“No.” She supposed he would like to marry sooner rather than later. The way he spent money, he could surely use an infusion into his bank account.
“I was nineteen when I married your father. Three years younger than you are. I was so happy to leave my parents’ home and begin life as a married woman.” Her mother’s voice trailed away on a wistful note.
But why was her mother wistful? Did she regret the life she’d led? She showed no true affection for her husband and little devotion to her daughter. She cared most about how things appeared. Had she ever desired to walk a different path?
Cora rose from the sofa and returned to the window, as if hoping the colorful gardens could change the directions of her thoughts. It didn’t work.
Am I as passionless as Mother?
It took only a second to answer her own question. No!
Cora wasn’t passionless. There were many things she cared about, many things that interested her. However, she’d spent most of her life hiding her true feelings. She’d been trained to keep her opinions to herself. She’d been sent to school but not with an actual education as the goal. No, it had been so she could rub shoulders with young women of quality—and, with luck, to meet some of their eligible brothers.
She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath.
If she could do anything in life, if there were no restrictions upon her as a woman, she would become a concert violinist. Nothing stirred her soul like music, especially the music of a violin. But it wasn’t considered seemly for a woman to perform on a stage. Her father would rather see her dead.
She looked out the window again as she wiped a tear from her cheek.
Liam's Journal
The storm yesterday made me think a lot about Jacob. I remember one summer when we were up here in the old cabin we used to have. I was about six, I think, because the Jacob I can see in my head was still really little. There was a storm that day too.
Mom and Dad were fighting. I can’t remember anything they said, but I remember that Jacob and I wanted to get away from them. So we went up into the attic. Dad didn’t know that if I stood on the top bunk and used the bunkbed ladder, we could get up there, but we could.
There were small windows at each end of the attic. Not sure why anybody would build a place like that since it wasn’t really a room. Jacob and I could stand up straight, but Dad couldn’t have, if he ever tried. Except for dust and cobwebs, the attic was empty. I suppose because it’d be too much work to put anything up there.
Jacob and I sat by one of the windows, watching the rain run down the glass in sheets and the wind bend the trees way over. There was lots of rolling thunder. One of them cracked right over our heads. It was scary and exciting at the same time. Jacob clung to me tight. Now that I think back on it, he was probably scared to death. He probably wanted to go back to our room but was too afraid to go on his own.
I loved Jacob. Always did. Always will. I admit that sometimes I was jealous of the way Mom preferred him to me. I never understood why that was. Still don’t understand it. But I never held it against Jacob. It wasn’t his fault he was so likable. Besides, he was my kid brother, and I loved him. Like that song from the soundtrack of Rambo III (one of Dad’s favorites), I could always say, “He ain’t heavy. He’s my brother.” Because that’s how I felt about him.
Liam's Journal
Chickadee Creek is a quaint place. (That’s what Grandma called it back when I was a kid. “Quaint.” You don’t hear that word often these days.) People are friendly, although I can’t say I’ve given them much of a chance to prove it to me personally since I came up here this winter. The only person I really know is Mrs. Witherstone at the general store, and I’ve never met anybody who likes to talk more than she does. Definitely friendly.
The old family cabin wasn’t in town. It wasn’t too far from where I built my vacation house. So we didn’t mix with folks back then either. Jacob and I ran all over these mountains. Rode our bikes along back roads and trails. We climbed trees like a couple of monkeys. We explored up around the remains of the old dredger. “Hooligans” is what Grandma called us. Another of her funny words.
One Christmas vacation we came up to stay. I think I was maybe ten and Jacob nine. There was a big snowstorm. Bigger than anything we’d seen in Boise. So Jacob and I took an old garbage can lid to use as a sled since nobody thought to bring sleds with us. There was this hill not too far from the cabin. It went down at a really steep degree, then made an abrupt turn up again. Formed a near perfect V. What we didn’t realize, being stupid kids, was that when we hit that V-shaped bottom, the lid was going to come to a sudden and complete stop. We weren’t going to simply start up the other side.
