by Melissa Tagg
She shook her head, hair spilling over her shoulders. “Not that. Dominic Laurent.”
Oh.
“He was checking out when you dropped me off at the inn.”
Blake felt like decking the guy.
He felt like decking himself.
He should’ve told her. He should’ve told her the day he found out. “Let me explain—”
“Explain what? That you conveniently decided not to tell me you knew the man had no interest in my inn? No interest whatsoever. His words, not mine.”
People were starting to turn. Autumn’s voice raised with each hurled sentence.
“All those times you let me go on talking about it—my hopes, all the work we were doing solely to impress him.”
“Red, can’t we talk about this later?”
“And stop calling me Red. Did you think if I knew I’d try to steal him away? Should I be flattered that you actually thought of the inn as competition?”
And now his own anger reared its ugly head. “You don’t seriously believe all that, do you? After all the ways I’ve helped you out. The repairs. The bank loan.”
That froze her in place.
“Yeah, I made the call to Hilary and then her brother who got the loan officer on board. After all that . . .” Not to mention, his conversation with Dominic today, when he’d put his father’s own goals in danger by asking Laurent to consider the inn.
And she was standing here, accusation radiating from her. Just like . . .
Just like the day of Ryan’s funeral. When her burning expression had drilled into his after the service, when she’d spun on her heels and retreated before he could talk to her.
He didn’t deserve it. Well, maybe then, but not now.
“We’re not doing this now, Re . . . Kingsley. We have a tree to light.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“Well, I do.” He marched past her, eyes on the extension cord and the outlet. They’d skip the fancy speech. The lights and music would have to be enough, because no way could he push out a slew of pretty words when his insides burned. He nodded to the AV guy.
“Blake, I need to know why you didn’t tell me.”
He ignored her, swiped the plug from the ground, and knelt near the power strip. He raised his hand to signal the deejay. The first line of Christmas music rang out. And he jabbed the plug into the first outlet he saw. Mere feet away, the tree lit up their surroundings, with bright white and patterns of color. And the oohs and ahhs of the crowd joined the strains of music.
And the crackle of sparks.
Oh no. No . . .
He jumped away from the power strip on instinct, sparks leaping from the thing.
And the crowd’s cheers turned to gasps. He heard Autumn’s squeal behind him.
In nightmarish slow motion, the sparks leapt from his feet with another large pop and landed on one of the evergreen’s branches. At the same time, bulbs popped one by one as too much electricity pulsed through the wires.
He heard someone yelling to call 9-1-1. Felt the movement all around him as people sprang into action, parents gathering their kids, a general sense of panic spreading.
And in front of him, the centerpiece of the Christmas festival, the historic evergreen, caught on fire.
The smell of smoke and ash hovered over the town square like a foggy morning mist. Blake rubbed the back of his neck.
The lingering smolder burned his eyes—or maybe that was the lack of sleep. Cold had long since given way to numbness.
The sounds of the fire crew packing up echoed in the background, but they moved as if in a hush. They’d fought the blaze valiantly, but fire had gobbled the tree as if starved. Now, two hours later, all that remained was a pile of burnt wood and a stump, embers still flickering in tiny dots of orange.
A palm clapped onto Blake’s shoulder. “Two of our guys will stick around ’til morning to keep an eye on things, Hunziker. You should go home now.” Soot marred the face of the fire chief in streaks of black. He squeezed Blake’s shoulder. “It could’ve been a lot worse, son.”
As the man walked away, Blake took in the rest of the park. After the initial rush of the fire’s outbreak, the festival attendees had been surprisingly ordered. Booths were moved, people ushered away, the gazebo doused in water to prevent the fire’s spread.
Blake bent over to pick up a toppled chair and set it upright.
“He’s right, you know.”
Blake turned. Mrs. Kingsley? Autumn’s mother stood a few feet away, white hair glinting in the dark and long coat whipping around her knees. “Excuse me?”
“It could’ve been a lot worse. No one was hurt. All we lost was a tree.”
Victoria Kingsley wasn’t seriously trying to cheer him, was she?
He shook his head. “A tree and all the revenue we could’ve made tomorrow.”
She crossed the distance to stand in front of him. At closer range, he saw the barrette loose in one side of her hair, the dirt streaked across the front of her coat. Had she stayed all this time helping clean up?
“Tomorrow’s still going to happen. I was just talking to some of your committee. They’re—we’re—going to work through the night.”
“But . . . but who’s going to come? People will hear about the fire and assume—”
“Don’t you use Twitter? Facebook? We’ll get the word out, Blake. Besides, the fire probably has people more interested than anything. Someone told me a video of the sparks hitting the tree is already on YouTube.”
