Oh, not likely.
She lowered her lashes. “It wasn’t much of a kiss to judge.”
Mitch drew her close, bent down and kissed her again. This time when he released Laurel, her breath was as ragged as his.
“I can make a judgment now.” With effort, Mitch set her aside. He had responsibilities—a town meeting, a teenage daughter, the latter of which was probably somewhere watching. He’d made promises. In that moment Mitch didn’t care. “It’s the hots. Definitely the hots.”
“I’ll say, Counselor.” Cheeks aflame, Laurel turned on her flashlight and entered the trading post. “I’ll say.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
LAUREL STOOD INSIDE the doorway of the trading post, watching Mitch make his way carefully the twenty feet back to the road.
From here the town of Second Chance looked like a postcard she’d once received from a friend who’d visited Aspen. Snow-covered trees, rooftops and mountains. Pristine and perfect. Her heart felt light. The cares that came with her pregnancy lessened.
Mitch kissed me.
Joy, the unabashed joy she’d felt when she’d seen her babies on the sonogram screen, coursed through her veins.
Mitch kissed me.
It felt as if the babies were fluttering with joy, as well.
In the afterglow of their kiss, Laurel refused to think about the truths that had to be told, the ones that would douse the light in Mitch’s eyes when he looked at her.
“Gabby’s right. Mitch has the hots for you.”
Laurel turned and faced her cousin with a big smile and confirmed, “Mitch has the hots for me.”
They both laughed.
Sophie grabbed her hand and drew her inside. “Don’t be freaked out. This place is awesome. But it’s packed tighter than a fridge at the holidays.”
She was right. There were narrow paths through the stacks of stuff. Not an inch had been overlooked, not even the walls had escaped.
“Um.” Laurel’s gaze roved around the large building, finding no oil paintings by da Vinci, although there was a black velvet clown painting on the wall. “These are your treasures? Grandpa Harlan’s treasures?”
“There’s a treasure right here. Look at this handmade pottery.” Sophie tugged Laurel across the dusty planked flooring to a bureau with what looked like unfinished pottery on top. “They look rustic like that because they were made by people with a passion for artistic expression but who were often self-taught.” Sophie was an art nerd.
Laurel was just realizing her idea of art was an oil painting or a marble sculpture. Not stuff like this. She picked up one of the pieces. “Is this a pitcher?” It was. The ceramic was shaped and painted as a man’s face, his nose was the spout. “Are you sure these are valuable?”
“Well, they’re valuable to me and art historians. I’ll have to research the mark on the bottom to see who made these.” Sophie hugged herself and looked around the dim, musty room with a wide smile. “This is fabulous.”
“Okay?” Laurel didn’t try to hide her doubt. This was creepier than some of the prop rooms at Monroe Studios. Colder, too.
“He entrusted this to me.”
“Who?”
“Grandpa Harlan. He entrusted these things to me the same way he had entrusted his art collection to me.”
Had Sophie’s eyes not filled with tears, Laurel might have argued that any one of the Monroe grandchildren could have entered the trading post and called dibs.
Not that she thought there was anyone but Sophie who’d be interested in...
“What’s that?” Laurel pointed across the room. But she knew. It was the antique dress form Cousin Ella had told her about last month. At least, she hoped that was what it was. It looked like a short ghost.
Laurel picked her way past barrels and between cardboard boxes that were bulging and threatening to fall apart. Past signs from gasoline stations whose companies had long gone out of business. Past an old bicycle and cobwebs as thick as thread.
Finally, she reached the dress form, pulling off the thin drape. The base was made of iron. The torso covered in padded canvas. It was about four feet tall and made for a woman with the shape of Mae West.
Laurel laughed. “Oh, wow. I feel inadequate.” Although that part of her had been expanding, too.
“Aha.” Sophie reached her, shining the flashlight briefly in Laurel’s eyes. “I bet the expression on your face mirrors the expression on my face when I found all that pottery.” Sophie picked up an old cast-iron toy fire truck sitting on top of a cardboard box. The paint was faded. The wheels were bent. It looked much loved. “I wonder if this was Grandpa Harlan’s toy when he was a boy.”
