by Melissa Tagg
And Mom and Dad, standing in the center of the room. Smiling like . . .
Like he hadn’t once destroyed their world and then from it, disappeared.
“Whoa.” It came out an awed whisper as someone hit the stereo—smooth Miles Davis, his father’s favorite. Hands patted his back, chatter sprinkling the room as the party fanned out.
“Son.”
Linus Hunziker stepped forward. His linebacker frame had slimmed since Blake saw him last. The silver that once streaked his temples now covered his head. And when had his father traded in his classic leather shoes for something out of an orthopedic catalogue?
Blake met his father’s eyes.
The lines etched around Dad’s mouth deepened as he grinned and grasped Blake’s hand. “Don’t ask. Someday you, too, will fall prey to a bossy podiatrist.” The handshake turned into a full-blown hug.
Blake stepped back, numb disbelief finally wearing off. “I can’t believe . . .”
Mom squeezed in then, nudging Dad out of the way and throwing her arms around Blake’s neck. Almost laughably diminutive compared to Linus, Francie Hunziker barely came up to her son’s shoulder. Though small, his mother had a fierce side to her. One flash of her brown-almost-black eyes and she’d been able to silence her sons at their wildest. “Hey, Mom,” he said over her head.
Dad wound his arm around Mom’s shoulders when she moved to his side. Blake pulled the hat from his head, raked his fingers through his shaggy hair—a self-conscious move. He’d expected anger. Maybe tears from his mother. If not because of his disappearance after his brother’s funeral, then at least because of his latest stunt. The one that landed him on TV and made his name a household laughingstock.
This . . . happiness? So not in his crystal ball.
Miles faded into a hush, replaced by the brass of Sinatra’s “Come Fly With Me.” Someone, maybe one of his father’s employees, clapped his palm on Blake’s shoulder as he scooted past, aiming for the buffet table edged against the base of the open staircase. “Welcome home, Blaze.”
His father chuckled at the use of Blake’s nickname—the result of one too many accidental fires over the years. The sparklers. The metal travel mug in the microwave.
“I don’t get it,” he finally sputtered. “I thought—”
“Whatever you thought, let it go. Your mother and I couldn’t be happier you’re home. Lose the duffel and enjoy your party.”
So many questions somersaulted through his brain. Didn’t they wonder where he’d been all this time? Why he’d finally come home? What had possessed him to agree to last month’s celebrity charade? Emotions—too many to name—pressed in as this place, so familiar and forgotten all at once, blurred Blake’s mental vision.
Home. Ryan. And Frank Sinatra telling him to fly.
“Want something to eat?” Mom’s voice cut in.
His stomach rumbled at the thought of food. He glanced down at his holey jeans. “I should run upstairs and change first.”
Linus reached for the duffel and placed it over Blake’s shoulder. “Hurry down.”
Blake nodded, then wove through the crowd, returning greetings and smiles. He took the stairs two at a time to the second floor, his sandals flopping against each step.
Music and voices faded as he walked past the doorways to the room he’d called his own for the first eighteen years of his life. Twenty-two if he included the summers he’d spent at home between college semesters.
On a different night he might’ve trailed to a stop outside Ryan’s door, let a rush of memories whisper over him—maybe even wished for a ghost of the older brother he still missed.
But something had changed the moment the lights flickered on downstairs, when he’d heard pride instead of punishment in his father’s voice. Reluctance morphed into pulsing determination.
In his old room, posters and basketball trophies had been replaced with generic prints and whatever knickknacks Mom must’ve tired of seeing elsewhere. He pulled a pair of wrinkled khakis from his bag. A white collared shirt, too. Closest he had to dressy.
Maybe this whole not-living-out-of-a-duffel thing would stick.
Maybe he could finally be the son his parents had lost. The man Ryan would’ve been. Work at Dad’s hotel, settle down. Meet the right girl—as in, not a celebrity, not a fake relationship.