Great. Another public memento of another public failing. His lot in life, it seemed.
And why on earth was Victoria even talking to him?
“I heard about Linus. I hope . . . he’s all right.”
He wouldn’t have been more surprised if one of the firemen had turned a hose on him. Had the fire affected Victoria’s memory? Did she not remember the way Dad lambasted the Kingsley family and their inn countless times over the years? Used his role on the city council to deny their requests for things like parking lot expansions or zoning changes? Probably worst of all, kept Ava from Ryan’s funeral?
But she just stared at him now, waiting for a response. “Dad’s . . . all right.”
“Then I wonder if you could tell him something for me. The reason I voted to table Whisper Shore’s funding request to the tourism board wasn’t out of spite. If the city just would’ve waited, they would’ve received a memo asking them to reapply at the start of the state’s budget year—when our allocation dollars would be refreshed. What’s left in this fiscal year’s pot isn’t worth competing for. Plus, we’re moving to a new granting system next year—fewer awards, larger amounts.”
Blake tried to make sense of her words. If he understood correctly, she was saying she’d been trying to help the city all along. “So, Dad prompting the board members down here . . .”
She shrugged. “Premature.”
And maybe, probably, much worse considering what they’d seen tonight. If he hadn’t felt horrible before . . .
But Victoria’s expression held sympathy rather than judgment. Maybe even . . . compassion. Somewhere, beneath the humiliation he wore like a straitjacket, curiosity beckoned. But he was too exhausted to follow up on it. Instead, he only nodded. “Thanks. I’ll tell Dad.”
Victoria started to move away, seemed to think better of it, and halted. “Tonight was a blip. Just . . . do better tomorrow. That’s all you can ask of yourself.” With that, she retreated.
And Blake’s gaze returned to the pile of rubble that was once the centerpiece of their festival, guilt and disappointment cavorting through him. He raked his hand through his hair, ash on his fingers when he pulled them away. That’s when he noticed Autumn—white coat and boots now splotched with dirt and ash as she sat on the steps of the gazebo.
Have to talk to her sometime.
Had it only been a few hours ago he’d sat with her atop the water tower? Kissed her? Asked her to give up her dream for . . . him
? What a joke. A man who couldn’t even pull off a little community event.
Still, you have to talk to her.
His feet propelled him forward. When he reached her, Autumn looked away, eyes glassy—from smoke or tears? Probably both.
He sat down beside her. Instead of the magnetic pull between them from earlier in the evening, a seemingly uncrossable gulf expanded in the inches separating them on the step.
“I’m sorry, Autumn. I know it doesn’t change anything, but I am sorry. About Laurent.” And everything.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it once more and sighed. “I know you are. What I don’t know is . . .” She finally looked at him. “What I was thinking. What we were thinking.”
“Red—”
Her eyes pressed shut.
“What I said earlier—”
“I have to go, Blake.”
And he knew she didn’t mean now. She meant weeks from now. Go as in to France. “I know.”
Really, he’d known it all along.
Didn’t lessen the sting of it, though. Or his need to say the words he should’ve said earlier, in place of his stupid request for her to stay. “I’ve traveled all over the world, Autumn. Had some incredible experiences. But I . . . I still felt empty after it all. It’s why I came home.”
The sound of one of the town’s fire engines groaning to life rumbled through the park.
“The truth is, I would’ve felt empty anywhere. I realize now that through a million moments of adventure and excitement, I was only trying to make up for the one moment I wanted to forget.” He heard her intake of breath. Couldn’t look at her. Forced out the kicker. “The difference between you and me is, I was running away from something. You’re running toward something. To a future and a dream you deserve.”
He watched a lone tear track down her cheek. But she didn’t argue. And as much as everything in him begged to reach for her, he grasped for self-control. This was right, this good-bye. Any kind of physical contact at all would only make it worse.
So he stood, chill upon chill heaping through him. “Bye, Autumn.”
She looked up, sniffled once more. “Bye, Blake.”
And before he lost his willpower, he turned, feet crunching through snow and debris, breathing tight—each inhale hurting his chest. Then, because he needed the distraction to block out his conflicting emotions, he pulled his phone from his pocket. He checked the time. He checked his texts. He checked his voice mails.
And felt the last of his resolve crumple at the last one. Kevin’s owners wanted their dog back.
18
Does everything make sense, Autumn?”
