by Jennie Marts
He turned to her, gazing down into her eyes, conveying a message that maybe he couldn’t say either. That he missed her too? Or just that he understood the grief of losing the man who had touched both their lives. “Well, we’d better get you inside.”
She swallowed the emotion as she followed him up the steps and into the house. Then she gasped as the scent of lilacs filled her nose, and she saw the large jar of purple flowers in the middle of the kitchen table. A set of shears and a few smaller jars were lined up on the counter.
Her throat burned as she stepped up to the table and leaned her face into the gorgeous blooms. “They smell amazing,” she whispered, and felt like the flowers were a heavenly gift wrapped in memories of her grandfather. “But who did this? No one even knew I was coming. Gram was already in the hospital when she called me.”
Mack shrugged as he stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and averted his eyes.
Her eyes widened. “You? You did this?”
He shrugged again. “I just thought you’d like it.”
“I love it,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“It’s not a big deal. It took me five minutes.”
“It’s a big deal to me. It’s everything to me.” She stepped back, a little embarrassed by her impulsiveness, and looked up at his face. “You look different, but still so much the same. I like the beard.”
“You look exactly the same.” He lifted a strand of her hair and then released it. “Except your hair is shorter. And fancier. No ponytail.”
The brief touch of his fingers in her hair had her wanting to close her eyes and lean into him, to savor the feel of him again. After all these years, she hadn’t expected the feelings to still be so strong.
His eyes darkened, narrowed as his gaze dropped to her lips. She caught her breath as her body froze. Was he going to kiss her? Did she want to kiss him?
No. She’d been back less than a day and hadn’t seen this man, the one who shattered her heart, in years. She should be backing away, thinking this through and putting a stop to it before someone, like her, got hurt again. But instead, she drew just the smallest bit nearer.
A loud rap sounded on the door, as if her good sense had been locked out and was knocking to be let back in. She sucked in a quick breath as she took a step back.
“Hellooo?” a voice called through the screen.
She was imagining things, she told herself. Of course Mack wasn’t going to kiss her.
Mack strode toward the door, opening it for an elderly woman to walk in. She wore a pair of beige polyester capri pants, beige orthopedic shoes, a light blue collared shirt, and a beige cardigan, even though the day was warm. She must have recently been to the salon because her short hair looked like white cotton candy in a cloud of soft silvery curls around her head.
The expression on her face was anything but soft as she marched past Mack, a casserole dish cradled in a nest of hot pads and tea towels held in her arms. She plonked the dish onto the counter, then turned back to face Mack. “I see those weeds out next to the entrance gate still haven’t been taken care of.”
“Nice to see you, Mrs. Crandle,” Mack said, an amused smile on his face. “And I’ve already told you, those aren’t weeds, they’re wildflowers.”
“Hmmph. They look like weeds to me.”
Mack appeared to be used to this argument and didn’t seem bothered by it at all as he gestured toward Jocelyn. “Mrs. Crandle, you remember Jocelyn, Molly’s granddaughter?”
“Of course I remember Jocelyn. I’m old, not stupid.”
Hmm. And still just as cheery as ever, Jocelyn thought.
“How are you, Mrs. Crandle?” she asked, stepping forward to shake the woman’s hand.
“I just told you, I’m old,” she replied, shaking Jocelyn’s hand, then glanced down at her body with a grimace of disgust. “My bones ache, my joints hurt, and I’ve got a bunion that turns my big toe as crooked as those politicians in Washington. But I got out of bed today, and I’m still breathing, so I can’t really complain.”
Jocelyn nodded, trying to think of a fitting response to anything the older woman had just said.
Mack saved her by pointing toward the casserole dish. “I sure hope that’s your famous macaroni and cheese. It smells delicious.”
“It is. And it’s still hot. I figured you all would need something to eat with Molly out of commission. How’s she doing? Have you been to see her yet?”
Jocelyn nodded. “Yes, we just got back from the hospital. She’s in good spirits, but she broke her leg and she’s bruised up and sore.”
“I imagine so. Well, give her my best,” she said as she collected the towels from around the dish. “I suppose now with Molly in the hospital, they’ll have to cancel that horrible spring festival.”
Jocelyn stiffened. “Horrible?”
“Yes. I hate that thing. Every year hordes of people show up, parking in front of my house and blocking my driveway. It’s nuts with the traffic and the noise.”
Jocelyn’s heart sank. How could they make the festival a success if even the locals didn’t support it?
“It used to drive my little Charlie crazy, barking his head off at every person who walked by the window,” Mrs. Crandle continued. She stared down at her hands. “My Charlie is gone now. But that dang traffic is still going on. Makes my head hurt just to think about it.”
“I was so sorry to hear about Charlie. He was such a sweet dog.” Jocelyn had fond memories of the little white Westie.
“Yes, he was,” Mrs. Crandle said, her shoulders loosening as she softened a little. “Thank you for your sweet note and the lovely flowers you sent after I lost him. They meant a lot.”
Jocelyn smiled, her heart breaking for the woman who’d lost her precious companion. “I’m glad. I wish I could have done more.”
