10
Bailey slipped her jacket over the chair back, her heart still hammering in her throat.
Cole McKenna. The one person she’d longed to avoid, yet ached to see.
Her hands trembled, and she put them to use unwinding her hair. She flung the bobby pins into a mishmash on the desk and stared at them, refusing to close her eyes for fear of picturing Cole, his powerful gaze searing through her.
While his eyes held no condemnation, nothing to fill her with shame, she was brimming over with it—the insatiable inner anguish that said she didn’t belong, that she wasn’t enough.
Butterscotch leapt on her lap, and she nuzzled him close.
Too many memories lingered in this place, too much pain—raw and on the surface.
Time to put Cole and Yancey behind her for good . . . time to stop wondering what might have been.
Placing the cat in his favorite spot—the right corner of the window display—so he could sun himself, Bailey moved into the kitchen and put on a kettle of tea. She had a long day of work cut out for her; she might as well arm herself with nourishment.
A plate of oatmeal cookies in one hand, a steaming mug of lavender tea in the other, she approached the overwhelming mess in front of her with optimism. The sooner it was done, the sooner she could leave Yancey once and for all.
Starting with the nearest pile, she dove into the arduous task of organizing Agnes’s files.
Halfway through the first stack, a knock rapped on the door.
She glanced up, half praying it wasn’t Cole and half praying it was.
An elderly man cupped his hands to the glass and peered in. When he spotted her, he smiled.
No doubt a tourist, they flooded the town today.
She rose and unlocked the door. “I’m sorry, we’re . . .”
The man was tall, with a robust midsection. His weight was braced against a gnarled wooden cane, his labored breaths coming in uneven bouts.
“Are you all right?”
He nodded, though taking a moment to compose himself. “That’s a—” he took another wheezy breath—“long walk up here.” His thinning brown hair was heavily interspersed with gray, his beard and moustache completely silver. He coughed, then managed a weak smile. “I forget I’m not getting any younger.”
“Please. Why don’t you come in?”
She helped him inside and into a chair.
Perspiration clung to his forehead. Pulling a handkerchief from his trousers, he dabbed his face.
He wore a casual dress shirt, white with blue pinstripes, sleeves clasped with a pair of gold cufflinks, and a blue sweater-vest.
His gaze swept across the shop.
The afternoon sun streaming in the front windows lit and warmed the room. Bailey glanced at the clock beside her empty mug and realized she’d been working nearly two hours. She stared at the meager dent she’d managed to make and groaned.
“Looks like you have quite the project going.”
“I’m trying to get things in order.”
“I see.” He hoisted himself out of the chair, his weight readily fixed on the cane. “Well, I shan’t keep you long. I am in the market for a tea glass holder.” His gaze wandered to the display case. “I see you have several. Perhaps you can help me choose one. It’s for my Nessie.”
“Your wife?”
“Aye, going on fifty-four years.”
“Congratulations.”
“Nessie would have been here herself, but she fell and broke her hip last winter, and she’s not much for walking since. I told her I’d scurry up here and get her a holder, not to worry.”
“Oh.” Bailey bit her bottom lip.
“Something the matter?”
“It’s just . . . I’m not actually open.”
Confusion flitted across his face. “Not open?”
“I’m getting the place ready for sale.”
“Sale?” His hand shook and the cane with it. “She’s selling the Trading Post?”
“She?” Bailey moved closer to steady him.
He sank back onto the chair. “The dear lady who owns this place.”
Bailey swallowed, the words still hard to manage. “Agnes, the owner,” she clarified, “she passed away.”
“Oh dear.” His coloring paled.
“Did you know her?”
“Not well, of course. But Nessie and I have been taking this cruise every August for the last decade. The Trading Post is always our first stop. Nessie and Agnes . . .” He inclined his head to make sure he’d got the name right and Bailey indicated he had. He continued. “The two of them would get talking, and nine times out of ten, the Trading Post was the only stop we were able to make before our ship headed out again.” He exhaled with a wheeze. “Poor Nessie’s going to be so disappointed. And Agnes . . .” He shook his head in dismay. “Was it cancer? It’s always cancer nowadays.” He spoke with the anguish of a man who’d lost a loved one to the dreaded disease.