Don’t know why we both didn’t end up with broken necks. We flew down that hill until we hit bottom. Wham! I flew off one way, and Jacob flew off another. Knocked the breath out of us both. I’m pretty sure that’s when I discovered what it meant to “see stars.” I don’t know how long we lay there, just trying to breathe normal. Finally, I was able to get out, “Jacob, you okay?” He answered, “Yeah,” in a squeaky little voice. It was quite a while longer before we had the strength to get up and walk home.
We never did tell Mom or Dad about that. Not even after we grew up.
Chapter 2
Light crept around the edge of the bedroom curtains. Not full daylight, but enough to disturb Chelsea’s sleep. With a groan, she rolled onto her other side and pulled a pillow over her head. Too late. She was awake now. Staying in bed and pretending otherwise was useless.
She pushed the pillow away, opened her eyes, and sat up. The clock on the nightstand read 5:32 a.m. A ridiculous time to get up, in her opinion. It was suitable for farmers with cows to milk, maybe, and those irritatingly cheerful morning people—the ones she tried to avoid at all costs. But it wasn’t suitable for her.
Still, nothing she tried made sleep possible.
Grumbling, she got out of bed and went into the bathroom. The lengthy shower did little to improve her mood. She remained grumpy as she went down the stairs to make her first cup of coffee.
Seated at the kitchen table a short while later, she sipped the creamer-laced beverage, her gaze moving around the room. The cupboards had no doors. Plates, cups, and glasses sat stacked or placed in neat rows on the two shelves. There weren’t enough dishes to host a large dinner party, but there were enough for a few guests on special occasions. Of course, there wouldn’t be many for Rosemary Townsend to entertain in this small community, even if she wanted to.
Chelsea rose and carried her coffee mug out to the deck that wrapped around two sides of the house. The wood beneath her bare feet was wet from the previous night’s storm, and a chill permeated the air. According to the weatherman, the cool temperatures wouldn’t linger. Warmer weather would follow on the heels of the storm.
Settling onto a deck chair, she looked across the winding road to the building that housed Rosemary & Time. It appeared less ominous than it had yesterday. Less ominous, but also in dire need of repairs. A broken window on the second story had been mended with duct tape. A shutter on the window to the left of it had lost a bracket and hung crooked, giving the building a crazy-eyed appearance. Another good windstorm might blow the thing off. The whole place needed a coat of fresh paint. And that was only the outside. She already knew what awaited her on the inside. It was overwhelming when she thought about it.
She took a deep breath and released it. Aunt Rosemary would have to hire someone for any major jobs, and painting the outside of the antique store was definitely a major one. Plus, Chelsea wasn’t particularly handy when it came to household repairs. She was willing to work hard and was able to follow instructions, but her expertise ended with changing light bulbs and swapping out batteries in smoke alarms. Heaven only knew what other updates were needed before the shop could reopen.
“But I can clean and reorganize,” she said aloud. “I’m good at that.”
The rumble of an engine drew h
er gaze up the road. Sounds carried a long distance in the forest, so it was hard to tell how soon the vehicle would come into view around the bend. In this instance, it wasn’t long.
Although the truck with its SuperCrew cab was a newer model, the shiny black paint job was covered with a layer of dirt. Yesterday’s storm hadn’t dumped enough rain to wash it clean. The driver looked her way as he passed by Aunt Rosemary’s house. She didn’t know anybody in Chickadee Creek, but she waved anyway. She wanted to show that she belonged there and wasn’t trespassing.
That was probably my excitement for the day.
She drained the last of the coffee from the mug, then stood. It was time to get to work. She had three more days before Aunt Rosemary would be released from the rehab center in Boise and return to Chickadee Creek. Chelsea wanted to surprise her great-aunt with how much she’d accomplished in only a few days’ time.
