan. I’m thrilled with the house. I’m overwhelmed, to tell the truth. I’m just disappointed it’s not ready. It’s been a long week.”
Relief flooded through him. She did, in fact, look exhausted. Perhaps it was the hollowness of her cheeks. A thought occurred to him suddenly.
“I know it’s early, but have lunch with me.”
His kids would be working here all afternoon but right now, he had time.
She lifted her eyebrows and glanced pointedly at his left hand. “Surely your wife or girlfriend would object.”
Surely the fact that she wanted to know meant something.
“I’m divorced.” He swallowed. But for once, the bite of the hated word, metallic on his tongue like rusted chain, wasn’t so strong.
“Oh. Well,” she said, pulling her hand back. She checked the time on her cell phone. “I can’t anyway. Jade’s going to need a nap soon. She was up late last night.”
“A quick burger, that’s all.” He wanted to get to know her again, a desire that now he’d recognized it, was surprisingly strong. “Surely the chipmunk could eat?”
He gave himself a mental slap against the hope that leaped up at the thought. What are you doing, dude? You think you can just pick up where you left off? She’s not the same person.
How she must have suffered, to be a widow so young, left with a child to raise on her own. The long-ago months they’d spent together, in such an agony of young love, were so far gone that they may as well be strangers to each other.
Yet, when her eyes met his, he felt as if a deep thirst he hadn’t even been aware of was finally being slaked. Perhaps this unexpected overlap in their lives was a gift, an olive branch, an opportunity to rebuild their friendship, if nothing else.
Perhaps they were being given a second chance.
“Come on, Sam. You look like you could use a good meal.”
She appraised him slowly, her hand on the doorknob. Fatigue and sadness etched her face. “I’m fine, Logan. I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not the same person you used to know.”
“Of course you’re not.”
Did she sound disappointed? Or was it his imagination?
“I mean,” she clarified, “you don’t have to feel sorry for me. I don’t need rescuing. All I need is to have my house ready for move-in next Friday.”
She reached out and touched his arm. “I am glad to know someone here though, after all these years. I hope we can be friends.”
She walked away, her back straight, her head held high, as if they’d never been anything to each other. She had her life under control, tightly contained.
If this was a second chance, it was pretty damn slim.
A sharp woof sounded from below. Samara’s head jerked, then she hurried down the stairs.
The front door, that Logan knew he had closed behind him when they’d entered, was standing wide open. Bob was hovering on the threshold. At their arrival, she barked sharply, then dashed down the front steps to where Sam’s daughter was hunched over a patch of dandelions on the lawn.
“Jade!”
There was little traffic on Collier Avenue, but Samara leaped in as if the kid was playing hopscotch on the interstate.
She tugged her child toward the front door, but the kid started kicking and screaming, bludgeoning Sam’s arms and legs. Logan sympathized with the girl, but Sam was taking a beating for it.
“Hey, hey now,” he said. He stepped in and gently scooped Jade around her waist.
For a second, she stopped. Then a fresh spate of screaming began, wilder, higher and more frantic than the first.
“It’s okay, I can handle her,” said Sam, reaching for her daughter.
Bob barked wildly at his feet, as if to emphasize the point.
“I’ve got her.” Logan collected all four limbs and brought them in tight to his body, holding them immobile, understanding now the wiry leanness of Sam’s arms.
“It’s okay, little one,” he crooned, watching Sam as the girl’s shrieks turned to sobs. “She packs a good punch, doesn’t she?”
“Give her to me,” Sam said, her arms open and waiting.
“She’s settling down,” said Logan, continuing to hold and rock the distraught child. “I guess you were right about that nap.”
“I shouldn’t have left her,” muttered Sam, holding her elbows in her hands, bouncing from foot to foot. “I got distracted. I know better than that.”
“She’s a kid, Sam.” Logan continued stroking the girl’s hair. Her small body was relaxing. “Kids like to play outside. It’s a safe neighborhood, I promise.”
“We definitely need a flip lock on that door.” Sam took a deep breath. “Way up high so she can’t reach it.”
Then she squatted down and gathered the dog into her arms. “Good girl, Bob. You’re such a good girl.” She dug around in her pocket and brought out a small square treat, which Bob took politely, while keeping her eye on the damp bundle in Logan’s arms.
