by Holly Jacobs
“I think we could build a good life. Kennedy is smart. She can do anything. Adjusting to life in Pittsburgh might be tough at first, but—”
“Wait, you think you can get her to move to Pittsburgh?” His father scoffed. “Never going to happen. She’s the mayor here. She’s a business owner. She has friends here. What could you offer her in Pittsburgh?”
Before Mal could answer, his father continued, “Nothing. You don’t love her. I’ve known women like her—your mother was like her. That’s what they want. Love. If you could love her, she might find happiness in Pittsburgh, but son, you’re like me. You’re married to the job. You like her. You want her. You might even be compatible with her. But that’s not enough for her. And staying here with her? That won’t be enough for you. I’ve seen you at work. You thrive on it. You could have a successful practice in this Podunk town, but you would never have the kind of practice I’m offering you.”
He pushed back from the table. “I’ll give you until the new year to figure it out for yourself. Either come back in the office by then, or don’t come back at all. And if you don’t come back, and then you realize I was right, it will be too late. I don’t give second chances.”
Mal watched his father leave. He tried to be concerned about his job, and realized he wasn’t. For as long as he could remember, he’d wanted to be an attorney and work for his father’s firm. To be honest, that’s what his father had planned for him, and Mal had grown up with that assumption.
He wasn’t sure what he’d thought would happen when he actually worked with his father. Maybe he’d thought if they were together on a daily basis, they’d develop a better relationship. A closer one.
He wasn’t sure. But it was obvious that these last few years of working together hadn’t worked. They had a business relationship. But they rarely shared so much as a meal with one another.
If he didn’t work in his father’s firm—if they didn’t have business to bind them—what would they have?
He didn’t know. But he had a month to decide what to do about his job.
By then Kennedy would have the baby, and maybe she’d think differently.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next night, Kennedy let herself into her quiet house and breathed a sigh of relief. Black Friday had been crazy at the shop. She had a lot of holiday season orders, and it seemed like half of Cupid Falls had stopped by to see how her holiday was or to tell her about theirs.
She was late getting home but was thankful to close the door on the town. She hung her coat on the hook and went to lean down and take off her boots. She couldn’t manage it. It had been an awkward endeavor for a while now, but tonight she seriously couldn’t get her foot close enough to her hands, no matter how she twisted and turned. She hooked her left toes at the back of her right boot and pried it off that way. She put on a slipper and then did the reverse on her other boot.
It was official. She’d reached dirigible dimensions, which sounded nicer than saying she was a blimp.
She turned on the living room light and glared at the room, as if it were its fault it was so fussy. She’d never liked her aunt’s decorating style, but until Malcolm asked about the baby’s room, she’d never really thought about changing anything.
Maybe because this house had always been Aunt Betty’s. It had never been their house—it had never been Kennedy’s home. But Aunt Betty was gone, and if this house wasn’t home, Kennedy didn’t know where she’d ever find one.
She suddenly didn’t think she could spend one more evening sitting in Aunt Betty’s living room. Her aunt was gone . . . but Kennedy wasn’t.
She went to the basement, brought up a bunch of boxes, and got busy. Aunt Betty had been a collector of bric-a-brac, and the shelves on either side of the fireplace were full of stuff.
Kennedy grabbed a stack of newspaper and began wrapping them up and dropping them in the box. Soon all that was left on the shelves were books . . . which in her opinion was what the shelves were for.
She dusted and couldn’t help but run her fingers along old favorites. They were all old hardbacks. Grace Livingston Hill was Aunt Betty’s favorite. The copies were old and the slipcovers were yellow, but she remembered reading The Spicebox and Miranda. L. M. Montgomery’s Green Gables books. Louisa May Alcott. Gene Stratton-Porter. She pulled out A Girl of the Limberlost. Oh, how she’d loved that book.
Yes, the books would stay. She’d found comfort in them when she’d first come to live here. And they felt like old friends on the shelf.
Next, Kennedy made a pile of doilies. And pulled the slipcovers off the furniture. Revealing the dark brown upholstery that her aunt had hated. But Aunt Betty hadn’t believed in buying nonnecessities, so she’d sprung for slipcovers.
Aunt Betty had loved the pastel flower-covered pieces of polyester. But the original earth-toned wool suited Kennedy better. It looked warm and inviting.
She went up to her room and brought down her favorite afghan. Her mother had made it. Browns, oranges, rusty red stripes.
She put it over the back of the couch. It looked perfect.
She stood back and admired the room.
The fussy, flowery, dust-magnet room had been transformed into one that was warm and inviting. It seemed to beg her to light a fire, pull an old favorite book off the shelf, then cuddle up under the afghan her mother made.
But not now, she told herself. Now, she was on a mission.
She went into the dining room and decluttered it as well. She tore off the tablecloth and the plastic her aunt had kept, and revealed the dark, rectangular table. Her aunt thought it was too dark, but Kennedy loved it.
She pulled down the heavy drapes and sheers, leaving just the louvered shutters. She knew that tomorrow, when the sun spilled through the slats, the room would look beautiful.