She carried the empty mug to the kitchen and set it in the sink. A slice of toast would do for breakfast. When she’d hastily left Spokane, she hadn’t brought much food with her. Just a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a few apples. Later, she would make a trip to the store to stock up on groceries. Aunt Rosemary had said to tell the woman at the mercantile to charge it to her account.
A smile tipped the corners of her mouth. How many places were left in this country where somebody had an account at a market? Couldn’t be many. Only in places the size of Chickadee Creek. And places like Hadley Station where she’d grown up. Places where the woman at the grocery store would call a kid’s mom if they bought too much candy. Places where everybody knew your name and what family you belonged to.
Which meant the guy who’d driven by in the black truck already knew who she was and why she was in town.
* * *
“There you be,” Grace Witherstone said the moment Liam stepped through the mercantile doors.
He glanced around the store. No other customers. Which meant he would be listening to Grace for a while. There wouldn’t be anything or anyone to distract her.
“That was some storm we had yesterday, but we coulda used more rain than blow. Tree come down behind my place. Lucky we all still have power. Never know when a tree’s gonna fall on them wires.”
He made a sound in his throat to show that he listened.
“I hear tell that development closer to the highway’s got buried utilities. That’s gotta help when the weather turns.”
Liam looked around again. “Maybe I could get my order.”
“Oh, sure. Listen to me. Yakkin’ your head off. The boxes are right over there in that corner.” She pointed.
He moved in the indicated direction.
“I heard Rosemary’s great-niece got here yesterday.”
“Rosemary?”
“The woman I told you about on the phone. Rosemary Townsend. The one who owns the antique store.”
He thought of the young woman he’d passed on the way to the mercantile. She’d sat on a deck, her ginger hair resplendent in the morning sun. Only now did he realize the antique shop was across the road from where she’d sat. Rosemary’s great-niece? Probably. Hadn’t Grace mentioned that the little girl who’d come to stay years ago had freckles and red hair?
“When my help comes in this afternoon, I’m headin’ over to see her. Want to know what day Rosemary’s expected back.” The woman grinned. “And I want to see what that girl’s made of. No small job, trying to reopen the antique shop. It’s a mess. Rosemary has her own way of doing things, but I sure as shootin’ wouldn’t call her organized. But there’s plenty of interesting stuff inside that shop, that’s for sure.”
Liam lifted two boxes, one stacked on top of the other. “I’ll have to go to the shop when it reopens. Have a look around.”
“You sure should.” Grace picked up a third box. “And make sure you talk to Rosemary when you get the chance. Like I said, nobody knows the history of Chickadee Creek better than she does.”
Liam hid a smile as he headed out to the truck. If the conversations of the past two days were any indication, Grace Witherstone wouldn’t be content until he met Rosemary Townsend. And since this town was where he meant to stay for the immediate future, he might as well get to know the locals. Up until recently, he’d kept himself isolated. It was time for him to change that.
After setting the boxes in the bed of his truck, he turned toward the woman, who had followed him out. “I promise I’ll make it a point to meet Mrs. Townsend.”
“It’s Miss Townsend.” Grace set the box she carried next to the others in the truck bed. “Rosemary never married—although she was engaged, I hear tell, when she was real young. I’ve seen pictures of her back then. My, oh, my. She was a beauty.” She laughed softly. “Rosemary could’ve been in films. Movie-star pretty, she was.”
“I’ll get those last two boxes,” he said, then strode back into the store.
Liam didn’t know if Grace knew he was an actor or if she’d seen any of his films. Despite her love for gossip, if she did know, she’d never let on to him, and he’d found it a refreshing change to be treated just like anybody else in this small town. All too often, all someone wanted to talk about when they met him was his acting. What was it like in Hollywood? Who did he know? Was this actress or that one as beautiful as she looked on the screen?
Grace didn’t follow him into the store, and by the time he returned, she was talking to another customer who’d arrived in Liam’s absence. With all of the boxes now in the back of his truck, he closed the tailgate, gave a quick wave to Grace, and climbed into the cab.
