6
The little desk wedged into the tight space at the back of The Red Door’s kitchen wasn’t the best place to have a business discussion. Not with the racket of banging oven and dishwasher doors and Southern rock growling from the radio.
But considering Seth Walker was giving up his Friday lunch hour to dole out free advice, Amelia wasn’t about to complain.
“There’s a bunch of stuff you’ll need to prepare in advance to go along with your application.” Seth pulled apart a cinnamon roll he’d swiped from a tray when they’d entered the room, despite the glare of his chef. The industrial kitchen gleamed with stainless steel and copper, Tuscan tile on the floor and walls adding flair to even this less-seen piece of the restaurant.
If anybody knew something about applying for a small-business loan—taking a leap of financial faith—it was Logan’s cousin. Bold career moves seemed to be a Walker family trait.
Seth slid a paper toward her. “You sure you don’t want a cinnamon roll? Shan, my chef, is a culinary genius.”
“Nah, had two Pop-Tarts before coming over here. But thanks anyway.”
“You realize my health nut cousin would break into tears if he heard you say that?”
“Says the guy currently licking icing off his fingers.”
“Touché.”
Seth was right, though. Two weeks of working with Logan and she hadn’t seen him pop so much as a Lifesaver. One day, mid-argument about a headline—because apparently he loved to change her headlines, another thing she’d learned in their short time working together—he’d announced he was hungry for a snack. Came back from the office’s kitchenette with a bag of baby carrots.
She’d teased him for days. Partially because anyone who legitimately counted carrots as a snack deserved to be badgered. But mostly because it was just so fun to fluster the guy.
Amelia scanned the list Seth gave her now. Personal credit history. Business credit history. Financial statements.
The crash of breaking glass tried to cut in, followed by Seth’s voice calling to ask his chef if everything was okay.
“Just a broken plate. No biggie.”
Detailed business plan. Cash flow projections. Personal guarantee from principal owners.
A groan worked its way up her throat. “I think I’ll take that roll now.”
Seth chuckled and stood. “You might need two. We haven’t even looked at the application itself yet.”
Owen had been the one to plant the idea of applying for a small-business loan in her head. Yesterday they’d watched Logan and Ledge mess with the binding machine in the back room through the horizontal window separating the space, Logan with his sleeves rolled up and his tie askew—he didn’t seem to catch on that this was a casual office—and his brow knit. Owen had shaken his head.
“You’ve got about as much chance convincing that guy to hold on to this paper as you do of stumbling upon the money to buy it yourself.”
Logan had tangled his fingers through his hair. Scowled at the machine.
And she’d realized Owen was right.
Amelia swiveled in her chair now to face the rest of the kitchen as Seth pulled a plate from an open shelf, then used a pair of tongs to serve up her roll. Behind him, a waiter swept up shards of broken glass and the dishwasher rumbled. “I’m in over my head, aren’t I?”
He plopped the roll on a plate. “Amelia, when I got the crazy idea to gut this place and turn it into a restaurant, I had exactly two thousand and nine dollars in my bank account. Plus eighteen cents. I remember it to the penny because it basically haunted me.” He set the plate in front of her. “When I told Uncle Case about my idea, when I walked into that first bank meeting, when I met with the contractor . . . every time, I kept seeing two thousand and nine dollars and eighteen measly cents.”
He lowered once more beside her, a tickly breeze from the open window over the desk ruffling his hair. “I thought I was in over my head until the day The Red Door opened. Half the time, I think I still am.”
She dabbed one finger through the cinnamon roll’s icing. “What helped you take the initial leap?”
There was that Walker resemblance again, this time in his grin. Almost a perfect match for Logan’s. Except Logan’s was always accompanied by those crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “I was on the verge of signing the loan papers when I reconnected with Ava.”
His girlfriend. The one who’d finally moved to town last summer after a full year exchanging emails with Seth. Now she lived in the apartment over the restaurant and would probably be a Walker herself before too much longer.
A wisp of longing skimmed over Amelia, like a wayward feather she’d usually brush away. But today she allowed herself to grasp it. To think, just for a moment, about what it’d be like to have what Seth and Ava had. And Kate and Colton.