Not that pretending to be a DIY celebrity’s husband hadn’t had its fun moments. He’d agreed to the crazy scheme solely to help Randi Woodruff attempt to save her television show, From the Ground Up. And honestly, it’d been pretty cool watching her pick up the pieces when the lie of a life she’d built for herself came crashing down.
She’d changed. Found love, the real thing. And faith. Most of that didn’t make it into the tabloids, though. And now, almost a month after moving out of Randi’s home, the whole thing felt a little like a dream. Well, except for the lingering swirl of media interest—which he’d mostly managed to dodge during the past couple weeks.
But what if he could find the same things Randi had—new life, freedom from the past, the kind of identity he could be proud of rather than a reputation shadowed in shame? It was that hope that’d prodded him home even when worry about his family’s—the whole town’s—reception crept in.
Blake traded in his sandals for a pair of leather shoes he found in the closet and soon after descended the staircase. The chandelier overhead cast a whitish yellow glow over the heads of his parents’ guests. What were the chances they’d invited anyone under fifty-five?
The clink of silverware against glass stopped him at the bottom of the stairs. Dad lifted his arms to quiet the attendees. “All right, as everyone can see, my son has rejoined the party.” His father motioned to him. “Come over here, Blake.”
But Kevin was still in the car. He’d hoped to slip out and free the dog. Blake rubbed one hand over his stubble-covered chin, catching the look of anticipation in Dad’s eyes. Kevin could wait a few more minutes. He moved to his father’s eyes.
“Most of you know Blake has spent a fair amount of time traveling. For a while he led excursions in the Rockies. Then for the past five years he’s globe-trotted so much, Lonely Planet should hire him. You’ve probably also heard about his more recent, um, exploits.”
Dad paused to allow a sprinkle of polite laughter.
“Blake’s an adventurer. And while Francie and I might have appreciated a few more postcards over the years”—Dad gave Blake a pointed look—“we’re overjoyed at his return. So I’d like to present him with a gift. Delaney?”
As in Ike Delaney, Blake’s old flight instructor?
Dread wormed its way under Blake’s skin as Ike moved to the center of the room, something jingling in his hands. The pilot’s smile—friendly, exuberant—jarred Blake’s confidence. No, Dad didn’t . . .
“The keys to your Cessna 206. A six-seater with a custom paint job. Took the liberty of naming it: The Blaze.”
Chuckles spread through the room as Ike pressed the keys into Blake’s hand.
“Now, this isn’t a toy. It comes complete with a job offer—private pilot for the hotel, providing air shuttle for our high-end guests.”
His father continued his speech, all gusto, no notice of Blake’s heavy breaths. His fingers curled around the keys, metal digging into his palms.
He couldn’t make out Dad’s words, heard only the roar of wind from an open airplane door. The hum and growl of the engine. Panicked words from his brother’s best friend. And his own silent prayers as he scanned the skies from the cockpit, knuckles white on the controls, begging God to let him be wrong. . . .
Nothing.
A slap on his back yanked him back to his parents’ home. His father’s voice. “Well, Blake, what do you have to say?”
She’d shrug it off. Dylan’s cancellation. Blake’s return. Just shrug it all off.
From the inn’s front porch, Autumn watched Dylan’s Lexus motor down the lane toward the road that would lead him south to town and out of
sight. So they wouldn’t be hosting their wedding reception here. So what.
She turned, jiggling the front door’s finicky handle and hefting open the massive door. “So we won’t be getting a new storm door anytime soon—that’s what.” Or new siding. Or fixing the cracks in the dining room ceiling.
From the check-in desk, Harry waved her over as soon as she tripped into the lobby. He’d zipped back inside earlier when they’d heard the phone ringing, leaving Autumn to say her awkward good-bye to Dylan.
A wash of orange sunset spilled through long windows, painting mint-green walls bold and glinting over the waist-high wood wainscoting. The lobby was flanked by a fireside sitting room on one side and the dining room on the other. A wide, open staircase divided the lobby.
Harry gestured again, phone propped against his ear. Right. He’d said something about a reservation.
“No, we don’t have an indoor pool, but—” Harry offered her a helpless shrug as the person on the other end of the line started talking again.