She left her grandmother’s china in one corner cabinet and Aunt Betty’s collection of Hall’s Autumn Leaf dishes in the other.
Kennedy glanced at the clock, and it was already eight thirty. So she grabbed a sandwich and a big glass of water and went upstairs.
She stared at her aunt’s room. This was going to be more than she could complete tonight, but she could start.
She emptied her aunt’s clothes into garbage bags, cleared out more knickknacks. She took the pastel flowered bedspread off, along with the clashing flowered sheets—she’d donate those, too.
The furniture itself was beautiful. Most of the pieces in the house were inherited. Aunt Betty was her mother’s sister, and she’d told Kennedy the bedroom set had belonged to her parents—which meant the furniture had belonged to Kennedy’s grandparents.
It wasn’t precisely her style, but Kennedy decided to use it. There was something comforting in knowing that the furniture was a part of her family history.
She loved that sense of time it represented.
Malcolm had asked to help her, and she decided she’d ask him to move her old bedroom set down to the basement. She’d store it until the baby was ready for real furniture. She’d set up her old room as a nursery.
Maybe Malcolm would go shopping next week for the nursery with her.
She’d get herself a new mattress and move in here.
She thought about starting to move her clothes over, but her burst of energy had finally ebbed.
She decided to go downstairs and pull out one of those old favorite books, light the fire, and give the new living room a try.
She was halfway down the stairs, carrying her plate and cup, when the doorbell rang.
She peeked out the window before she opened it. “Malcolm?”
“I saw the light on in your aunt’s room and . . .” He shrugged. “I hadn’t seen it on since I got home and I wondered if there was a problem. It’s after nine. Normally the house is pretty much dark by now. I wondered if there was a problem with the baby, or if my father had upset yo
u yesterday, or . . .”
“I—”
He interrupted. “Never mind. That sounded stalkerish. It’s just you live next door and there’s a certain rhythm over here. Your light in the kitchen is always on when I get up. You tend to walk home from the store in the evening, so the lights go on here between five and five thirty.” He paused and laughed. “I’m not helping my case. It’s only I noticed. And I worried after yesterday.”
Once upon a time his pronouncement that he noticed her would have set her heart racing. Now, she knew he was saying he worried about the baby.
“I’m fine. As a matter of fact, you inspired me.”
“I did?” He looked puzzled.
“When you asked to see the baby’s room. You seemed surprised that I hadn’t taken over the master bedroom, that I hadn’t made any changes.”
“You said it was your aunt’s room.”
“It was. But I realized, it isn’t anymore. This is my house now. My home.”
She nodded that he should come in, and she reached around the corner of the small foyer and turned on the light. “I was going to start a fire and try it out.”
Malcolm kicked his boots off and stepped into the living room. “When did you find time to redo the room?”
“I didn’t redo it so much as declutter and . . . deflower.” She felt her cheeks warm as she realized how that sounded and hurriedly continued, hoping Malcom hadn’t noticed. “I might work in a flower shop, but I don’t think I need to have every inch of my home covered in them. There are lovely family antiques in the house. It’s easier to see them without slipcovers and doilies.”
“Kennedy, this looks amazing.”
She felt a rush of . . . pride? No, satisfaction.
He walked over to the bookcase. There among the old books, he zeroed in on her yearbook. He flipped through the pages and landed on the second and third pages of the seniors. “Wow, we were young.”
She stood next to him and peered at the book. She was on the left-hand side, he was on the right. Anderson and Carter. Only one letter away.
He ran a finger over where he’d signed her yearbook. Have a great summer. Mal.
She had signatures from most of her class that were generic like that. Best of luck. Enjoy college. Stay sweet. She didn’t mind that most of the class didn’t know her well enough to write anything more personal. But Malcolm . . . she’d hoped that somehow, he’d noticed more about her.
He could have said, To the girl who read a lot of books on her porch. To my neighbor. To the girl who came to all my games.
Have a great summer.
She took and shut the yearbook and put it back on the shelf. Then pasted a smile on her face and tried to switch the subject from her lame past. “I’m starting to clear out the master bedroom for myself, and I’m planning to set up a nursery in the other room. I wondered if you’d like to go shopping for furniture for the baby with me next week?”
“I’d love it, Kennedy. Really, I’d love it. I know it’s only been a few days, but this baby has already taken up all my thoughts. I want it to be happy. I want him or her to know the same kind of childhood I knew here in Cupid Falls.”
That sentence made a tension she hadn’t even realized she had loosen. He was talking about the baby growing up here. With her. In Cupid Falls.
“Carefree summer days,” he continued. “Snowy school days filled with study and friends. I hope they play sports. I don’t care what. I want to go sit in the stands and cheer for them.”
Like his father had never cheered for him, she thought, but didn’t say.
“And if they don’t play sports, I’ll go watch plays, or concerts, or even debates. I want to be an active part of their life. I know Pittsburgh is two hours away, but I want you to know I’ll do a better job of being part of the baby’s life than my father did with me.”
