by Melissa Tagg
Shawn, glaring, swiping the back of his palm across a split lip. Then stalking away with his father.
“Mom, I swear, I’m fine. It was an accident.” Autumn dropped into a chair at the kitchen table and pointed at her right cheekbone. “See? No bumps, no scratches. No face-altering indentations. I won’t need plastic surgery.”
Though there had been something solid in the snowball—like a chunk of ice. The impact had been enough to knock her off her feet.
Mom clucked her tongue and jerked open the freezer. She still wore her ankle-length black coat and the slim black gloves Autumn and Ava used to call her serial-killer gloves. She pulled out a bag of frozen peas. “Here.”
Autumn’s gaze slid to Ava, slumped in the chair across from hers, veiled disgust rimming her eyes. Autumn had tried to draw her out on the short walk home, but Ava had answered only in monosyllables.
“I can’t believe you’re here! Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?”
“Mom knew.”
“How long are you staying?”
“Don’t know.”
“You should see the inn. We’ve done a lot of work lately, and it’s decorated just like when we were kids.”
No answer.
One hand dutifully holding the peas up to her cheek, Autumn used the other to unwind her scarf. She was starting to heat up in the warmth of her mother’s kitchen.
And the smolder of Ava’s and Mom’s matching glares.
It was Blake. It was what they’d both seen. Or thought they’d seen, anyway. Autumn and Blake, only inches apart. The stricken look on her mother’s face at that moment had suggested they were standing at the front of a Vegas wedding chapel taking vows—not in the middle of town having a . . . moment.
“What were you thinking, Autumn?” Mom snapped now.
“Mom—”
Mom held up her palm, leather glove creaking. “I don’t want to talk about it. You know how I feel about that boy. I’d prefer to forget I just saw you holding his hand.”
“You just said ‘holding his hand’ like it’s synonymous with dancing in our skivvies. He was just . . .”
About to kiss her. She could deny it to her mother but not to herself. Couldn’t deny, too, the desire she’d experienced in that moment. Like hot water puddling in her stomach.
“Like I said, I don’t want to talk about it.” Mom tore off her coat.
The dull throbbing where she’d been hit traveled around to the back of her head. Autumn rubbed the side of her head with her free hand. “All right, then.” She looked to Ava. Try again. “I’m pumped that you’re here, Ava. Just in time for the Christmas party on Saturday and—”
“Seriously? Seriously, Autumn, you want to catch up after that?”
Oh boy. “Ava.”
“Blake Hunziker, Autumn. Blake. Hunziker.”
“I know who he is.” And hadn’t she run his name through her mind over and over in the past week, reminding herself why she shouldn’t be feeling the feelings she thought she might be feeling?
But if she’d realized anything since Blake wandered into her life, it was that they’d been wrong to blame Blake for the tragedy of the past. She’d seen the weight he carried, the flashes of shame he thought he hid. He didn’t need the added burden of everyone else’s anger, too.
“Yeah, well, you may know who he is but apparently you’re forgetting what he did. He ignored you when you tried to tell him how messed up Ryan was. Months later I’m hiding in my car, watching Ryan’s hearse travel down Main and I can’t even go the funeral because his horrible family blames me.” Ava’s voice caught at the end, her tight ponytail whipping as she turned her face away.
“Ava, I don’t think they really—”
Her sister jerked to her feet. “And you were out there, rolling around on the ground—”
“I was not rolling around.” Autumn let the bag of frozen vegetables thud to the table.
“Girls,” Mom’s voice cut in, admonishing tone suggesting they were teenagers instead of grown women. “Lucy went to sleep early tonight. Do you really want to wake her up with your yelling?”
With one last glare, Ava spun and disappeared from the room.
Autumn closed her eyes, headache pounding anew. This wasn’t how their reunion was supposed be. She hadn’t seen her sister in a year. There should be hugs and laughter and declarations of how much they’d missed each other.