See, this is why they kept losing guests to the Hunziker Hotel. Because apparently a spectacular view of Lake Michigan couldn’t compete with the downtown hotel’s spa and indoor pool and oh-so-sturdy roof that probably wouldn’t leak if a monsoon hit town.
“Unfortunately, no, it hasn’t snowed just yet, but I can certainly try to put in a good word with Mother Nature.” Poor Harry was definitely not winning this phone call. Which meant her inn was definitely not snagging this guest. She breathed her dozenth prayer for snow, for guests, then plucked a bottle of Old English and a rag from behind the desk.
“Find me when you’re off the phone,” she whispered, then headed for the dining room. Might as well check another to-do off the list while waiting for Harry. Guests received a complimentary breakfast in the table-dotted room, and it operated as a restaurant four evenings a week—for guests and the occasional community member who still remembered the inn existed.
Ten minutes later, she’d just about finished polishing the room’s baseboards. She paused at the squeak of the swinging door leading into the kitchen, the sight of Betsy’s purple old-school Nikes tapping to her side.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, kiddo.”
“Kiddo?” Autumn looked up from her kneeling position, the lemony scent of Old English wafting around her. “You’re only nine years older than me, Bets.”
“Yeah, but as your self-appointed big sister or maybe aunt—pick your surrogate family member of choice—I’m entitled to an endearment or two.” The inn’s chef straightened the apron cinched at her waist. “I saw Harry come in to catch the phone. Before he answered he said Dylan cancelled. How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
Betsy tilted her head, black pixie hair held in place by a lace headband. “How fine?”
Autumn capped her bottle of Old English and stood. “So fine someone should write a song about it.”
“Autumn—”
“Why stop at a song? Why not a whole musical?”
Betsy’s eyebrows peeked under her swooping bangs. “With dancing?”
“And outlandish costumes.” She handed Betsy her rag and bottle, then reached around to pull a small notebook from her back pocket. Autumn plucked the pencil from behind her ear, drew a line through the second to last to-do on her list, and added, Oil kitchen door hinges.
“I think you’re avoiding the topic at hand.” Mild reprimand lingered in Betsy’s voice. Which is what made Betsy less girlfriend and more nagging babysitter in times like these.
Sometimes Autumn didn’t mind it. After all, her own big sister hadn’t stuck around to play the role. But today . . . no thank you. I don’t need advice or a listening ear. I need guests. I need to catch up on mortgage payments. I need Dylan to turn his car around, say he changed his mind. I need that job in France.
Any or all of it would do. Just some tangible signal God hadn’t forgotten her.
“Autumn.” Betsy tried once more.
Autumn turned away. Surely Harry was off the phone by now. She tracked toward the lobby, skirting around tables that probably wouldn’t see guests tonight. “Don’t you have cookies in the oven or something?”
“I think you’re more bothered than you’re letting on.” Betsy trailed behind her.
She sniffed the air as she passed into the lobby. “I think I smell something burning.”
Betsy’s voice followed her through the doorway. “I think seeing Dylan again, hearing he’s booking the hotel instead of the inn, and finding out Blake Hunziker is back all in the same afternoon is enough to fluster even you.”
Harry had managed to mention all that before answering the phone?
“You’re not even listening to me anymore, are you.”
Autumn tugged her hair free of her ponytail, and it fell in a mess of tangles to her shoulders. She sighed. “I’m listening, Bets, I’m just choosing not to let this turn into an impromptu therapy session. Because, seriously, I’m fine.”
Betsy’s eyes narrowed. “You do realize each time you say it, I’m less inclined to believe it.”
Autumn angled around the check-in desk. Truthfully, seeing Dylan again had been more humiliating than anything. Especially when he’d made that comment about her “fitting them in” the day after Thanksgiving.
Oh, if he could only see her empty appointment book. Almost as empty as their reservation spreadsheet—and that alone would be enough to make her financial advisor swallow his dentures.