“It was enough.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I have to tell you the festival hasn’t been cancelled. In fact, this is the 50th anniversary of the ranch, so this year’s festival is going to be bigger than ever.”
“Bigger?” the older woman croaked.
“Yep. Mack and I are taking it on, and we promised my grandma it would be the best and most successful spring festival yet.” She didn’t want to give away Gram’s financial difficulties. “So maybe you should think about taking a trip that weekend. Or just be prepared for lots of people. Because we are hoping for double the normal traffic.” Or triple, if they were really going to make the money her grandmother needed to save the ranch.
“Double? That’s just great,” Mrs. Crandle grumbled. “Is it too late to take back my macaroni and cheese?”
“Not a chance,” Mack said, putting an arm around the older woman’s shoulder and leading her toward the door. “But we will do our best to make sure you aren’t impacted any more than necessary. And remember, it’s just one weekend, and it’s for a good cause.”
“Fine,” she said. “Just make sure you get my casserole dish back to me.”
“Will do,” he said, opening the front door and ushering her out. “And thanks again. That was real nice of you to think of us. I know we’ll enjoy that mac and cheese.”
“Bye,” Jocelyn called, crossing the room to stand next to Mack. “Thank you so much.”
They watched the woman march across the driveway and toward the front gate. Mack grinned as she bent to pull one of the wildflowers from the ground, then he pushed the door shut. “She’s a little salty, but she’s sweet on the inside. And she does make amazing mac and cheese.”
Jocelyn’s stomach growled. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. “Good, because I’m starving. I’m grabbing a plate now. You ready for some too?”
“Sure. Might as well. My big plans for supper tonight included a ham sandwich and reading the new is
sue of the Blacksmith Quarterly magazine.”
“Wow. You really know how to live it up. Blacksmith Quarterly and a ham sandwich? On a Wednesday night, even?”
He shrugged. “I know it’s crazy, but that’s just how I roll.”
She laughed as she got out two glasses and filled them with ice water. He took plates from the cupboard and silverware from the drawer to set the table. As she moved the pasta dish to the table and then dropped into the chair across from him, she shook her head. “It’s funny how comfortable we both are in the kitchen of a home neither of us lives in.”
He shrugged as he dished out heaping spoonfuls of pasta onto their plates, the melted gooey cheese clinging to the spoon. “I might as well have lived here, for all the time I’ve spent here. And Molly never moves much. And hardly gets rid of anything.”
“Yeah, I think I spied a women’s magazine from the nineties in the stack by her chair. I’m sure it had some great article in it she wanted to keep.” She took a bite of the macaroni and cheese and let out a groan. “Oh my gosh, this is delicious. And it’s still warm.” She shoved another bite into her mouth, then pulled over the thick binder from the other end of the table. “So, this is the famous festival binder, huh?” She scanned over the details as she flipped through the pages.
“Yep. That’s got all of Molly and my grandma’s notes in it, plus all the contact info for the vendors and the schedules of activities. It’s quite a production.”
“I remember.”
He shook his head. “It’s grown quite a bit since you last attended. We’ve added a pie auction, an obstacle course, and more blacksmith demonstrations.”
“I’ll bet those are well-attended. Have you ever taught any classes on blacksmithing?”
“Not during the festival.”
“Maybe that’s an extra idea to bring in some added revenue—teach classes and have visitors pay to make one small item that they get to keep. You could offer several short time slots during the day. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a great idea. I’m not sure how much interest there would be, or what the liability would entail, but I can check into it. And I do have an apprentice who could teach some too if enough people were interested.”
“Yes. We’ve got our first new idea.” She grinned and made a note in the binder. “Now we can tell Gram that we at least came up with something different.” She tapped her finger to her chin. “How about the concert and sweetheart dance? Do you still do that at the end of the night?”
He nodded. “That’s the grand finale. And we always get a good turnout. We’ve got a local band scheduled, and they’re pretty good.”
That was encouraging, at least. And was there any way to make it even better? “Maybe we could think of something extra we could sell at the dance—like a signature dessert or a special memento to commemorate the anniversary.”
“Good idea. I’ll see if I can think of something.”
“There’s a lot of details, but we can totally do this. I’ll enter all this stuff into my phone and set up notifications for us throughout the weekend.” She stretched for her purse, but couldn’t reach it. “Can you pass me my bag? I seem to be a little encumbered at the moment.” She pointed to her feet.
Mack leaned back to peer under the table and smirked at the sight of his dog sprawled across Jocelyn’s ankles. “I told you he was a beast. Just kick him off your feet.”
“I wouldn’t dare. I think he’s adorable.”
“I think he has a crush on you. Although I’ve never seen him so taken with anyone else. It’s usually my feet that he’s inconveniently sprawled across.”
Jocelyn’s heart warmed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should. He doesn’t usually make friends so quickly. And he’s pretty stingy with passing out affection, so I’m telling you that dog digs you.”
“Well, I dig him too.”
“That’s good, because you’re going to be stuck with him for a long time. Once he settles into a comfy spot on your feet, he doesn’t budge for hours.”