Laurel’s heart melted. “Do you think all this belonged to him? Or to his family?” Was this part of their history?
Sophie shrugged. “When we arrived, Mitch said we owned whatever was inside the buildings.” Sophie picked up a wire crate filled with empty milk bottles. “I feel like an archaeologist who’s just been let into the heart of a pyramid, one that’s never been opened before. Do I need to document things here? Do I need to sort them by decade?” The art curator was alive and well.
“That depends, I suppose, on what we should do with all this.” Laurel turned the dress form around, exposing the laces in the back that helped keep its shape. She was afraid to touch them lest they break. “I’d like to keep this.”
“I’d like to keep it all,” Sophie breathed.
Something scuttled on the floor a few feet away. They both jumped.
“Correction.” Sophie looked around nervously. “I’d like to keep it all in a place with bright lights and a big kitty.”
* * *
“WHAT’S HE DOING HERE?” Roy’s bushy white brows drew down at the sight of Shane entering the Bent Nickel. He pushed up the sleeves of his blue coveralls.
“Shane’s an honorary town councilman.” In the afterglow of Laurel’s kiss, Mitch had forgotten this was going to be a prickly meeting and that he hadn’t warned the rest of the town council. “I’ve invited him to represent the Monroes. We’re opening the channels of communication.”
Sophie’s twins were bunny hopping across the floor toward the counter, trying to land only on the white squares of linoleum.
“Two hot chocolates for my rabbits, please.” Shane smiled at Ivy as if he hadn’t heard Roy’s accusatory question. “And I’ll be getting some coffee.” He withdrew two ten-dollar bills from his wallet, gave one to Ivy and stuffed the other in the empty community coffee jar. He lifted his nephews onto stools at the counter before pouring his own cup of coffee. “What’s on the town council agenda today?”
“How to get rid of Monroes,” Roy grumbled.
There was a gasp. And it didn’t come from Ivy or Shane.
Ivy’s son Nick stood at the end of the counter in his standard morning uniform of Star Wars pajamas and brown bear slippers. “Are you boys here to play with me?” He toned down his enthusiasm a notch. “Or to go to school? Because Mr. Eli said you could come, but it’s early and he’s not here and RJ never wants to play with me.” RJ being Nick’s older brother.
“Hot chocolate first,” Ivy said, pouring hot water into mugs she’d filled with powdered hot chocolate. She stirred the twins’ cups, topping them with ample whipped cream. “Nick, go upstairs, brush your hair and teeth, get on clothes—no shorts now—and bring down your toy soldiers.”
“You know, there are rules we have to abide by with Monroes like him.” Roy pointed a finger pistol at Shane. “One of which is Not Welcome Here.”
“You know, we need new rules if we’re going to get along and thrive.” Mitch patted the white Formica tabletop nearest him. “Let’s meet here today.” They usually congregated at the counter, but that was going to be populated by kids. He went over to get himself a second cup of coffee. Dealing with Roy and Shane at the same tim
e was going to take extra caffeine.
“New rules,” Roy mumbled. He dutifully sat at the table, scraping the chrome chair legs across the linoleum floor. “If we needed new rules, we wouldn’t have the old rules.”
“Can I ask...” Shane sat across from Roy. “Were any of you elected? Or are these positions that you volunteered to fill? Not that I’m judging,” he added quickly, but with sarcastic overtones.
Mitch sighed, thinking of Laurel and her desire for peace. He sat next to Shane.
No one answered the honorary, temporary town council member.
Ivy drifted over to the table, hesitating before taking a seat. She didn’t usually sit during their meetings. She usually wiped down counters, refilled salt and pepper shakers, napkin holders and the like. “Welcome, Shane. And since we’re speaking of rules, we have some here at the Bent Nickel. You know about contributions for coffee.” She gestured toward the woodstove at the front of the diner. “Everyone also chips in a log or two each visit to keep the place heated.”
