Walk Me Home

by Liza Kendall

  “Yeah, no kidding.” Damn, that television was loud. Jake picked up the remote and absently killed the sound so that he could think.

  “Hey!” Mick said. “I need that to drown out all the voices in my head.”

  “There’s nothing on the planet that will override those.”

  “Amen to that,” Old George called from the other room.

  “I should just accept the voices?”

  “Exactly. Just as the rest of us do.” There was a silence as Jake stared off into space before he said, “I’m having one hell of a day.”

  Mick put down his cooking spoon and wiped his hands on a towel. “Um, just so you’re not caught by surprise, I’m gonna make it worse. Charlie Nash is in town for Will and what’s her name’s—Felicity’s—wedding next Saturday.”

  Jake stiffened.

  This statement had the effect of producing Old George from the other room. He was rumpled, his shirt untucked from his khakis and his shock of gray hair flattened in the back. He tugged at his mustache. “Serious?”

  “Hey, man. Yeah,” Jake said. “I ran into her at the hospital.”

  Mick’s eyebrows flew up. “And?”

  “And nothing,” Jake answered.

  George snorted. “Last time she was in town, you volunteered for extra shifts.”

  “It was the holiday season. I was trying to help the rest of you out.”

  George’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline.

  “You were trying to avoid her,” Mick said.

  “Well, hello, Mr. Serious All of a Sudden. No, look. It’s fine now. I’ve seen Charlie, and it’s fine.” Jake shrugged, forcing himself to look like he didn’t give a damn. He only wished it were true.

  George said nothing, just went and stuck his head into the fridge. He knew better than to try to fish out a meatball.

  “Fine? Okay. Yeah.” Mick snorted. “I’ve been around the block with you, Jake. I know how it all went down.”

  Not this again. What is with everyone? “It was high school, man. It’s been over a decade.”

  “You said you’d never get over it. You looked like you’d never get over it. Are you getting over it?”

  “There’s nothing to get over, I’m telling you.”

  “’Cause if you are, I think we should throw a big party and invite every single girl in the county.”

  Jake forced a smile.

  “Charlie included. If you’re over her, then I’m gonna take my chances.”

  “Ha!” Old George pulled his face out of the fridge.

  Jake quit trying to smile. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Mick grinned. “Called your bluff. That was way too easy.”

  Jake stepped over to him and palmed the back of his head, shoving it down toward the steamy pot. “Time for a facial, Mick!”

  The two of them struggled, laughing and cursing, until Not-Spot bounded over and barked them apart.

  “It’s okay, buddy,” Jake told him, as they all panted at each other. “I’d never kill the guy who bakes you homemade dog biscuits.”

  “And I’d never kill a poor lovesick fool,” Mick added.

  George snuck toward the meatball pot, taking advantage of the distraction. And scored.

  Charlie’s image flashed into Jake’s mind’s eye. Again.

  I was engaged . . .

  He wanted to kill the unknown guy.

  I’ve got some errands to run . . .

  Any excuse to get away from him. It was borderline insulting.

  And that look of almost comic dismay on Charlie’s face when he’d agreed to stand in as a groomsman.

  We shouldn’t have asked. It should be anyone but you.

  Nice. The only thing worse than being asked was specifically not being asked. “I am not lovesick!” Jake growled.

  Not-Spot cocked his head and looked at him askance. Then he barked once more.

  “See,” Mick said. “Even the dog knows you’re lying.”

  Chapter 7

  Piece A Cake was Bob’s Donuts before Kristina Robbins’s family came to Silverlake during Charlie’s sophomore year in high school. Kristina herself was about as different from the potbellied donut slinger who’d come before her as you could get. She had narrow brown eyes, a sensitive poet’s mouth, and waist-length blond hair, which she wore in a braid down her back to keep it out of the way. She rode her racing bike to work every day, but even without the exercise, she was six feet tall and rail-thin with a completely unfair metabolism. Since she had a hyperactive thyroid, Kristina could eat a cake a day and still manage to lose weight. Charlie would have killed for that particular medical problem.

