Henry emailed his article to his editor and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. He supposed he should be relieved that he’d met his deadline and had nothing new on his plate, but instead he felt agitated. He needed to keep busy. His job was the perfect distraction, and now, for the next few weeks at least, it was gone.
Henry slid his laptop into its case and slung his bag over his shoulder. Time to call it a day. The B&B was just down the road, and he could unwind there for a few hours, maybe even catch an hour or two of sleep, if he was lucky. Most people he knew struggled to sleep well while traveling, but not him. Hotel beds were meant for sleeping alone. It was only once he was settled, in his stark and spotless apartment, that he noticed something was missing.
The Main Street B&B would score high on his travel wish list. He’d been expecting loud floral wallpaper, a candlewick coverlet, and dusty pink carpeting, but the room was surprisingly fresh and everything about it indicated a pleasant stay. Everything except—
“Mr. Birch!” The innkeeper, Mrs. Griffin, smiled as he entered the lobby a few minutes later. Henry stifled an eye roll and forced a tight smile, trying to steel himself against those eager green eyes and that toothy smile. He glanced into the lobby, looking for a reason to break away and change his path. A woman in her late twenties sat in the floral wingback chair, smiling at him over the pages of her magazine. He vaguely returned the gesture. Sometimes—rarely—he mixed business with pleasure, finding that casual flings abroad, with an end date and time stamp, were the only ones that worked. He’d disappointed enough women for one lifetime.
His gut tightened. He’d be damned if he disappointed his own sister.
“I take it you’re having a nice stay in Briar Creek?” Mrs. Griffin pressed as he neared.
Henry did his best to suppress his sigh as he paused at the base of the stairs, his hand tightly gripping the carved banister, left foot already lifted. He was used to the proprietors of local establishments making bold efforts to impress him; it was just part of his job, and often one laced with perks, like room upgrades, or a complimentary bottle of Champagne he’d pass off to a nice-looking couple first chance he had. But his patience was wearing thin today. The exhaustion was hitting him now, so much so that he might actually succeed in dozing off for a bit without his mind beginning to spin.
He gave a tired smile. “It’s a very comfortable inn you run.” Then, thinking it best to feed into the nervous tick in her eye: “I especially enjoyed the hot chocolate you sent up last night.”
She puffed up a bit and patted her hair as a girlish laugh flitted through the lobby. “Nothing says sweet dreams better than homemade cocoa!”
“Indeed. Well, thank you again.”
He turned to go, but she stopped him once more. “And have you been able to walk around town during your stay? Such quaint little shops, don’t you think? Many new ones since you’ve been gone. I tell everyone, there’s no state prettier in autumn than Vermont, no sirree, and our little town is just decked in sugar maples. Have you tried the local cider? Made fresh, same day down at the orchard. Briar Creek has so much to offer at this time of year!”
“Mmm,” he managed, lips pressed tight in a grimace. “Yes, well, I should really—”
She planted one foot behind his on the stair. “There’s the Harvest Fest coming up, but then of course you must remember that.” She blinked rapidly.
“When is it?” he asked with dread.
Mrs. Griffin’s smile burst with pleasure. “Why this weekend, of course! Last Saturday in September, per tradition.”
He knew all about tradition. On the day of the Harvest Fest, he and Ivy climbed into the back of the old station wagon his mother had bought used, years before either of them had been born, and drove them into town, the radio blaring that oldies station she preferred. Despite how cold Vermont could be that time of year, he’d have to crack a window to escape the waft of the floral perfume she used to disguise the liquor on her breath. By the time they arrived at the town square, almost magically transformed for the event, he dared to feel a little hopeful at the sight of other kids running around, bobbing for apples or decorating pumpkins, but then he’d remember that neither he nor Ivy had any money to participate, and the few times he’d thought ahead and saved up a few bucks from shoveling snow or raking leaves, his mother would find a way to borrow it. She’d nudge him with her elbow, her eyes pleading, and he’d begrudgingly hand it over, hating the way his heart turned over when she ruffled his hair and grinned her thanks. Keeping their mother happy was worth more than any caramel apple.
“Stands open at ten sharp,” Mrs. Griffin continued.