Mom tugged at the fingers of her gloves, pulled them off, and dropped them on the table. Her shoes clicked over the beige-and-gray tiled floor as she moved across the room. She reached for the electric kettle and turned. “You might have thought of how it’d look.”
“I didn’t know she was coming home.”
“You knew I was here. Did you know I had to find out from Grady Lewis you’re working with that boy on the festival?” Mom’s pencil-lined eyes were rimmed with frustration.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
Mom didn’t answer. Only filled the kettle with water and set it on its base. Soon the hum of water bubbling covered the silence.
Autumn traced her finger through the puddle created by the now-thawed vegetable bag. “He’s not a horrible person, Mom. He lost his brother. Ava might have moved away . . . ” She might have hardened, become distanced. Poured herself into her new life until there was nothing left for her family. “But she’s still alive. Blake doesn’t have that.”
She waited for Mom to say something, anything. But before she could, a knock sounded at the door. Autumn started to turn, but Mom marched past her. Behind her, Autumn heard the squeak of the door’s hinges, a throat clearing.
“Uh, hi, Mrs. Kingsley.”
Autumn spun around, knees bumping into the chair behind her. Blake?
“Yes?” Her mom’s voice held all the warmth of an iceberg.
“Just stopping by to make sure Autumn’s okay.”
She started for the door, ready to play interference. “I’m fine. Thanks for checking. I—”
Mom turned back to Blake. “She’s fine.”
“Ooo-kay.”
Wait, was his face bruised? His eye . . . “Blake, what happened?”
Mom moved from the doorway, retrieved her teacup, and whisked from the room.
“I guess I shouldn’t come in.”
Autumn filled the space Mom had seconds ago. “Your eye . . .” She lowered her voice, just in case Mom was listening from the next room. “Did you get in a fight?”
The crisp pull of the cold urged her another step forward, and she lifted her hand, fingers barely skimming the surface of his puffy skin.
“Red, how’d you like to skip town with me?”
11
How in the world had she let Blake talk her into this?
Autumn slung her purse over her shoulder. “We should’ve called first.”
Blake leaned against his open car door. Behind him stretched a field of black Illinois dirt dotted by patches of snow. On the other side of the gravel lane rose a two-story farmhouse, white siding long since stained to a pale gray. Over to the west, a machine shed and a cherry-red barn with white trim settled in front of a grove of trees.
Wind whistled through the quiet.
“Well, like I said, I tried WhitePaging it and came up dry. Mrs. Satterly wasn’t even sure the same folks they sold the farm to live here now.”
And so he’d decided to make the four-and-a-half-hour drive on a whim. Because he was Blake Hunziker, and he did things like that. And she just hadn’t been able to say no to him last night when he asked her to come along. Not with his puppy-dog eyes and bruised cheek and that hint of desperation on his face.
Blake still hadn’t told her what had happened. But with both Mom and Ava mad at her, the idea of getting away for a while had sounded like a good idea. She’d left a note for them.
“They may not even be home,” she said now, voice muffled by the scarf she’d burrowed into.
“Then it’ll be easy to get photos. Come o
n.” Blake’s grin held enthusiasm, and only the red circling his cheeks and nose gave any hint of the cold. He didn’t even wear a coat.
Crazy man. Dragging me across a state to take photos of a farm. In the frozen tundra that is Illinois.
Not that Michigan was any warmer.
And not that she hadn’t secretly loved the idea of spending a whole day with him. In just a couple weeks, Blake Hunziker had turned her everyday life inside out. Even now, when they should’ve been making preparations for the festival only a week away, they were knocking on the door of someone who, for all she knew, might poke a rifle at them.
And she was enjoying every moment. “I think I watched too many episodes of Bonanza as a kid, Blake. I feel like any minute someone’s going to screech at us for trespassing.”
His eyes twinkled as he climbed the cement steps. “This is no Ponderosa. I think we’re safe.”
“I’m pretty sure in one episode or another, someone got in trouble for trespassing on Little House on the Prairie, too.”
Blake grabbed ahold of her hand. “I love your imagination, Red.”