He pushed her purse toward her, but the base of it hit the placemat and tipped over, spilling the contents. Tissues, a makeup bag, her sunglasses, and two packages of peanut butter cups slid across the table. Her keys and two lip gloss tubes rolled off the side and hit the floor, followed by one of the packages of peanut butter cups.
“Shoot, sorry,” Mack said, scrambling to grab the loose items. He picked up one of the candy packages. “You still have a passion for peanut butter? You used to eat that stuff every day. Peanut butter sandwiches at lunch, spoonfuls of peanut butter for a snack, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you pass up a peanut butter cookie. And you always asked Molly for peanut butter cups when she went to the store.”
She shrugged, unable to stop the grin sneaking across her face, but reluctant to admit that she’d had peanut butter and honey on toast for breakfast that morning. “Yes, I still love peanut butter. But I can think of worse vices to have.”
“True. And I hate to tell you, but you might have just been thrown over for a new love in the eyes of my dog.” He laughed as he gestured to where Savage had lumbered out from under the table to sniff the package of peanut butter cups. “Sorry, buddy.” He grabbed the package from the floor and held it out to her.
“It’s understandable,” she said. “There are plenty of former crushes that I would definitely choose a peanut butter cup over.” She held the pack up. “Want to split this with me?”
“Sure.”
She opened the package and handed him one of the paper-wrapped cups. Lifting the remaining cup to her lips, she took a bite and made an appreciative sound. “How can you not love these? They’re amazing.”
Mack ate his in two bites. “They are good. I haven’t had one in a long time. But whenever I do, they always make me think of you.” He held her gaze for just a beat too long.
Long enough for her to wonder if thinking of her was a good thing he relished, or a bad thing he avoided. She popped the second half into her mouth and shoved the contents of her bag back into her purse. Pulling her phone from the depths, she tried to resume their earlier conversation before they’d gone off on a tangent of her peanut butter fetish and his dog’s crush on her. “We should exchange numbers so I can shoot you all the calendar invites and notifications I enter.”
Mack shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Chapter Four
Jocelyn jerked her head back, swallowing at the hurt in her throat. Wow. He must still be pretty mad at her if he didn’t even want her to have his number. “Oh, okay. We don’t have to. I can always have Gram call you if we need to talk about something.”
“I didn’t mean that. I’m good with exchanging numbers,” he told her, then recited his number for her to enter. “But it’s not going to do any good to send me whatever you just said.” He pulled an old-school flip phone from his pocket and waved it at her. “I don’t think I can get them on this.”
“Why are you carrying your grandma’s phone?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “This is my phone.”
Her eyes widened. “Like your original phone? From when you were a kid? Because I don’t think they even make those anymore.”
“It’s not that old. And it still works just fine.”
“As what? A life-alert signal?” It felt so natural to be teasing him again—just like old times. “Have you contacted Antiques Roadshow? They might offer you some money for that thing.”
“Wow. You’re hilarious.”
She squinted at the piece of duct tape stretched across the base. “Can you even get the internet on that thing?”
He shook his head. “No. But why would I need to? It’s a phone. And it serves the purpose of making and receiving calls just fine. Although sometimes not if I’m on the south side of the barn. But nobody ever really needs to get
ahold of me that badly anyway.”
She shook her head. “Geez, you are stuck in the past.”
“I don’t consider myself stuck. This is where I choose to be.” He pushed the phone back into his pocket. “Not everything new and shiny is better. Sometimes the old stuff starts off stronger. Which is why it lasts longer.”
Did he mean them? Was that a thinly veiled comment on their relationship? Or about his feelings for her? Or was he still just defending his ancient cell phone?
She peered around the room, looking for a way to change the subject. She wasn’t ready to dive into their past. Spotting her broken suitcase by the door, she groaned as she gestured toward it. “Not that bad boy. I think it’s seen its last leg. I’m not sure how I’m even going to get it upstairs.”
He pushed back from the table. “I’ll take it up for you. Then I should probably get going. Send me a text, and then I’ll have your number. And before you say anything, yes, my old phone still gets and sends text messages,” he told her, as he hefted the suitcase onto one shoulder and carried it up the stairs.
The second level of the home held three small bedrooms. Two were used as guest rooms and one had always been the sewing room. Gram’s room was on the main level, which was fortunate, since she’d be dealing with the frustration of wearing a cast.
Jocelyn peeked her head into the first room and was relieved to see it looked the same—the sewing machine against the window, stacks of discarded fabric on the end of the old ironing board, and piles of fat squares and quilting implements spilling from the old dresser. The fresh scent of starch hung in the air.
“There’s a lot of memories in this room. Gram taught me how to sew in here. I still remember the first thing I made. It was a hot pad,” she told Mack.
“Yeah? Was it any good?”
“No. It was terrible. The stitches were all wonky. But it was this gorgeous fabric with blue roses on it, and I thought it was beautiful. I learned later that it was this expensive fabric Gram had bought for a quilt, but she let me use it and never said anything. And of course she raved over what a great job I did on it.”