A love that supported and encouraged and inspired, as Ava had Seth, to reach for what could be.
Instead of one heavied by what couldn’t.
“I’ll admit, though, it wasn’t only Ava’s confidence that helped me. It was also the fact that Case co-signed my loan.”
Ava slouched in her chair. “And unfortunately, I don’t have a Case. If I do this, I’m in it on my own.”
“Look, you may be the only one personally absorbing the financial risk. That’s true. But you’re not in it alone.” Seth took the list back from her and slid it under a stack of papers. “You’ve so firmly cemented yourself in this town, no one even remembers you’re not a native. More than that, you’ve got the support of the Walkers. After all, we all kind of owe you. You’ve put articles about my restaurant and Colton’s nonprofit on the front page. You’re friends with Raegan, who is clearly the craziest of our clan. And you’ve spent how many evenings in the past couple weeks helping out at the depot?”
Three evenings. She’d spent three uncannily fantastic evenings with the Walker family over the past weeks—cleaning and painting and polishing the depot in preparation for its spring opening this week. She’d gotten to know Kate much more than she had before. Saw in a new light how much Rae looked up to her older siblings. Listened to Case’s stories of his former life as an international diplomat.
And she’d watched Logan and Charlie together—the way he swung her onto his shoulders so she could “help” paint, his attention always drifting to her when he was in a different part of the room, how he communicated with his daughter even though she rarely uttered more than a word or two.
That first night, her thoughts had strayed back to Jeremy, how she always used to imagine him as a dad. But that was only imagination, wasn’t it? Logan was the real thing. And he was good at it, no matter how much he doubted himself.
Yes, his doubts. Another thing she’d picked up on in just two weeks. He’d mentioned Charlie’s upcoming speech therapy appointment earlier this week, his words weighty and worried. “I should have done it long ago.”
“You’re a good dad, Logan,” she’d said. “Charlie’s lucky to have you.” No tease in her voice then.
“You’ve got a great family, Seth.”
“Don’t I know it.” He straightened. “Now, let’s look at the application. It’s going to feel overwhelming, but I promise you, it’ll impress the bank if you show up to that first meeting with the application complete and all the required attachments—”
The buzz of her phone on the desktop cut him off. The display lit up with a number she’d just called yesterday. Her attention perked. “Sorry, Seth, this is work-related.” Her first official lead on the Kendall Wilkins story—thanks to Logan’s notes. She’d found the name—Claire Wallace—scribbled in a margin, followed by a question mark.
“No prob. If you need a quiet spot . . .” He pointed to the doorway to the back stairway that led up to the apartment.
She nodded her thanks as she answered. “This is Amelia.”
“Hi, this is Claire Wallace. Just returning your call.”
“Yes, thanks so much for calling me back.” Amelia passed through the doorway and closed the door softly behind her, blinking to adjust to the dim space, lit only by a wedge of light from the apartment door at the top of the steps. “I just had a few questions for you about your time working at the bank.”
“You know I retired four years ago, don’t you?”
Amelia lowered onto a step, feet propped on the one below. Why hadn’t she grabbed a notebook or at least a piece of paper from Seth’s desk? “Yes, the bank manager let me know that. I’m actually calling because I’m following up on a story about Kendall Wilkins and that safe-deposit box.”
What should she make of Claire’s stretching pause?
Finally, the woman spoke. “Sorry, just checking my calendar to make sure of the year.” She chuckled. “We’re five years past Mr. Wilkins’s death. So I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Nobody ever solved the mystery of what was in his safe-deposit box. I know the odds are remote, but I’d like to figure it out.”
“What’s to figure out? He played a practical joke on a whole town. He was always a cranky-pants. It fits.”
“He also donated a mansion to the library, built half the buildings in town, provided college scholarships . . . and never asked for anything in return.” Had she let too much defensiveness into her tone?
“I’m still not sure how I can help you.”
“I just wondered if you might remember anything that could be helpful. Did he ever hint at what was in the box? Open it in front of you?”