  “More coffee?”

  Charlie grinned and pushed her mug toward Kristina, who was holding a classic coffeepot that looked deceptively unexceptional. “Absolutely.”

  It might look like any old coffee, but Kristina was nothing if not particular about her beans. Which was why Charlie hadn’t bothered making breakfast for herself in Granddad’s apartment since she’d arrived. It was weird enough sleeping there; she refused to cook there. So she visited Kristina every day.

  Okay, maybe it wasn’t just the coffee. Charlie licked the last bit of chocolate croissant off her fingers and checked the time. Granddad was probably still sleeping. The hospital could wait for one last cup. For now, Charlie could relax and enjoy the uplifting atmosphere.

  Kristina had worked with a local artist to design all the furniture out of painted plywood: There was a bench made to look like a chocolate éclair; all the individual chairs had painted “cupcake” backs; and the walls were covered with bright graphics of cakes cut out of plywood. Some of them tilted crazily and jutted out three-dimensionally from the walls.

  The real art was in the refrigerated display cases, though: cakes so beautiful that visitors took pictures of them. To say Kristina was gifted was an understatement. Kristina was a Michelangelo, freeing sculpture from marzipan and icing.

  Beyond the rows of booths lining one side of the bakery, the sun was shining through the windows. The storefronts lining the opposite side of Main Street looked quaint and welcoming, with their carved historical signs and brightly painted exteriors.

  It was surprising to feel this much at peace in a place where she’d had the worst experience of her life.

  And the best, Charlie.

  She wondered what Jake was doing now. If he was up, on duty at the firehouse, drinking his own mug of coffee. Or if he was still in bed.

  An unwelcome thrill passed through her as she thought a little more about that image. The last time she saw even so much as a bare-chested Jake, he was still on the cusp of becoming the adult he was now. Jake. In bed. Jake, now a man. Jake, bare-chested . . . man . . .

  Sigh.

  A sharp whistle pierced the air. Kristina had her hand on her hip and a giant platter of cookies balanced on her upended palm. “Wherever you just were, Charlie? I think I want a ticket. This what you had in mind?” She gestured to the cookies.

  Charlie laughed. “That’s perfect. Thanks.” She swallowed the last of her coffee and took her tab to the counter. “So, is everything settled with Felicity’s cake?”

  Kristina managed a lopsided grin. “Settled? I don’t think it’s going to be settled until the moment she says ‘I do.’ As she passes me walking down the aisle, she’s probably going to ask me to switch the frosting. I was telling Lila we should throw a cake rejects party for the latest round of samples I made . . .”

  She paused, her hands tangling in the plastic wrap she was using to package up the cookie platter. “You know what? Yeah! That’s on. I’m gonna invite all the single ladies in town for a cake rejects party.” She looked up at Charlie with renewed enthusiasm. “Maybe serve a little champagne.”

  “I’m definitely in,” Charlie said.

  “Spre
ad the word,” Kristina said, frowning at the dispenser as the plastic wrap ran out. “The more, the merrier. Date and time to come, but it has to be soon. Buttercream is fussy.” She looked around, and went off in search of a new box.

  Charlie’s gaze fell on a rack of loaf cakes behind the counter, one tier full of banana bread fresh out of the oven. It looked like the ones her own mom once made. The ones Charlie wouldn’t touch but Jake used to eat in two bites with a huge glass of milk after school.

  Kristina was back, adding one more layer of plastic wrap, and now ringing up Charlie’s bill. “Anything else?” she asked, following Charlie’s stare to the banana bread loaves. “Hmm. Is that a yes?”

  “Just one,” Charlie blurted, wondering what had come over her. “Thanks. But, um, could you bag it separately?”

  Jake does not want banana bread from me. Jake does not want anything from me. Why am I buying this?

  She paid for the goods, apologized for being such a space case, and headed out to tackle whatever this new day was going to bring.

  Outside the bakery, Charlie gave a slight shiver. The sun was shining, yes, but it was warring with some ominous-looking clouds, and a chill laced the air. For everybody’s sake, she could only hope the weather would get over itself long enough to get Felicity married already and the rest of them off the hook.