Samara had always been wound a little tightly, but the screw had tightened dramatically over the years. Looking at her now, feeling the tension slide out of her almost-sleeping child, Logan sensed she was only a turn or two away from the breaking point.
And that this interaction with him had made it worse, not better.
Second verse, same as the first.
A little bit louder, a little bit worse.
The old cheering song popped into Samara’s head as she and Jade walked back to the house on Collier Avenue that afternoon. No big surprise, considering the weeks she’d spent rah-rahing in the bleachers with the rest of the students.
Way back.
When she and Logan were a couple of kids, imagining themselves in love.
Her legs felt wooden, yet weak. Logan Stafford! Not just still in Marietta, but working on her house. She hoped her face hadn’t revealed the shock and, yes, the thrill, of seeing him again after all this time but she suspected it had been clear as a billboard.
Their love story had ended long ago, and yet one smile from him brought it all back, the joy, the heartache, everything.
True love stories never have endings.
The line from a book on their junior year reading list popped into her head, instantly transporting her back to the sun-dappled lawn behind the school, where she and Logan were cramming for their lit exam, deciding that the author had written the words just for them.
For a few months, she’d believed that.
Well. Theirs had been a short story, as it turned out, with an abrupt and very clear ending.
She glanced down at Jade, holding onto Bob’s harness like it was her mission in life. Samara was done with short, tragic stories. She’d never survive another one.
As they rounded the corner, the house came into view, lifting her thoughts out of the past. This was their future, building a home for her daughter. So Logan happened to be there; so he happened to be single; so he happened to still have the ability to stir her flagging heart like a sweet autumn breeze.
Their love story was long over. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends.
He’d always been a great guy.
After the meltdown, Logan had driven them back to Bramble House so Jade could take her nap. Samara was determined to create a positive association in Jade’s mind about the house, so here they were again.
This time, as they walked up the sidewalk, she could hear voices and banging sounds. A saw revved up, chewed through something, and faded.
It was no surprise when Jade lifted her arms.
Samara swung her onto her hip, and went around to enter by the kitchen door. “One day soon, kiddo, you’re going to be too heavy for this. Maybe you’ll have to carry me then. What do you say?”
“Nuh-uh.”
Jade’s grip on her neck grew tighter and Sam steeled herself for optimism. Maybe the house was closer to ready than it had appeared in the morning.
This time, the first thing she saw was the oversized, cast-iron kitchen sink, situated beneath a large window overlooking the garden.
Instantly, she imagined Jade and Bob playing outside while she washed dishes. It was perfect!
Or it would be, when the sink was connected to that big pipe lying on the slate floor. Beside a pair of denim-clad legs ending in work-boots.
The legs pushed out, revealing a young man with a shock of wavy hair and a dark smear on his cheek. He was wearing gloves and a mask.
Jade buried her head in Sam’s shoulder.
Logan came around the corner just then, wiping his hands on a towel. His eyes lit up when he saw them and her heart gave an answering leap.
“I was hoping you’d be back,” he said, his smile big and warm. “Come on in so I can introduce you around.”
He gathered his crew, a small cast of characters, some of them appearing almost as uncomfortable as Jade in the sudden social arena.
“Guys and gal,” he said, nodding to the lone girl in the group, “this is Samara Davis and she’s the one who’ll be living here when we’re done.”
Samara’s irritation at the delays evaporated. The students before her were kids who needed encouragement, not criticism, she could see that immediately.
And it was clear they admired Logan. He’d always had a way of bringing people together, of making them feel included, on the same team. He’d done it with these kids, some of whom had likely experienced more than their share of ostracism.
He lowered his voice. “Now, you can’t tell, but there’s an invisible chipmunk on her back. This chipmunk will materialize when she’s ready but until then, she’s not here. Got it?”
Sam felt Jade’s head lift. Gratitude rushed through her. She could just kiss Logan for understanding Jade’s discomfort. People tended to either want to jolly her out of it – definitely not a good plan – or comment on her immaturity, implying or outright stating that Samara should be tougher with her.
“As it happens, Ms. Davis is an old friend of mine, so treat her right, okay?” Logan’s smile was like a ray of sunshine peeking through a cloud.
“Mr. S,” said a handsome boy leaning against the doorframe. “Good job!”
To her surprise, Logan colored, ever-so-slightly. “That’s Flynn,” he said, pointing to the boy. “That’s Robbie, that’s Josh, James is under the sink and Carter’s the one in the red coveralls.”