“Trust me, I answered these questions years ago. No, he never hinted. I was never in the room when he opened it. Up until that last time he came by the bank, just a week or so before he died, it was as much a mystery to me as anyone else. But that’s bank policy—confidentiality.”
Amelia ran one hand over the stairway bannister above her. She’d known the call might not produce any leads. But she’d hoped . . .
Wait.
Her brain snagged on something Claire had said. “Up until that last time . . . just a week or so before he died . . .”
“Kendall had access to his deposit box just days before he died?”
“He’d stop by every now and then. And yes, I saw him the week before he passed. I remember thinking he didn’t look well. Wan and thin. Which made sense. He was pretty old by then. Amazing he was still out and about.”
“If that box was meant to be a joke on the town, why would he need access to it? What would he be doing with an empty box?”
“Maybe it was a last-minute decision. Maybe he removed whatever used to be in it that day, so it’d be empty when he passed.”
But according to the notes Logan had given her—color-coded and ridiculously, entertainingly organized—Kendall’s will had been revised for the last time three years before he died.
Maybe he had removed whatever was in the box that day. But not because he’d made some last-minute decision to trick the town. If so, he would’ve called his lawyer and changed the will.
“I’m not sure why you’re doing this story,” Claire added. “Or what hope there could possibly be of finding out anything after all this time. But if you’re intent on it, who you should really talk to is his nurse.”
“His nurse?”
“The one who took care of him those last couple years. She’s the one who’d drive him wherever he needed to go. The one who brought him to the bank that last time. She moved away several years ago, but with the Internet, anybody can find anybody these days, right?”
“Do you know her name?”
“Easy enough one to remember. Marney. Marney Billingsley.”
Amelia stood, grinning at the empty hallway, excitement-fueled energy coursing through her. Maybe the whole town had made up its mind about Kendall and his intentions years ago. But they were wrong.
Something was supposed to be in that box.
And Marney Billingsley, wherever she was, might have the answer.
Two weeks in Maple Valley felt like two months.
“So you’ll do it?” The sound of a football smacking as it landed in Colton Greene’s hands accompanied his words.
The sound of Charlie’s giggles as she ran toward them from the house filled the yard. Tiny pink buds peeked from the magnolia tree Mom and Dad had planted when they first moved here, and green had begun to take over the line of trees cordoning off the ravine.
Yes, this had been a good idea—to take the afternoon off after a morning at the office. Spend time with his friend and his daughter. Forget his overflowing inbox with emails from the LA office or the list of to-dos he’d made himself for the newspaper. Equipment to repair and a website to design and—
“Well?” Colton sent the football flying toward him, then bent over to tickle and chase Charlie while a gleaming sun showered the backyard in light. Near-spring warmth had long since lured away the last of the snow.
Not that Amelia wasn’t still hoping for one more whomping visit from winter. She’d made that clear enough when she decorated her desk with homemade paper snowflakes. The whole office had laughed at her.
But then, later in the day, he’d seen Mae tack a snowflake of her own on the bulletin board when Amelia wasn’t looking.
“Your dad’s smiling.” Colton swung Charlie into his arms. “That must mean a yes.”
Logan caught the sailing football, the tie he still wore batting against his shirt. “Yes to what exactly? All you said was, ‘Wanna do me a favor?’”
Charlie had hold of Colton’s jersey now, her little legs pumping as she tailed him on his way to catch the football. Colton caught it with the ease of the practiced quarterback he was. “The question is, will you help with my fundraiser for the Parker House? It’s coming up in a few weeks, and I’m in over my head.”
Colton had just launched the nonprofit earlier this year—an effort to provide shelter and care for older teens aging out of the foster care system. The Parker House he’d opened in Maple Valley was first of what he hoped would be many.
Man, Iowa had been good for Colton. Kate was good for him.
Actually, Colton would say finding his way back to God was good for him.