“Good to note.” So I can be sure to miss it. Henry climbed one step higher, eager to get away and be alone.
“Be sure to arrive early for the fresh donuts! And the cider!”
Ah yes. The cider. Mom’s favorite, especially with a splash of brandy. By her second she was relaxed; her third, downright happy; by the fourth, he would stop worrying about Ivy and start worrying about her; and by the fifth… People started to talk.
She never did stay happy for long. No matter how hard they tried to keep it that way.
“Yes, well. I’ve got a few calls to make.” He smiled politely and hurried up the stairs to his room on the second floor, locking the door behind him. He marched to the television and flicked it on, hoping it would drive out the noise in his head.
He tossed himself down on the bed, closed his eyes, and listened to the laugh track of the cheesy family sitcom until the noise was finally silenced.
Two hours later, Henry tossed on a sweater and headed back into town. The wind had picked up in the short time since he’d last been out, and the maple leaves rustled above him and crunched under his feet as he turned off Seventh and onto Main Street. It wasn’t even four o’clock, but already the glow from the iron lamps lit the street, and children scurried down the sidewalk bundled in peacoats and wool hats. One little girl just ahead stopped every few feet to pick up a leaf, adding it to a growing bouquet she clutched in her small hand.
Henry smiled sadly. It was something Ivy used to do, once the flowers were gone for the season. He quickened his pace to hold on to the image a moment longer, his attention locked on the child with the long brown hair and small, happy voice, until he noticed the woman beside her.
“Jane.”
She turned to him, a pleasant smile on her face fading into one of surprise when she saw him. “Henry. Hello again.”
He glanced down at the little girl, studying her more closely. “You must be Sophie.” He grinned, and was rewarded with a shy smile in return. The little girl reached up and took her mother’s hand, her other maintaining a firm grip on the leaf bouquet at her side. “I was just admiring your pretty leaves. You picked all the best ones.”
Sophie beamed. “I like the red ones best. But sometimes orange. And the yellow are pretty.”
Jane gave a soft laugh and arched a friendly brow. “We’re making a centerpiece,” she explained.
“Having a dinner party?”
“A pajama party!” Sophie exclaimed, giggling.
Jane’s face flushed pink, and she stammered with her words when he looked at her quizzically. “It’s um… something I promised Sophie we would do tonight.”
“We do it every night, silly! As soon as school’s over!” Sophie cajoled, and Jane flashed her a stern look.
“Not every night.” Jane rolled her eyes at him. “Children. They love to exaggerate.”
“But—”
Jane said over Sophie’s protest, “So, um… What are you up to now? I mean, we’re—well, we’re heading to the studio. We have a dance class. I teach. But then, I told you that already.” She laughed. Color spread up her cheeks when she met his gaze. “Sorry. I’m a little out of practice talking to men.” Her eyes widened in alarm. “I mean, not that you’re a man. Well, you are, but…”
He slid her an easy grin. “I know what you mean. I spend a fair bit of time on my own these days, too.”
She gave him a grateful smile. “My sisters tell me I need to get out more. I’m working on it.”
“I’ll walk a bit with you if you don’t mind,” he said. “I’m on my way to see Ivy.”
Jane seemed to perk up at this, he noted. Probably because he’d established he wasn’t headed to see her ex-husband instead. He fell into step beside her, wishing their walk was a bit longer.
“I walked by the flower shop on my way to collect Sophie from school and saw your sister through the window. She was hanging some new wreaths. I bought one last month, actually. She’s really talented.”
“She is,” Henry agreed. Turning to Sophie he said, “When my sister was little she was always making bouquets. Just like yours.”
Sophie held her bunch of leaves a little tighter to her chest. “Maybe one day I’ll be a flower girl, like Ivy!”
Jane glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “That’s what she calls Ivy. A flower girl.”
“I’m already going to be a flower girl,” Sophie continued happily, and Henry noticed she was actually skipping, her shoes hitting the sidewalk with all her force. Jane kept a tight grip on her and seemed unfazed. “I get to be a flower girl two times,” Sophie added in a mock whisper, her eyes dancing.
Jane’s expression immediately tensed as the little girl rambled about dress color and flowers, and Kristy and Adam.