There were several more, but after seeing Robbie and James, she lost track. They’d been part of the group across the street that witnessed her panty-drop. But if their red faces and shuffling feet were any indication, they felt worse about it than she did.
“And this is Gabi.” Logan gestured to a short blonde girl who had a carpenter’s square slung over her shoulder.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Gabi, reaching forward to take her hand. “Finally, I’m not the only girl in the group.”
“I’m happy to meet you all,” said Samara.
But would this crew be able to get everything done in time?
Finally, he gestured to the tow-headed boy in red coveralls. “Carter, show Ms. Davis the powder room, where you helped put in the linoleum. You did a great job.”
As Samara passed Logan, she whispered, “Invisible chipmunk thanks you.”
He touched her arm, being careful to avoid Jade’s leg. “You’re welcome.”
The casual touch sent more warmth streaking through her and she smiled.
If he didn’t already know how anxious Samara was about moving in on time, he’d never be able to tell from her behavior among his students.
Logan watched with amazement as she wandered among them, Jade clinging to her like a little monkey.
“You’re doing a lovely job on this,” she said, patting James on the shoulder. “You should be very proud.”
The boy’s face, still softened with baby fat, went incandescent. He ducked his head, mumbled a thank you, and nearly impaled himself on a length of baseboard.
Huh. Logan’s praise had never affected him that way.
Then again, Samara wasn’t being paid to encourage him. She’d be dynamite in the classroom. There was a quiet nurturing sincerity about her. It wasn’t motherliness, exactly. More like a kind and very hot aunt.
Frighteningly hot.
She needed a bit more weight on her bones, but every pound she had was in exactly the right place. His fingers tingled. He could still remember how she felt in his arms, that silky skin pressed against him, their awkward, urgent, desperate high school fumbling.
How they’d managed not to go all the way, he couldn’t imagine.
What would happen, if they got another chance?
“You’re the one who designed the project in the first place, Logan.”
Frank Stern had been the principal of Livingston High School for twelve years, during which time he’d lost his smile and his marriage, replacing them with forty pounds and a jaundiced attitude.
“If you change the rules now,” he continued, “forget about getting approved for next year.”
Frank considered Logan impassively from across his government-issued desk. Except for a pen, a single sheet of paper and an oversized computer monitor, the desk was empty. No photos of his kids, no potted plant, no coffee mug, nothing. He’d once done great things for the school. But he’d had concerns about Logan’s pet project from the start.
“It’s an administrative hoop, Frank. I’m simply asking that we request parental approval for extracurricular work hours. The kids know that completing a job within an owner’s time frame is essential in this business; so do their parents. Rubber stamp it and let’s go.”
Frank went on as if Logan hadn’t even spoken.
“I’m surprised you’d jeopardize this after you lobbied so hard to get it in the first place. You ran the fundraisers. You’re the one who secured the arrangement with the city. You’re the one who talked to the local Trade Association about taking these boys on after graduation. You promised that the students would fulfill the tasks laid out as stipulated.”
“Which they have,” said Logan. “But since we are running behind schedule, and this is causing the purchaser great inconvenience, it’s reasonable to have them work extended hours to make up the shortfall.”
Frank shook his head. “As long as they’re working under the LHS umbrella, we stick to school hours. That’s non-negotiable. I’m sorry, Logan. I’m sure you can work something out with the purchaser.”
He turned back to his laptop and Logan understood he was dismissed.
“I’ll make it work.” He got to his feet, extending his hand. “I appreciate your time, Frank.”
The principal glanced up, as if mildly surprised. “Of course. Of course.”
The man had engaged the cooperation of his staff, but not their love, and it saddened Logan that the ordinary niceties of social interaction were unexpected.
He walked down the hallway, taking a moment to enjoy the quiet. The shiny floors, the walls full of colorful notices, posters, art projects, murals, trophy cases. So much pride here.
The upcoming football game between Livingston and Marietta high schools featured heavily on the walls. Working in Livingston while living in Marietta had never been a problem for him. He cheered until he was hoarse for his school team. Then, when he went home at the end of the day, he lifted a glass in congratulations or commiseration or defeat with whoever happened to be at the bar. He had good friends on both sides of the rivalry and he liked it that way.