“But I’m not an event planner, Greene. Besides, you want to talk about in over your head? I’m trying to bring an antiquated newspaper into the twenty-first century. I met with Freddie’s old accountant this week and accidentally swallowed my gum when he showed me the numbers.” He crouched and tossed the football with a light enough touch that Charlie could catch it. “Not to mention, I’ve got Amelia arguing with me constantly. I suggest the tiniest changes for headlines or articles or ad placement and she feels compelled to remind me I may be the owner, but she’s the editor.”
“You like it and you know it.”
“I put up with it.”
“You enjoy it.”
“Whatever.” He could argue all he wanted, but Colton wasn’t an idiot. Two weeks of spending his Monday-through-Fridays at a slower pace, the smell of newsprint and ink sticking to his clothes, sparring with Amelia, it wasn’t all bad.
Amelia wasn’t all bad.
In another time and another place, he might’ve been interested in her in another way.
But not here and now, when he had a daughter who came first and a life fifteen hundred miles away and a presidential candidate knocking on his door. At least he hoped Hadley was still knocking. Theo had called yesterday in a panic about the fact that they still hadn’t heard anything.
But more than any of that was the fact that he still planned to eventually sell the News. And it’d break Amelia’s heart when he did.
His phone dinged, and he pulled it from his pocket. A text from Amelia.
Got a new lead on the KW story. Be impressed!
“Colt, take his phone away,” Dad’s voice called from the deck. “You said you were taking a break this morning, son.”
“Not work, Dad.” Not exactly. The Wilkins story was Amelia’s thing. He was just . . . playing along. Although, if she had a real lead . . .
I’ll believe it when I see it. Hear it. Whatever.
He was baiting her. For no other reason than it was fun. And he could see her in his head, annoyance narrowing her eyes. He watched his phone, waiting for her reply. Until . . .
A crack and a cry tore through the yard.
His phone slipped through his fingers as he whipped around in time to see Colton bending over near a broken branch leaning into a bulky trunk. Charlie . . .
His phone hit a muddy patch.
“She wanted to climb the tree,” Colton said as Logan hurried over, pushed in to see Charlie standing, shaking, a gash over her right eye. “The branch snapped.”
He dropped to his knees. “It’s okay, honey. Daddy’s got you.” Her tears wet his own cheek as he held her close.
“I don’t think she’s hurt too bad. I think she’s more scared—”
“What were you thinking?” The words snapped from him, biting. “She could’ve broken an arm or leg.”
She’s okay.
No, she had a head injury. She was bleeding. He needed to look at that cut over her eye, but she’d buried herself against his neck.
“Daddy.”
He inhaled so sharply at the shaken, whispered word muffled by his jacket, he could feel the cold air hit his lungs. Charlie . . .
He pulled back just enough to see her face. She’d said it, hadn’t she? He wasn’t hearing things?
“Daddy.” She said it again, this time through a sniffle and a sob as she swiped her hand under her nose.
“Logan, I was watching her.” Colton’s football-player frame shadowed him. “I turned away just for a second to find the ball. But I saw her hit the ground, and it wasn’t hard. I’m sorry, but—”
He interrupted Colton by standing, pulling Charlie with him, arms tight. He kissed her cheek. “Should we go inside and check out your forehead?”
He heard Colton’s footsteps behind him, felt the tension lingering from his whipped words. Uncalled for, but the panic . . .
He took the deck steps two at a time, saw that Dad had gone inside, leaving the patio doors open. He toed off his shoes on the rug inside and hauled Charlie to the island counter in the middle of the kitchen. Dad was already running a rag under water, which he handed over as Kate walked into the room. “What happened?”
Colton explained to Kate while Logan dabbed the cloth over Charlie’s forehead. He pulled it away in time to see another clump of blood push through her broken skin. With his other hand, he grasped one of Charlie’s hands, and her fingers immediately tightened around his thumb. “Do I need to take her to the ER? What if she needs stitches?”
Kate leaned closer. “It doesn’t seem that big of a gash.”
“Walker, I am really sorry.” Colton smoothed Charlie’s hair, and her still-tear-streaked cheeks bunched with her smile.
He didn’t have to look around to hear Kate’s silent question. But she only rubbed one hand over Charlie’s arm. “How about I take you to the bathroom and find a Band-Aid? I think we might have some pink ones.” Colton left with them.