“Such a friendly community,” Shane said in an uncommonly conciliatory tone. “I’ll bring some of my friend Mitch’s wood next time.”
Mitch closed his eyes briefly. What were the chances Laurel would kiss him again if he kicked Shane out of the meeting?
Slim to none.
Not that he should be kissing Laurel at all. It felt like a conflict of interest... When he wasn’t kissing her.
“And let me just say...” Ivy shook her finger at Shane. “Your grandfather loved this town the way it is.”
Mitch swallowed too quickly, sending coffee down the wrong pipe.
Shane pounded his back, none too gently.
“And Harlan hoped you’d agree.” Ivy was on one of her rants. “He hoped—”
“Ivy.” Roy looked aghast. She was about to break the confidentiality agreement.
“That you’d help us stay the course.”
“Ivy,” Mitch gasped, shrugging Shane’s backslapping off.
“He hoped by setting you free from his company and his purse strings that you’d make a name for yourself separate from his.” Her words echoed in the near-empty diner like a protester’s last rallying cry. She blinked, coming off her proverbial pedestal. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”
“You think?” Roy asked, hands fluttering.
Ivy frowned. “But I don’t regret it. Even if Harlan’s lawyer shows up and...”
Oh, she regretted it now. Her gaze roamed the diner as if she was seeing it for the last time. Her eyes filled with tears.
Shane cleared his throat. “Grandpa’s lawyers won’t hear anything from me.” A statement that launched Ivy out of her seat and into Shane’s arms, an ungainly move.
Mack entered the diner, late as usual. “What’s going on?”
“Newsflash.” Looking uncomfortable, Shane set Ivy back on her feet. “We’re all on the same team.” He waved a hand, indicating the two women should sit.
Nick burst back into the dining room, looking as if he’d forgotten to brush his hair in his haste to collect an armful of green plastic soldiers. “Come on, guys, we’re going to have fun.”
The twins climbed carefully off their stools and carried their whipped cream–less hot chocolates with two hands.
“In case Mitch hasn’t told all of you about the consultant I met with yesterday,” Shane said briskly. “I’m paying someone to explore options for the town’s future. I hope to choose one both the Monroes and the residents find palatable.
“So before you go painting me as the bad guy, let’s all join hands and sing ‘Kumbaya,’ which is why Mitch invited me to join your coven.”
“Not funny.” Mitch frowned. Neither was the resemblance he suddenly saw between Shane and Harlan. The same nose. The same sarcasm. And he supposed he’d have to add the same heart, given what Shane had said yesterday.
“I have questions.” At the head of the table, Ivy leaned forward, expression stern, and tapped the Formica with her finger. “About your intentions for the town’s infrastructure.”
“Yeah.” Frowning, Roy shifted in his seat, shifting his white bushy brows just as much. “Like, will I still have a job keeping up vacant cabins come spring? Are you gonna build a luxury hotel? Or some of those cookie-cutter McMansions everybody talks about?”
“Are we bringing back a doctor?” Ivy’s firm demeanor cracked, opening to worry. “Is the Bent Nickel still going to be the hub for homeschooling? Will we still have slow winters? That’s important to us.”
“Um...” Shane turned to Mitch. “I hadn’t thought about any of that.”
“That’s because you’ve been thinking big picture.” Mitch let annoyance creep into his tone. “We’re worried about a smaller canvas. Businesses and families need to know if the leases are going to continue or if you want us to buy you out. Do we need to save every penny? Make contingency plans? These are things that keep us up all night.”
Shane sat up straight, looked at them each in turn. And what a look...
He didn’t smirk. He didn’t look down his nose. For once, bless him, for once, Shane looked at the residents of Second Chance with respect and seriousness. “These are all valid, important questions. But let me ask you. If you were in my shoes, what would you think is fair? What would you do?”
No one answered.
At least, not at first.