She waited to feel more relief; after all, Malcolm was talking as if he was going back to Pittsburgh and leaving the baby here with her. She felt a quick stab of sadness, then forced herself to look on the bright side. He was talking about leaving the baby here with her.
That’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? “So, you’re not suing me for custody?”
“Kennedy, no, I’m not. I won’t ever do that to my child. He or she needs to feel safe, as if they belong somewhere. Have you thought about my proposal?”
She waited, wondering if he’d give her another reason why they should marry, but this time, he simply waited.
“No. I mean, yes, I’ve thought about your proposal, but no, nothing has changed. But thank you for asking,” she said, just as she’d said every time Malcolm had asked.
“I hope you change your mind, but even if you don’t, I won’t sue. I’ll want time with the baby. We’ll have to work out visitation. Here when they’re little, but maybe some time in Pittsburgh when they’re older. But I’ll be the one doing the bulk of the to-and-from. They need to be able to be part of the activities here. To hang with their friends on weekends. To simply be a kid.”
Despite the fact she wouldn’t marry him, she knew that he would be an entirely different father than his own father was. “You will be a wonderful dad.”
“Thanks. My father gave me until the new year to get things worked out with you and get back to work. It means I’ll be here when the baby’s born. We have time to get things worked out. And maybe I’ll convince you to say yes to my proposal. I am an attorney. Convincing people is what I do.”
In her childhood fantasies, she’d imagined Malcolm falling head over heels in love with her. She imagined them going to college together, and then he’d propose because he loved her. She’d say yes, of course . . . because she loved him.
Even though she’d long since outgrown that girlish crush, she knew she could never settle for less than that. She’d been Aunt Betty’s obligation. She wasn’t about to become Malcolm’s.
She’d worried that he’d take the baby from her, but looking at him now, in the room she’d redone, she knew she was wrong. And she suddenly felt very optimistic that they’d find some way to work together on this baby’s behalf. “Not going to happen. Tell you what, I was going to light a fire and read a book, but what if I light a fire, we get some cocoa, and plan the baby’s nursery together?”
“I can’t tell you how much I’d like that.”
She looked at her child’s father and realized that this was a start.
Because of the baby, they’d be working together for the next eighteen years.
Well, no, for the rest of their lives.
And she suddenly felt optimistic about their future.
Mal went home and up to his room. He pulled his own yearbook from the shelf in his childhood room and flipped to the same page he’d just looked at with Kennedy. He knew if he’d signed her yearbook, she’d signed his. There in the margin, to the left of her picture, she’d written, Mal, good luck at Pitt next year. Someday you’re going to make a great lawyer. Kennedy.
He’d always said he was going to be a lawyer like his father, but he couldn’t remember ever having a conversation with Kennedy in school.
He remembered seeing her around. He’d come home from practice and she’d be on her porch reading, or he’d see her at the flower shop, helping out her aunt.
She was just the girl next door. Have a great summer, he’d said. Hell, he hadn’t even written her name. Just Have a great summer. Mal.
She’d known he planned to be a lawyer. Not that it was a state secret. He’d always said as much. But she’d known . . . and she’d believed in him.
Mal suddenly felt as if he’d missed something important all those years ago.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next morning was the big Christmas craft show.
Malcolm felt optimistic as he walked through the main room of the Center. Kennedy had let him help plan the baby’s nursery. He
was making progress with her.
Progress toward what, he wasn’t sure, but it was still progress.
Interior design wasn’t anything that had ever interested him. His condo in Pittsburgh had a design . . . it was called “go to the store and buy what you need.” A couch, a table . . . it was an interior designed by necessity. But planning for the baby? Well, that was fun. He was actually excited about going shopping for the furniture next week with Kennedy. He loved her idea of an alphabet wall. She wanted to collect letters and put them up. Any kind of letter. Wooden ones. Old signs. Ads. He was on the lookout.
He forced himself to pull his thoughts away from the baby and Kennedy and concentrate on this weekend’s craft show. The Center was filled with table after table of stuff. Crocheted and knitted stuff—he knew there was a difference, that you did one with one hook and one with two needles, but for the life of him it all was made of yarn. He couldn’t tell which was which.
There were a lot of tables of woodcrafts. Carved stuff and small furniture.
There were tables of paintings and photographs.
There were tables filled with doll clothes, dog paraphernalia, and ornaments. Wow, there were so many types of ornaments. Clay figures holding local college banners. Pinecones with ribbons. Some kind of thread snowflakes.
Some of the local Amish women had a long table along the side with quilts and a pile of quilted Christmas tree skirts. Mal had grown up with the Falls Creek Amish community at the outskirt of town. When he was younger, the community had mainly farmed, but as he’d grown older, he’d noticed that a number had started businesses. Simple Treasures craft store sat at the edge of town, and after he’d left for college, an Amish restaurant across from it, Simple Food. He recognized the oldest lady in the group. Annie Byler was Pap’s age and owned Simple Treasures. She was small, round, and always wore a smile.
“Hi, Miss Annie,” he called.