Leaving Logan to stare at the granite countertop, wet rag still in hand. And Dad, who faced him from the other side of the island.
“I should’ve been watching her more closely.”
“Son, kids get hurt. I can’t count the number of times your mother and I ended up in the ER with one of you. If it wasn’t Kate with a concussion after dozing off in the hammock and tipping out, it was Beckett breaking his arm in a basketball game or Raegan falling off her bike.” Dad rounded the counter. “Although come to think of it, you tended to escape those kinds of accidents.”
Because he was the careful one. The responsible one.
He glanced down at the stained rag in his hand.
Yeah. Right. Charlie had spent too many days with a nanny back in LA. He’d waited too long to get her into speech therapy. And there’d been too many scares—that fire, today’s accident . . .
Hearing her voice had been a gift, but it shouldn’t take something like this to prompt it.
“I was a jerk to Colton.”
“He’ll forgive you.”
He met his father’s eyes. “Dad, what am I doing here?”
“Logan—”
But whatever Dad was going to say was cut off by the doorbell’s chime. Frustration beat through him. Rick and Helen, here to pick up Charlie for an afternoon trip to the park. And they’d see her hurt.
So not what he needed right now. Not considering the weird vibe he’d gotten from them ever since coming home. But he didn’t have time to dissect it now. He hurried through the living room, calling for Kate and Charlie as he did.
It was only Rick standing on the porch when he opened the door. “Hey, Rick. Charlie’s almost ready to go.”
His father-in-law’s reddish hair had faded to a yellowy white in the past years. He wore a Notre Dame sweatshirt and a half grin that seemed trapped in the lower half of his face. “Morning, Logan.”
Plastic small talk filled the seconds until Kate arrived with Charlie in tow. When had it become this way with his in-laws? So stilted. Uncomfortable.
“There you are, Charlotte.” Rick looked past Logan, his smile dissolving as Charlie ran up to them. There was no missing the hot pink Band-Aid on her forehead. “What happened?”
“Little incident climbing a tree,” Dad answered from behind.
“She was a climbing a tree? She’s three.”
Rick looked from Charlie to Logan back to Charlie. But he only sighed and picked up the backpack Logan had packed earlier this morning. “Helen’s waiting in the car.”
Logan bent down, zipped Charlie’s coat, kissed her Band-Aid.
“She’s okay, Rick,” Dad added. “Logan made sure of that.”
Rick reached for Charlie.
Logan followed him out the door, leaving Dad on the porch. He waved at Helen through the windshield, stood in the driveway as Rick settled Charlie in a toddler car seat in back.
“We have our first speech therapy appointment late next week,” he offered. An attempt at smoothing rough waters. “And she said ‘Daddy’ a couple of times today.”
“That’s progress? And you’re just now getting an appointment scheduled?”
“I called the therapist’s office before we even made the trip home, Rick. This was the soonest we could get in.”
“You better hope for quick results. Especially since you only plan to be here a month.”
Was he imagining the accusation huddled in Rick’s words? “There are therapists in LA, too.”
Rick barely acknowledged the response—offering only a slight shrug before opening his car door and sliding inside. Logan watched as Rick said something to Helen. Even from here, he picked up on Helen’s stiff reaction.
A minute later, as Rick’s tires bounced over potholes left by the snowplow’s frequent winter work, Dad came up to Logan’s side.
“Something’s not right.” He felt his father’s gaze.
“She’s just fine, son. Give it a couple weeks and you won’t even see where she got hurt.”
“Not that. Emma’s parents. I don’t know what I’ve done to earn their disapproval, but clearly something’s brewing.”
“You’re a wonderful dad, Logan. You’re doing your best. That’s all anyone asks or expects.”
He tried to breathe in Dad’s assurances. Believe them.
But they couldn’t find space to settle, not with the unease expanding like a balloon inside him, arguing in taunting whispers that his best might not be good enough.
Logan had been the one to send the SOS text message asking Amelia to meet him here. So where was he?