It was strange, he thought as he drove toward home, that he desired anonymity. He’d worked hard to improve his acting skills, and he’d wanted the fame that came with success in Hollywood. He’d wanted the recognition. His lucky break had come several years back, leading to roles in some major motion pictures. Small roles led to bigger ones. His latest movie had released on Thanksgiving of the previous year. There’d been rumors of possible supporting-actor award nominations for him, although they hadn’t panned out. Rarely did for that kind of film. Not that he’d paid attention to any of the hoopla at the time. Jacob had been in a bad way by then.
After his brother’s death, after the funeral and helping his parents with all of the details of tying up a life cut too short, Liam had come to Chickadee Creek. To get away. To get his head on straight. To grieve. The few townsfolk he’d interacted with over the winter months seemed willing to leave him alone. Again, he couldn’t be sure if they didn’t know what he did for a living or if they just didn’t care.
Maybe I don’t care either. He let the words play in his mind for a few seconds, testing their veracity—and not for the first time. Did he care? Didn’t he care? God, what is it I’m supposed to do? What’s next for me?
As he approached the antique store, he saw the young woman from the front porch crossing the road ahead of him, carrying a pail and a ladder. She was a slip of a thing and looked even slighter as she carried the ladder. He slowed the truck. She wore a sleeveless top and jean shorts suitable for the summer heat. Her ginger-colored hair had been down around her shoulders when he drove into town. Now it was smoothed back and captured in a ponytail. She glanced toward the truck and hurried the last few steps across the road, stopping on the boardwalk outside the entrance to the shop, where she leaned the ladder against the wall.
Liam was tempted to say something to her through his open window, then thought better of it. She was busy, and he needed to get back to his own place. He pressed gently down on the accelerator and drove on.
Still, he couldn’t quite shake the image of Rosemary Townsend’s great-niece carrying that ladder. Maybe it was her hair. He had a weakness for women with red hair. All shades of it. From the palest strawberry blonde to the darkest auburn. It didn’t hurt that Hollywood had more than a few of them. Jessica Chastain, Emma Stone, and Bryce Dallas Howard were just three of the redheads he’d worked with on films, and if he was honest, he’d had a cr
ush on each of them in turn. Not that they’d noticed him much. They were way out of his league, even if they’d been available. None of them were.
But the memories made him smile. He had lots of good memories from his years of working in the film industry. So why wasn’t he ready to go back to it? That was just one of the hard questions he needed to answer.
He hoped he’d be able to do that while staying in Chickadee Creek.
Chapter 3
“Merciful heavens!” Aunt Rosemary stood framed in the doorway of the shop, her eyes large and round. “I don’t believe what you’ve accomplished in so little time.” Leaning on her cane, she stepped inside the building.
Chelsea smiled, warmed by her great-aunt’s praise. She’d worked hard over the past three days, but there was a lot more still to be done. Dusting and mopping had made the shop look better on the surface. Reorganization would take much longer. Still, it felt good to have her efforts noted. Praise had been a rare thing throughout her life.
Aunt Rosemary tried to hide a grimace, but Chelsea saw it. She moved forward to take the older woman by the arm. “Let’s get you back to the house and settled into your bed.”
“Not in bed. I’ve had my fill of beds.”
“But you’re still recovering,” Chelsea protested. “You need lots of rest.”
“I’ve completed my rehab and been sent home. I’m not starting off my freedom by being shut in my bedroom.”
Chelsea bit back more words of concern and instead steered her great-aunt out of the antique shop and across the road to her house. She didn’t attempt to argue further. Aunt Rosemary was able to decide where to sit, and an oversize recliner with a view of the road and the shop beyond was her choice.
“Are you hungry?” Chelsea asked. “Or maybe you’d like a glass of iced tea? I made a fresh pitcher this morning.”
Make You Feel My Love Page 2