Maybe she should’ve stiffened. Pulled her hand back. But the warmth of his palm through the cotton of her mitten held her in place.
He knocked. “Just think of how happy we’ll make Mrs. Satterly when we come back with pictures. You should’ve seen her talking about her husband. It was like the years faded away and she was right there with him. Right here, I guess I should say.” He knocked again.
“Quite the romantic, aren’t you, Blake Hunziker.”
And for goodness’ sake, did he have any idea how adorable those dimples were?
Stop it. The mental chiding was barely a whisper. Easy to ignore as she glanced at their hands.
“Either that or I’m still a first-grader at heart, trying my best to get on my teacher’s good side.”
The door opened slowly, and a figure appeared. A silver-haired man, probably in his early sixties wearing Levi’s and a flannel shirt. “Morning. What can I do for you?” He rubbed one palm over his chin, curiosity bobbing in the movement.
“Hi, my name’s Blake, and this is Autumn. We’re friends of a woman who used to live on this farm. I know this is completely out of the blue, but our friend said she’d love to see the farm again someday. I wondered if you’d mind if we took a few photos to bring back to her.”
Interest lit the man’s face, but hesitation held him back. “I don’t think that’d be a problem, but mind telling me your friend’s name?”
Blake nodded. “Pam Satterly. She’s in her mid-eighties now. Back when she lived here, she was married to—”
“Paul Satterly,” the man jumped in, grin now complete. “Susie and I loved those two. Come on in. Suz, we’ve got visitors.” He called the words over his shoulder, waving them inside.
Blake squeezed her hand and they entered. A cinnamon scent floated in the air, along with the aroma of coffee. They followed the farmer into a kitchen that likely hadn’t seen a remodel since the ’70s.
But instead of feeling outdated, the linoleum floor and lace cloth-covered table, aged cabinetry, and deep white sink, all radiated a homey feel—one matched perfectly by the wide smile of the woman holding a coffeepot by the counter.
“Suz, this is Blake . . . uh, didn’t catch your last name, son.”
“Hunziker,” Blake supplied.
“Blake and Autumn Hunziker.”
A chuckle tickled through Autumn. “Oh, we’re not married. I mean we’re not together.” She could feel her blush even as she tried to stave it off.
“Look pretty together to me.” The man sent a pointed glance to their still-linked hands.
Oh. Right.
Blake released her hand then, but not before a wink that only deepened the heat pooling in her cheeks. She fingered her scarf, suddenly warm enough to ditch the thing. Not together. Not a couple.
Even if the idea seemed less ludicrous with each passing day.
Don’t be silly, Autumn. Mom would pop a blood vessel at just the thought.
“I’m Vernon, by the way. And like I said, this is Susie. We are together. Going on forty-two years now.”
Susie rolled her eyes. “Forty-three, and he knows it. Old coot.”
Vernon crossed the room and kissed his wife’s cheek, then took the coffeepot from her. “I may be an old coot, but you’ve put up with me plenty long. Now, can I get you folks some coffee?”
“None for me, thanks, but Red here is probably jonesing for a second cup by now.”
Susie smiled. “Red? I like that. Because of the hair?”
Autumn unzipped her coat. “That’s what he says.”
“I’m telling you, when the sun hits it just right, it’s red.” Blake shrugged and helped her out of her coat.
“Or you’re color-blind.”
Vernon and Susie exchanged glances before Vernon filled a mug and set it on the table. “Have yourselves a seat. Tell us about the Satterlys.”
Susie gasped. “You knew Pam and Paul?”
“Mrs. Satterly—Pam—was my first-grade teacher. I never knew Paul all that well. He passed away several years ago.” Blake pulled out a chair for her as he spoke.
Had he always been this gentlemanly? Autumn thought back as she sat. Come to think of it, yeah. Even now, instead of sitting next to her, he reached out to help Susie with the plate she carried to the table and then waited to sit until she’d lowered.
The man had manners. And she hadn’t even noticed.