The thrum of an overzealous bass pulsed like the throbbing headache that’d nagged her all afternoon—ever since she’d taken a second look at those loan papers Seth had pulled together for her. The band squashed into the little stage at the corner of the restaurant floor, cleared of its front tables, didn’t so much sing as screech.
“Hey, I didn’t know you were coming tonight.” Owen appeared at the table near the back she’d managed to nab.
“Wasn’t planning to.” Open mic night at The Red Door had become a monthly thing. She’d been a few times, but had instead planned to spend tonight scouring the Internet until she located Marney Billingsley.
And then Logan had texted—something about needing help with a project he hadn’t asked for.
And within ten minutes she’d changed out of pajama pants into leggings and a jean skirt with a black-and-white-striped top. She’d left her hair in its usual messy bun but taken time to swipe on some eye shadow and mascara.
Told herself the whole time it was the event she was prepping for—not the man. Did lying to herself count as a sin?
Owen dropped into the only other chair at the table. “You should’ve called. You didn’t have to come alone.”
She had to strain to be heard above the music. If it could be called music. “Actually I’m meeting someone.”
“Who?”
“Logan.”
Owen didn’t even try to hide his scowl. “He’s stringing you along, Bentley.”
Wait, Owen didn’t think . . . “This isn’t—”
“Not just you. Everyone in the office.” Owen’s voice rose as the music amped. “He might’ve put off the sale for whatever reason, might be having fun playing Perry White, but he’s still going to sell.”
The standing-room-only crowd in front of her parted just long enough to offer a glimpse of the restaurant’s gaping front windows. A lone figure stood out on the sidewalk. Logan?
“Not Perry White.”
“Huh?” Owen had to nearly yell the question.
“Perry White was the editor. I’m the editor.” The figure outside turned. Definitely Logan. “Logan’s the owner.”
“The owner who’s going to sell, no matter how friendly you guys get.”
Amelia stood. “You can have the table, if you want.” With that, she left Owen and his bad attitude, wound her way through the mostly teenaged crowd, and reached the door.
The day’s earlier springlike warmth had given way to chilly night air that curled around her as she stepped aside. “Logan?”
The hazy light of lampposts that wrapped like a line of sentries around the town square spotlighted the tension coiling his features. The tick in his jaw. The clearly finger-raked hair. The shadow in his eyes. “Hey.”
“Whatcha doing? I’ve been inside for ten minutes.” And why was he still wearing this morning’s tie? He’d loosened it at some point, untucked his shirt, but his attire still pushed the formal side of the scale.
“I . . . well, I was thinking about . . . wasn’t sure I . . .” White puffs of air chased his sigh and unfinished sentences.
She leaned against the lamppost with one hand. “You were going to stand me up, weren’t you?”
“I wasn’t going to stand you up.”
“You SOS-ed me—for what reason, I don’t even know—and you were going to up and leave me here by myself with a bunch of emo teens and a growly Owen.”
Logan glanced at the restaurant, uncertainty gliding through his expression. What had happened in the hours since she’d seen him at the office this morning? He looked back to Amelia. “Emo teens and Owen, huh? You’re not doing much to convince me to stay.” At least his tone had sloped into its usual ease. His postured loosened, too. “I just don’t know how I let myself get talked into this stuff. I felt bad for snapping at Colton today, so I agreed to help with this fundraiser thing for his nonprofit, but I had no idea how much work there is to do. Now somehow I’m basically in charge of cobbling together an entire event that’s only three weeks away, and he told me to go to open mic night to find live music possibilities, and Charlie got hurt today and I have this feeling my in-laws think I’m a negligent parent and—”
“Whoa, Logan.” She moved her hand from the lamppost to his arm. “Charlie got hurt? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. More than fine. Helen texted me a photo of her playing house in Emma’s old room and . . .” Another sigh.
“And if I’m understanding right, you need to pick out a band or musician to perform at a fundraiser? And you SOS-ed me because . . . you trust my taste in music?”
“You have, like, three shirts of your favorite bands. Kat told me the office goes into collective shock if a week goes by without you wearing one of them.”