  Her phone buzzed. Charlie stood on the sidewalk on Main Street, balancing the goodies while reading Lila’s text:

  Stop at Maggie’s? Please?! New color. Sigh.

  The text was punctuated by several unhappy emoji, including one of a disgruntled bride with Felicity’s exact coloring.

  No problem, Charlie replied, adding the grin-and-bear-it emoji.

  She walked to where Progress was parked a few yards away and stowed the baked goods on the passenger-side seat. Charlie stared at the banana loaf for a moment and then slammed the door shut. She drew her sweater together and headed for the florist, still trying to shake Jake from her mind. She wondered just how he had found the grace to overcome her grandfather’s hostility and get the old man to work with him. Because that was the word for it: grace. He’d ignored the insults to him and his squad, and he’d half bullied, half jollied Kingston into finding some of his own grace—which was in short supply.

  She wondered, a little cynically, if Granddad had caved only because he thought Mia was cute, and she’d asked him to be flexible. But whatever the reason, Charlie was relieved that he was going to get his physical therapy. If they didn’t get him up and walking, he’d never get out of that bed . . . which wouldn’t improve his temper. And if he had a good session with Jake, then maybe he’d back off from his mission to eradicate the paid fire department—a goal that would make her encounters with Jake even more awkward than they had to be.

  Just outside Maggie’s shop, Petal Pushers, a young mother was putting a gorgeous floral centerpiece in the back of her car, a toddler in her other arm. The little boy wriggled and squirmed, positioning himself over her shoulder so that he could see Charlie. He aimed an impish smile at her and pointed. “Gah!”

  “Gah,” Charlie said back with enthusiasm, her heart melting.

  With his dark cloud of hair and dark eyes, the faintly stubborn set to his chin, he looked . . . oh. Coloring so similar to Jake’s. It occurred to her that she didn’t actually know if Jake was married, though he didn’t wear a ring. A lot of men didn’t. For all she knew, that woman could be Jake Braddock’s wife! Okay, whoa now, Charlie. Lila would never keep that from you. Her imagination was going crazy after seeing him again for the first time in a decade.

  “You forgot your credit card, Mrs. Kincaid!” Maggie Cooper called, running out from Petal Pushers with her tattooed arm outstretched. The mother stuck her toddler in the car seat, then gratefully took the card and exchanged some words with Maggie.

  Charlie was ridiculously relieved, then wanted to smack herself in the forehead. What was wrong with her? Jake lived with a bunch of other men in the firehouse, first of all. Second, why would it be any of her business whether he was married or not? He couldn’t stand her, and she lived in Dallas.

  As Mrs. Kincaid pulled away, Maggie waved at Charlie. “You’re here to pick up Lila’s latest sample?”

  Charlie held up her phone. “Just got the text.”

  Maggie rewarded her with a huge grin. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you instead of Felicity.” She held the door for Charlie, and the two of them walked to the counter inside.

  “These really are gorgeous, Maggie!” called out the only other customer in the shop, a slim woman with a choppy blue-black bob looking at a display of handmade ceramic vases.

  “Thanks, Aimi!”

  It always cracked Charlie up that Maggie was short not for Margaret but for Magnolia. Because it would be hard to find a woman less suited to the name, which sounded Deep Southern, old-fashioned, and somehow very blond. Maggie was Texas-born and -raised, was covered in artistic (though mostly floral) ink, and had spiky dark hair and a silver nose ring. She’d had both of her arms tattooed with climbing roses, and an inked honeybee “buzzed” right under the hollow of her throat.

  The floral shop was a tiny piece of real estate, but Maggie made the most of her space. Petal Pushers was covered, floor to ceiling, with potted plants and bucket after bucket of cut flowers. There were decorative bonsai, and vines hanging from pots hooked to the ceiling. One wall was just roses, in every imaginable color. The perfumed scents of lilac and peony, rose and lavender were tempered by the earthier smells of damp dirt and cedar. “It’s like a mini paradise,” Charlie said, taking a deep breath.