“It was an accident.” Bailey cleared the lump in her throat. “A plane crash.”
“Oh my. I don’t care what they say. A ton of metal is not meant to be airborne. That’s why Nessie and I only travel by ship, car, or train.”
Bailey wrapped her arms around her waist. “Can’t say I blame you.” As eager as she was to leave Yancey, she wasn’t looking forward to the flight.
“Now you’re selling the place.” He looked around and shook his head. “Another shame.”
“I am only selling to someone who will keep it the Trading Post.” She felt the need to explain.
“I’m sure Agnes would have appreciated that.” His eyes narrowed, and he studied her a bit more carefully. “If you’re selling the place . . . were you related to her?”
“She is—” Bailey caught herself—“was . . . my aunt.”
“Aunt Agnes.” He seemed to like the ring of that. “I bet she was a wonderful aunt.”
“The best.” Bailey withstood the prick of tears.
The man clutched his cane and grappled to his feet, unsteady enough to make Bailey nervous. He smiled at her, his expression soft and warm. “Well, I’ve taken enough of your time, my dear. Nessie will understand.” He hobbled toward the door.
“Wait.” What would it hurt to make one sale?
He paused, a brow arched.
“I’m sure we can handle a sale on our own. I worked here all through high school.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble. . . .”
“It’s no trouble at all.”
The man’s face lit.
Bailey watched the elderly gentleman cross Main Street. Safely on the other side, he turned and waved.
She returned the gesture and watched until he hobbled out of sight, feeling good she’d been able to help him. She felt confident his wife would love the tea glass holder. It was the best Agnes had in stock—silver, dating to the mid-nineteenth century, the detailing exquisite.
Butterscotch rubbed against her leg, purring.
“Our first sale,” she said with a smile that quickly faded. “Our first and only.”
It was silly to be surprised that she’d enjoyed playing proprietress. She always had enjoyed helping Agnes around the shop. It was the glances and snickers of the local customers that wore her down.
A crazy idea filled her head. Perhaps she could move the stock back to Oregon and reopen the Post there. Then she could have the best of both worlds—running the Post and not having to face her past every day.
She lifted Butterscotch into her arms. “What do you think, Scotch? It’s not such a bad idea.”
She carried him to the kitchen and poured him a saucer of milk.
Leaning against the doorjamb, she watched him lap up the milk.
Move the Trading Post. Agnes would think it a horrid idea. It had existed in Yancey as far back as anyone knew. For a town so immersed in history, the Post was a cornerstone of Yancey’s identity.
No, her only option was to find a buyer fast. She wasn’t strong enough to keep combating the memories, or the pain they evoked.
He tossed his cane on the bed and peeled the gray moustache and beard from his face, rubbing his tingling skin.
“How’d it go, boss?” Kiril stood in the doorway, keeping his distance respectful. “Is she going to be any trouble?”
He pulled the pillow from his shirt and tossed it beside the cane. “I don’t think so. It sounds like she’s going to put everything where it belongs and sell.”
“What about the papers?”
“We’ll wait until she gets them back in place from wherever the old lady hid them, then we’ll go in and take them.”
“And the girl?”
“As long as she stays out of my way, I’ll stay out of hers.” No sense drawing attention to himself. Planes crashed all the time, no one would tie that to him. Nik and the girl . . . they were inconsequential. And besides, Nik had left him no choice. But if something happened to the old lady’s niece, questions would arise. Better to bide his time.
“You still want me to keep an eye on her?” Kiril asked.
He pulled off the wig that had added twenty years. “A very close eye.”
The girl was bright, with a doctorate in Russian Studies. And she was the only one with access to the old lady’s files. While her plan was to organize things and sell, the remote chance existed she’d come across what he needed and recognize it for what it was.
If that happened, he’d have no choice. He’d have to get rid of her just as he had her dear old aunt.