“Which makes me a music expert?”
“Or I just didn’t feel like hanging out at this thing by myself.”
So he’d invited her. Best not even to acknowledge the flutter of pleasure that fact raised. So instead she patted his arm and reached for his tie.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping you loosen up.” She tugged at the tie’s knot. “You’ve dressed for the office, not a night of live music and appetizers.”
“Sure you’re not strangling me?”
She yanked the tie again. “You could help.”
“Kinda more fun watching you try.”
She paused, fingers still wrapped around the tie, and had to tip her head up to look up at him. “Boggles the mind, Logan Walker, how you can go from broody to mocking in the span of a few seconds.”
“I am a man of many talents.”
One of which clearly included dousing every last speck of common sense from her brain. Because standing this close, invading his space . . . well, it probably wasn’t the best idea she’d ever had. He’s your boss.
“Amelia?”
She whirled, pulling Logan’s tie—and him—with her. He exaggerated a choking sound that might’ve made her laugh if she hadn’t suddenly gone jumpy.
No laughter from Owen, though. He stood just outside The Red Door’s entrance, looking back and forth between them. “What’s going on?”
“I was just—”
“She was just—”
They spoke at the same time.
Logan stuck one finger into the knot in his tie, gave a swift tug, and it slackened and fell into her hand.
“How did you do that?”
“I told you. Many talents.”
“I’ve got a busy weekend, so I’m taking off.” Owen lifted his hand in a halfhearted wave and started down the sidewalk before either one of them could argue.
Logan took his tie from her and stuffed it in his pocket. “I swear that guy does not like me.”
“Owen is just . . . overprotective.” And possibly still smarting from their failed date-that-wasn’t-a-date.
“I’m the one who was out here getting choked by my own tie. Come on, let’s go in.”
A new band had taken the stage while they were outside—a trio—and they were just ambling into the first chords of a folk song as she led the way to the table her coat still reserved. Logan held out her chair, then pulled out his own.
They listened through one song, and then another. During the third Logan stood and disappeared into the restaurant kitchen. Being related to the owner apparently had its perks. By the end of the song, he’d returned—Diet Coke for her, bottle of water for him—and Raegan in tow. He gave his sister his chair and instead stood across from them.
“Didn’t know you guys were here or I would’ve come down sooner.” Raegan wore her hair in two short braids, a line of beaded bracelets stacked on one wrist. “I was upstairs in Ava’s apartment. Been pretending for the past half an hour to be into some movie about some football team.”
“I think she and Colton are on a quest to turn us from a basketball family to a football family.” Logan uncapped his water.
“You guys are into basketball?” Come to think of it, she’d seen the hoop in the driveway.
Raegan held up three fingers. “Breakfast, basketball, and the big screen. Our family hobbies.”
“Nice job with the alliteration.”
“Mom’s doing,” Logan explained.
“Although speaking of hobbies . . .” Raegan turned to tug on Logan’s arm. “You’re going to get up there, yeah?” She nudged her head toward the stage.
The trio’s song hit a minor chord. “Ha. No way.”
Amelia slurped on her pop. “He sings?”
Raegan gave a proud-sister grin. “And plays guitar.”
Logan shook his head. “I can pluck a few chords. That’s it.”
Raegan ignored him. “He’s being modest. He sang at his wedding, at Mom’s funeral, almost every Christmas Eve service I remember attending.”
“I’m not playing tonight, Rae.”
Amelia poked an unwrapped straw at his arm. “Come on.”
“I don’t play anymore.”
“Log—” Raegan began.
But in a look that lasted less than a second, understanding seemed to flash between them. A conversation without words and one Amelia wasn’t privy to. And before anyone could say anything else, a new voice drifted from the stage.
Raegan jerked, and at the sound of the smooth-as-velvet voice, Amelia knew why. Bear McKinley, an open-mic-night regular who could melt a girl’s heart right into a puddle, him and that guitar.
And one girl’s heart in particular.
She glanced at Raegan.
“Think I’ll get going, guys.” Raegan slid from her chair. “Working at the library tomorrow . . .”