But her financial advisor wasn’t the one charged with keeping the Kingsley Inn open. No, that had fallen to her. And the responsibility seemed just as heavy now—maybe heavier—as the day Mom had presented her with the deed. A surprise birthday gift two and a half years ago.
“I know your Dad would’ve been proud to hand down his family’s inn to you if he was still alive today.”
It had been all Autumn could do that day to clamp down her shock and plaster on a smile in a display of pleasure she didn’t feel. Because Mom hadn’t known about Autumn’s hopes to leave the Kingsley Inn and all of Whisper Shore in the dust as she took off on the trip of a lifetime. Her greatest dream had been to land an international job. It was the reason she’d called off her engagement in the first place.
Instead, she’d ended up with a commitment that often felt just as weighty as marriage. What was that Proverb about hope deferred?
Betsy leaned across the counter, voice dropping to a whisper since Harry still spoke on the phone. “Okay, so Dylan didn’t bother you too much, but what about Blake?”
A clawing irritation finally scraped past her calm. “Closed subject.”
“Autumn—”
“For the sake of what little calm I have left, Bets, drop it.” She heard the dark tone of her tight words, saw the flinch Betsy tried to hide with a pause and a shrug.
And then, “Consider it dropped.”
Betsy retreated into the dining room, the apology Autumn should’ve called after her struggling to get out from under the weight of a desperate desire to avoid the topic of Blake Hunziker.
She groaned as she replaced the cleaning supplies in a hidden shelf and then leaned over the surface of the desk, elbows propped, forehead in her hands. She heard the beep of Harry ending his call.
“What’d you say to her?”
Autumn only shook her head.
“You two bicker enough I could almost believe you really are related.”
Autumn lifted her head. “Wasn’t her. It was all me. I hate it when I’m like this. Snappish and . . . and . . .”
“Irritable?”
“Really, I’m irritable?”
Harry pushed his keyboard out of the way and balanced his elbows beside hers on the counter. “You actually want me to answer that?”
“Not so much.”
“Well, this ought to cheer you up. It’s what I came outside to tell you.” He tilted his computer screen to face her. “Check out who booked the third-floor suite next month.”
A
utumn leaned in to read the name on the screen. “Dominic Laurent.” She straightened, tapping her finger against her chin. “Dominic Laurent, why does that sound . . . ?”
“Think about it. The Laurent family? Ring a bell?”
“Oh my goodness.” The screech exploded from her. “Laurent Lodging International. He’s one of those Laurents?”
“It sounded familiar, so I Googled him as soon as I got off the phone. Definitely one of those Laurents.”
The ones who owned hotels all over the world—mainly Europe, but lately in the U.S. too. Hadn’t they just invested in a resort in Maine, turned it into a five-star destination? “He’s staying here? Do you think it means . . .” Autumn’s words rammed into each other as they tumbled out.
“Yeah, I do.”
“But how . . . ?” Autumn broke off at the sight of a pile of mail stashed beside Harry’s computer keyboard.
“Maybe they saw our website,” Harry said as she reached for the mail. “Or wait, we placed that ad in Travel International a few months back. Perhaps they want to invest? Or even buy you out.”
Autumn fingered through the envelopes, heart racing and hands suddenly clammy.
“Except you wouldn’t really sell, would you?”
Autumn stopped at the oversized envelope with the foreign postage. The words Par Avion stamped over the address. The name of the Paris hotel in the corner. This had to be it.
“Oh, this is a weird day.” The words came out a whisper. “A weird, weird day.”
Everything was happening in twos:
The thorns: Dylan and Blake.
The roses: Dominic Laurent and the envelope from France.
“Autumn?”
Harry’s voice pulled her from the fog, and she slipped her fingers over the envelope’s return address. She hadn’t told him about the job possibility, the phone interview two weeks ago. The nerves eating away at her as she waited to find out if her whole life might change by the time the new year rang in.
“You wouldn’t sell, would you?” he asked again.
Focus. Just until they’d finished this conversation. And then she could run home, tear into a bag of Reese’s Pieces, and rev herself up to open the envelope.