Now, however, he had to find a way not to let one house in Marietta ruin a Livingston project that spanned both towns.
He wouldn’t let his students down.
But he couldn’t let Samara down, either.
Early that evening, Samara lifted the key to her new house with shaking fingers. She was already feeling anxious about leaving Jade asleep in her room at Bramble House, under Mabel’s crusty supervision. Now, finally able to make an undistracted progress check, alone, she was anxious about what she’d find.
But as she unlocked the kitchen door, she noticed the scent of something tangy wafting up. Looking down, she saw a hose attached to the side of the house, and on either side of it, herbs.
An herb garden, gone wild!
She’d grown basil in her Manhattan windowsill, but this, oh this was the real thing. Dill grown tall nodded at her and thyme crept between the broken paving stones at her feet. She bent forward and let her fingers drift over the soft spikes of fragrant rosemary and on to a stand of leafy bee balm, inhaling the scent of tea and sweet spices.
Her mother had grown herbs the summer they’d lived in Marietta, and the luxurious aromas brought with them images of the greenery she’d tended in hopes of brightening up their dumpy shack.
Samara straightened up, shaking off the bittersweet memories.
She stepped over the threshold, forcing her thoughts back to the present. She and Jade had spent enough time in limbo; they needed to be settled. Time was ticking! They couldn’t afford to waste a single minute, yet when she surveyed the kitchen, it appeared as if no one had been inside all day. If anything had changed, Samara couldn’t tell.
But when she flicked the switch in the front room, the light shone soft and warm over the room. A beautiful light fixture now covered the bare bulb, and surrounding it was a sparkling panel made of the same beautiful embossed tin as in the master suite.
Her annoyance dissolved. Clearly Logan had been here.
Of course he had. He promised he’d get it done and he was a guy who kept his word. It wasn’t Logan’s fault that the house was behind schedule, she understood that. She didn’t want him to jeopardize a project so long in the making, and something that would do so much good to students who needed the hand up.
Samara hugged her elbows, surveying the big empty walls. This time, they didn’t loom as much as they waited, patient and expectant, for her and Jade to bring them back to life.
She bit back a grin. This was her house!
However, in the meantime, she still had a truckload of furniture arriving in less than a week, and an unfinished house full of workers, sawdust and equipment.
Samara took inventory of the remaining tasks: the technically challenging work was mostly in the kitchen. The upstairs trim needed to be installed. Most of the painting was yet to be done. Everything needed cleaning.
His students couldn’t work overtime, and they needed the plumbing credit, she understood that.
But she could paint. She could clean.
And after forming a wholly unexpected and somewhat uneasy alliance with Mabel, Jade’s preference was to remain at Bramble House rather than accompany her mother to “the boring place.”
Hope lifted her spirits.
They had six days left.
She pulled out her cell phone.
“Logan?” she said. “I have an idea.”
It was the sort of hair-splitting Logan hated.
“You’re not covered by the school’s insurance,” he told Sam. “Until the house is approved for occupancy, you’re allowed in only to assess the progress.”
“I’ll get extra insurance,” she countered. “I’d never put the school at risk, or put you in a position that could damage your job or the project.”
Even over the phone, he couldn’t help but be drawn to her. The silky voice.
The word position.
In the space of thirty-six hours, he’d lost his mind. Just like high school.
He was actually considering altering his professional raison d’etre to fit her needs.
A sliver of resentment, long forgotten, quivered to life. He thought he’d burned that thing out but apparently not.
She hadn’t wanted him to run for student council, either, way back. After she left, he revelled in his triumph as president, all the while knowing that his campaigning had taken time away from what would turn out to be their last month together.
But if he’d withdrawn his name for her, he’d have done it for nothing.
At seventeen, everything seems an impossible, heart-breaking, life-changing crisis. Only years later would you recall it with fond, head-patting maturity, tinged with embarrassment, perhaps. In the moment it was everything.
It was your life.
He dealt with such drama on a daily basis, after all.
But he hadn’t expected to still harbor, at thirty-three years of age, remnants of the essential human conflict: wanting someone else’s happiness so, so badly – but not at the expense of your own happiness.
And he desperately wanted Sam to be happy.
“We might have to do it on the down-low,” he said.
She chuckled, a throaty sound that made his inner teenage boy spring to life.
“We can manage that, don’t you think?”