  Maggie beamed at the compliment, her expression falling only as she pushed forward a rose that was colored a horrific shade of bright kelly green. Not unlike Granddad’s Jell-O. “The latest sample,” she said. “When I think of that poor rose drinking that dye . . . ugh.”

  Charlie looked at the monstrosity. “For a wedding?”

  “A Martian wedding, maybe,” said Aimi, sidling up to the counter with her selection in her hand. She peered at the rose in open disgust.

  “I’m not going to make any jokes about a wicked witch,” Maggie said. She paused for a moment, and then . . . “Okay, maybe I am.”

  All three of them laughed. Aimi carefully set down her ceramic vase and leaned against the counter, giving Charlie an easy view of her perfectly drawn cat-eye liner and a pair of pouty lips that should have been either fake or illegal but were clearly neither. The two women recognized each other at the same time. Little Aimi Nakamura, not so little anymore. And nobody should look that good in ripped jeans and a white T-shirt.

  “Oh, jeez. I heard you were in town,” Aimi said. She sighed. “I should hate your guts, Charlie Nash.”

  For her part, Charlie tried to process the metamorphosis that had taken Aimi, who was two years behind her in school, from scrawny teenager to absolute knockout swan. “Wait, what? Why?”

  From the corner of her eye, Charlie saw Maggie bite down on her lower lip.

  Aimi shook her head. “Everybody knows you’re the reason why Jake’s a total commitmentphobe.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Lord knows, I did my best.”

  “I—”

  “Six months. Well, it’s more than anybody else got.”

  “You and Jake—” And who else? Obviously, Jake dated other women. And obviously, he’d done so in Silverlake, given that this was where he lived. Obviously. You have no right to feel anything at all about that, Charlie.

  “At least Jake and I are still friends,” Aimi finished. It wasn’t meant to be an insult. Just a fact. Aimi’s confident gaze swept up and down Charlie’s body and then alighted on her stunned face. “And here you are looking like you look, perfectly nice and normal, and making fun jokes about the craziest wedding this town’s ever seen.” She heaved an enormous dramatic sigh and looked over her shoulder at Maggie. “I’d told
myself she probably ended up with terrible skin and an even worse personality. Alas.”

  “Nope,” Maggie said, resting her chin on her hand propped up on the counter. “Charlie’s a good egg.”

  “Is she? Was this your idea?” Aimi asked, pointing to the heinous green rose.

  “I’m happy to say that I don’t generally have ideas like that,” Charlie said.

  Aimi grinned and faux shuddered. “In that case, you and I can probably be friends, too.”

  “This time, I actually hope Felicity changes her mind again,” Maggie said grimly. “But the client is now contemplating what she termed a ‘bold’ color scheme and wanted to see extreme green. Here’s extreme green. Please get it out of my shop as soon as possible. It hurts my brain.”

  Charlie laughed. And with the rose wrapped in cellophane plus a pot of parrot tulips for Grandma Babe’s grave, she headed to Lila’s office.

  * * *

  Lila’s office was located several blocks down from Maggie’s, atop a vacancy set up for a small restaurant. The owner of the building didn’t live in Silverlake anymore, and Lila was renting out the office space until a new tenant could be found.

  Charlie once asked her why she bothered renting when she had all the space she needed at Silverlake Ranch for free. Lila said it was more professional to have an office in town, and changed the subject.

  Walking into the Silverlake Events office gave a person the impression of having accidentally walked into a party storage closet bursting at the seams. Sequins and satin, dried flowers and fake birds, photos of past events and printouts of sample schedules covered every inch of the walls, and the chairs, too. Only a burnt-orange sofa crammed against one wall—probably earmarked for visiting clients—remained pristine. Well, pristine except for the cowboy hat and the boot-shaped pillows, the latter complete with spurs that had been embroidered with silver thread.

  That said, in spite of the sheer volume of materials, the place gave Lila what she wanted most, a quiet place to plan events and do business away from Silverlake Ranch.