“These are Susie’s famous caramel rolls. She’s known throughout the county, and probably throughout the state, for her rolls.”
“Hush, Vern. But do help yourselves. They’re still warm.”
Autumn’s stomach growled as Susie spoke. Breakfast—a granola bar at 4:30 a.m.—felt like a day ago instead of only hours.
“I remember how Pam and Paul showed us around this place when we were first considering buying.” Susie sipped her coffee. “We were just newlyweds then, and I remember thinking, I hope I’m still that happy when I’m in my late forties.” She chuckled. “Which, at the time, seemed so old. How is Pam?”
Blake lowered the bite he’d been about to take, a shadow passing over his face. “Actually, she’s not doing well. She told me the other day she . . . doesn’t have long.”
Autumn’s gaze shot to his. He hadn’t told her that part. Only that he wanted to do something nice for Mrs. Satterly. But she heard the sadness in his tone now, saw it in his face and in the slow hunch of his shoulders. This is why he’d been so eager to come.
Yet another layer she hadn’t seen.
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Susie’s soft words huddled in the quiet.
Blake blinked. Once. Twice. And Autumn’s heart tilted. She inched her hand under the table, feeling for his. She found the ridge of his knuckles and laced her fingers over his. He turned his hand underneath to latch onto hers.
“She’s in good spirits and still herself. That’s for sure.” He lifted his fork once more and took a bite, swallowing before speaking again. “And she talked so much about this farm and her husband. Said she wished she could see it again.” He squeezed Autumn’s hand. “That’s why we’re here. We were hoping you wouldn’t mind if we took a few photos to show her.”
“Of course we don’t mind, son.” Vernon chugged down his coffee. “I’ll show you around myself. We can photograph every inch of the place, if you like.”
Susie grasped her husband’s arm. “Oh, Vern, the Bible. We have to give it to them.”
“Right, I’ll be right back.” He practically jumped from the table and disappeared from the room.
Autumn finally took a bite of her own roll, sticky sweetness almost melting in her mouth, a perfect taste for these moments in a cozy kitchen with such a warm couple. And Blake, still holding her hand.
Vernon reentered the room and placed the book in front of Autumn. “You have to take this to her. We found it in the attic and saw Pam’s name inside. Bu
t we didn’t have a way to get ahold of her.”
The Bible was well used. The pages crinkled as Autumn bent it open. She glimpsed handwriting on the inside front cover and smoothed the pages back to read the verse scrawled inside.
“‘Praise the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits—who forgives all your sins and heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion, who satisfies your desires with good things so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.’”
“Psalm 103:2–5,” Susie said. “I’ve read that passage so many times since we first found this Bible. It got us through Vernon’s cancer scare a couple years back and a farm accident decades ago when our son almost lost an arm.”
Vernon traced a wrinkle on his cheek. “And these days I’m loving that last part about our youth being renewed.” He placed his arm across the back of Susie’s chair.
Blake leaned over her, scanning the page. The smell of him, something spicy and . . . manly, beat out even the smell of Susie’s rolls or the coffee she had yet to drink.
Autumn scanned the verse again.
“Who satisfies your desires with good things.”
A couple weeks ago, if she’d asked God to satisfy her desire, the good things she’d have hoped for were so simple. The job in Paris. A way to save the inn before leaving. A chance to hug her sister and restore her relationship with her mom.
But now . . .
Blake met her eyes.
Now she couldn’t help wondering if saying hello to one good thing might mean a hard good-bye to another really, really good thing.
“Possibly the only thing I like less than ladders, Blake, is cats.”
Blake paused on the top rung of the ladder leading into the barn’s hayloft. Floating dust particles were highlighted by sunlight streaming through the crack of a partially open door at the far side of the loft. He blinked to adjust to the dim lighting, then glanced back down to where Autumn still stood below, veiled in shadows on the barn’s cracked foundation.
“C’mon, Red. Vern really wants us to ‘see the kitties.’” The man had insisted.