Logan’s brow furrowed in confusion as he watched his sister leave. “That was . . . sudden.”
He didn’t know? “Logan, that’s Bear.”
“As in Smokey the . . . ?”
“As in the guy Raegan’s been half in love with since I met her. Something happened last fall, though. Not sure what, except I think Bear might be leaving town soon—some missionary thing in South America, I think. Should I be telling you this?”
He was watching the guy on stage now, dark eyes narrow and observing. Big brotherly and . . .
Cute.
“Maybe you shouldn’t, but I’m glad you did. Now I know to scope out the guy. So they were a thing?”
“I don’t know if it was ever official or not, but they were definitely . . . something.” A love story waiting to happen, she’d always figured. Next in line after Seth and Ava, Kate and Colton. Something in the Maple Valley water, she’d thought. She looked toward Raegan pushing through the crowd to the exit. Obviously she’d thought wrong.
“I wonder why she didn’t tell me.”
“Maybe it was easier to talk to Kate.” Because, unlike Eleanor, some sisters actually did that—talked.
“He better not have hurt her.”
“I think whatever happened between them, well, it seems like it was mutual.” Bear strummed into a new song. “But I guess it’s good it happened now instead of later. Always better to know early than to find yourself later on wondering how in the world you got where you are. Letting go before you’re completely invested, before . . .”
Stop.
She’d let too much weight into her tone, hadn’t she? Said more than she meant to. The way Logan had turned his studying eyes back to her, patient and prodding and caring.
“It’s just . . . better to know.”
“Amelia.”
All he did was say her name and suddenly she itched to answer the question he hadn’t even asked. “Divorced. Going on three years.”
If he was shocked, he didn’t show it. Only capped his water bottle and glanced at the pop glass she hadn’t yet touched. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s not really my favorite topic of conversation. Don’t know why I told you. I couldn’t even say the word for the longest time. For a while there, I thought it might’ve been easier to lose Jeremy to death than—”
She cut herself off with a gasp, felt the burning regret of what she’d just said.
Who she’d said it to.
“Logan, I—”
“It’s okay, Amelia. We’ve had different experiences, but we both know what it feels like to be one half of a whole one moment, and the next . . .” He shrugged. “I’m sorry either one of us had to go through it.”
She traced a pattern in the ring of liquid at the base of her glass. How could he be so gracious when she’d just compared her divorce to the sudden and tragic loss of his wife? She glanced up at him, the restaurant’s soft lighting brushing bronze hues into his brown eyes.
“Thanks for telling me. About the divorce, I mean.” He reached for a napkin from the holder in the middle of the table. Wiped up the drips of water from her sweating glass. Unwrapped a straw and plunked it in her pop for her. “And for giving me the lowdown on Rae and Bear. And for insisting I come inside.”
His words burrowed inside her, found a space she hadn’t even realized was empty, and filled it with warmth. “Even if I nearly strangled you with your tie?”
“Even if.”
He angled in his chair to watch Bear, and she followed suit. But she couldn’t help one more glimpse his way. And then he did the same—angling his gaze in her direction. And . . .
“Amelia?”
She ripped her focus away at the sound of the voice and nearly tipped her cup. Shock spiraled through her. Eleanor?
If you were my daughter, I’d tell you about my fascination with history. And Amelia Earhart. And Charles Lindbergh. And how it all started because of a lie.
I have a twin sister named Eleanor. She was named after our grandmother—Eleanor Marguerite. Grandma died when I was little, so I never really knew her. But from what my mom says, she was strong. Confident. Full of personality.
My name was chosen from a baby name book. Nothing wrong with that, but I was always jealous Eleanor had a cool story, a cool figure, behind her name. So one day in elementary school, I lied. I told my classmates I was named after the only Amelia I could think of—Amelia Earhart.
And then I decided I’d better learn about this apparent namesake of mine. I found a picture book in the library and read it so many times the librarian laughed. Soon I started reading other biographies for children—Lindbergh, for one, but others, too. By third grade, I was the class nerd—evidenced by the fact that, while my friends spent the summer at the pool, I attended history camp.