She motioned to the next street, and they all turned right. “So, how’s your deadline coming along?”
“I sent it to my editor this morning. There will probably be a few changes, but other than that, the assignment’s finished.”
“I suppose I won’t be seeing you and your laptop at the bookstore as much, then,” Jane said, and Henry thought he detected a hint of disappointment in her tone. Or maybe he was just wishing he did.
He liked talking with Jane. Liked the ease of her manner, the way she didn’t pry. The way she could so easily shift topics when things got awkward. He glanced over at her, detecting a twinge of sadness in her eyes. She was a strong woman, holding things in for the sake of her daughter, no doubt, but she also had a wall up. He knew the feeling.
“You’re not getting off that easy,” he bantered. “I’m still dreaming about that blueberry muffin. Those are worth writing about.”
“Maybe you should, then,” she surprised him by saying.
They stopped walking so Sophie could collect a few oak leaves. “Write about Briar Creek?” Henry wondered if his lip had actually curled.
“Why not?” Jane’s smile grew with her enthusiasm. “You’re a travel writer, and you said you completed your last assignment. It will give you something to do while you’re in town.”
He was shaking his head. “Nah.”
“We have the Harvest Fest coming up.”
As if he needed another reminder. “It’s a nice suggestion, but… I don’t think my editor would go for it.”
Jane was on a roll now, motioning to this place or that as they walked. “You said you like getting a feel of the way of life, highlighting spots only locals usually frequent. This town would be perfect for that! You’d have a real insider perspective.”
“Exactly,” he said, seeing his opportunity to shut this conversation down. “I write about places I’ve never been to, not ones I’ve lived in. I know it too well. I’m not a tourist.”
“Oh, but Briar Creek has changed so much. Main Street Books is a great example.”
True, and tourists loved independent bookshops, he’d noticed. Still, it wasn’t an option. “I just don’t think I’m the right person—”
“And then there’s Rosemary and Thyme. Piccolino’s,” she said, referring to a long-standing Italian restaurant. “The B&B. I’ve heard it’s nice. There’s a cute little stationery store over on Chestnut, and a new clothing boutique, too.”
As much as he disagreed with her, he couldn’t help but grin at her passion. She loved this town, felt a connection to it he never would, even if a part of him wished he could… that his time here had been different.
“And then of course Petals on Main. Ivy sells beautiful soaps and candles there, all locally made. It might really help her shop if you featured it!”
He frowned at this. The magazine he worked for had the highest subscription rate in the industry, and Jane was right—his readers wanted a little local flair, and the gift items Ivy sold along with her flowers would be just the sort of souvenir they’d take home.
His stomach burned when he thought of his sister, struggling to pay her bills, refusing to cash the check for their mother’s burial, claiming he’d done enough and it was her turn now. Thinking it would help her grieve, he’d let it go, but now, knowing the sacrifice she’d made, he wished he hadn’t. He should have gotten on that plane the day she’d called. But he couldn’t. He just… couldn’t.
He’d do anything to make sure that Ivy was taken care of, provided for—but Briar Creek? He didn’t write fiction, and nothing he had to say about this town would compel tourists to visit.
“I think I’ll leave it to someone else,” he said tightly. “Besides, I probably won’t be in town long enough to do it justice.”
“Oh.” Jane blinked a few times. “I… didn’t realize your stay was so brief.”
They had come to the front of the dance studio. Small girls in pink tights wove past them and in the door. Sophie began tugging Jane’s hand, insisting they were going to be late.
“I’ll let you go. It was very nice meeting you, Sophie,” he said. She looked so much like Jane, with those big eyes and sweet smile. He glanced up at Jane, holding her gaze steadily. His mouth felt dry, and he had to force himself from suggesting dinner or finding some other excuse to stay with her a few more minutes.
Jane needed someone stable, someone who could give her everything Adam couldn’t. He wasn’t that guy.
“The Harvest Fest?” She smiled brightly.
He nodded slowly before turning off and sunk his hands into his pockets. He’d been planning on avoiding the town’s big event, but now that he knew Jane would be there, suddenly the thought of it was almost appealing.