* * *
“I’M GOING NEXT DOOR.” Dust and grime clung to Laurel’s jacket and gloves. But she had a small pile of items—an antique sewing kit, a vintage wooden inlaid darning egg, trolley garters still in the package, dress patterns from the forties. “Do you want to come and check out the mercantile?”
Sophie was digging through a box on the floor that held car insignias wrapped in yellowed 1930s newspaper clippings. She didn’t look up. “I’ll stay here a little bit longer. You know, I don’t trust Shane to be able to watch the boys all day. But I haven’t been disappointed with anything I’ve found yet.”
Leaving her treasures behind, Laurel went outside and strapped on her snowshoes. Out of habit, she patted her pockets for her cell phone until she remembered she’d left it in her room.
Movement at the diner caught her eye. Inside, Mitch sat with Shane at a table.
Mitch. He made her happy. And he seemed to be happy that she was staying. Admittedly, he hadn’t been happy at first. But he’d gotten happy after kissing her. And now he was sitting with Shane, presumably not fighting.
Life was good.
Leaving her poles behind, Laurel smiled as she walked along the path that Roy had made to get to the mercantile.
The trading post had been built with logs. The mercantile had been constructed later and was made of brick. Mitch had opened the door before he left, and she hoped all the critters had taken an opportunity to go outside and enjoy the sunshine. She removed her snowshoes and went inside.
“Oh.” Here was joy.
Whereas the trading post had been packed, the mercantile looked to have been cleared out recently. There were shelves on one wall and a glass case with bolts of cotton stacked inside. And the main area was clear. There was enough room for a couple to dance on the clean wood floors or for a customer to pivot to and fro as she caught her reflection in the mirror, trying on a one-of-a-kind Laurel creation.
Sunlight streamed through windows and illuminated a painting on an easel—a small pond surrounded by deep red roses. The face of the grinning moon reflected off the water. It was whimsical and caught her imagination.
“What are you doing in here?”
Laurel whirled, unsettling the babies. She reached out to steady herself on the glass case. “I’m... I’m...”
“Trespassing.” An old woman stood in the doorway. Her green knit cap was pulled low over her head. Her bulky jacket draped to her knees. White, fur-trimmed snow boots came midcalf. T
he woman’s face was pale with soft wrinkles, and her limp grayish-brown hair hung on her shoulders. “Who are you?”
Laurel swallowed. “I’m Laurel Monroe?”
She snorted. “You’re not sure who you are?”
“No. I am.” Laurel got a grip. “I’m Laurel Monroe. Who are you?”
Low gray brows dropped lower. The woman looked Laurel up and down. In a few smooth moves, she was out of her snowshoes and inside the mercantile. “Perhaps you don’t know that this place is mine.”
“You lease it?” Laurel took a step back. “No one told me this building was being used.” There were many vacant buildings, homes and cabins in town, some leased by snowbirds, some that Grandpa Harlan had purchased and never leased.
The woman shook her head, emitting a sound of frustration. She still hadn’t told Laurel who she was.
“I’m sorry, you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t know your name.”
The woman laughed. “Everyone knows me, just like everyone knows Odette.” She gave Laurel a sly look. “I know who you are now. You’ve been knitting.”
“Yes.” Laurel held out the ends of her teal scarf. “I’m very patient.” Except she wasn’t feeling patient with this woman who refused to divulge her name.
Her laugh turned hard-edged. “Patient?” She tossed her hands. “That Odette. I wouldn’t have told you to be patient. I would’ve told you to create with passion-fueled speed, which is the way Odette makes quilts. Not that she’d reveal that to you.”
Laurel didn’t like this woman picking on Odette. “Who are you?”
“My name is Flip. And you’re trespassing.” She was pushy. Oh, so pushy.
Laurel decided to push back. “You did hear me say my last name is Monroe?”
Flip walked around the easel and admired the painting. “I’ve been using this as an art studio.” She picked up the canvas from the easel and walked out the door. “I’ll give you a dollar if I must.”
Laurel followed her. “You want to rent this place?” She hoped not. It was darling.
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