The papers in front of Autumn were a jumble of numbers and legalese. Grady Lewis had reviewed every line with her in between sips of coffee. Autumn’s own mug was empty. For once, the smell of the brew didn’t tempt her—nor did the scent of Betsy’s cooking wafting from the kitchen.
Probably one of the last meals she’d cook there. The full staff would gather in the dining room at noon. One more meeting. During which she’d spill the news they surely already knew.
“Autumn?”
She started at Mom’s voice beside her, the hand on her knee. “Yes, it makes sense.”
She should’ve done this in the privacy of Grady’s office. But something in her needed to do it at the inn. Needed the cold, hard dose of reality.
Without the investment from LLI, she had no way to make her bank payments. So as of January 15—two days from now—her loans would go into default. The bank would begin the foreclosure process. Grady had explained that she could fight it, could request extreme measures. He believed the small-town bank might still work with her. But she’d tried. Failed. It was time to move on.
And by month’s end, the Kingsley Inn would close its doors.
Out in the lobby and over in the den, Harry, Uri, and Charlotte worked together to dismantle the Christmas decorations. She’d left them up longer than normal—in a feeble attempt to squeeze every last ounce of cheer she could from the holiday season before facing the inevitable.
The glint of sunlight bouncing off layered snow flooded the dining room. Autumn blinked against the assaulting brightness and did her best to take in the rest of Grady’s explanation of what would come next. But emotion made it difficult to pay attention. She was so tired.
Thank goodness Mom had offered to help with the transition—especially with Autumn moving a continent away next week.
Fifteen minutes later, Grady was packing up his briefcase, offering them one more consoling nod, then leaving through the lobby. A hush fell over the table, only the muffled sound of Harry disassembling the Christmas tree from one direction, pots clanging from the other.
Mom rose. “Come on. Let’s take a little walk.”
“And go where?”
“Just come.”
And because arguing felt like too much work, Autumn stood and followed Mom from the room. She trailed her through the lobby—past the check-in desk, where they’d stopped taking reservations—up the staircase, her hand gliding over the banister Charlotte insisted on polishing even though it wouldn’t matter any longer. Instead of stopping on the second floor, Mom continued to the third.
She opened the door to the suite where Dominic Laurent had resided during his stay. All the furniture sat in its usual place, a listless pallor clinging in the air.
But Mom seemed to take no notice as she padded across the carpet Blake had helped lay in the days before Dominic’s arrival—adding an extra sting to the day. Autumn hadn’t seen him for nearly three weeks.
Three stretched-out, achy weeks accented first by Christmas and then New Year’s. She’d done her best to smile her way through the holidays—chuck off the heaviness of losing both Blake and the inn. She’d celebrated at home with Mom and Ava on Christmas, attended a party at Betsy and Philip’s on New Year’s Eve, hung out with Lucy, and attempted to be as excited as everyone else during the countdown to midnight.
After all, this coming year should be her year. Would be. She just had to get through a slew of good-byes. Starting with a farewell to a brick-and-mortar friend.
Mom stopped in front of the panoramic windows with a spectacular view of the lake. She pushed aside the sheer curtains, letting in a hazy light. “Always my favorite spot in the inn. Your dad and I actually spent our honeymoon in this room.”
Autumn reached Mom’s side. “Really? Didn’t know that.”
Fingers still wrapped around the curtain, Mom spoke with her gaze on the view. “He really loved this place at first. But after a few years . . . all he felt was resentment. And he started talking about selling.”
After only a few years? That meant Dad had already been unhappy at the inn when Autumn was a kid. And she hadn’t realized . . . “Why didn’t he?”
Mom lowered to the window seat. “Because every time he brought it up, I argued. I’d talk about his grandparents and how hard they worked to build it. I think I thought holding on to the inn meant . . . holding on to him.”
Mom’s confession landed smack in the middle of Autumn’s own resentment, causing cracks in what she finally recognized as her own complete misread. All these years since she’d overheard that conversation between Mom and Dad, she’d wished Mom would’ve made some kind of stand, wondered why she seemed to care more about the inn than her broken marriage.
But it was so clear now. Mom had been fighting all along, in her own way trying to hold on to her husband.
Autumn sat. “Mom, I—”
But Mom shook her head. “The thing is, I’ve been doing the same thing with you.” She let go of the curtain and turned. “Signing the inn over to you was my way of holding on. It wasn’t fair to you. And I’m truly sorry.”
A honeyed feeling drizzled through Autumn, sweet, filling gaps in her understanding and oozing over the emotional dents of these past few years. How many times had she wondered if God still saw her, tucked away here in Whisper Shore, and yet . . . had she ever reall
y seen Mom?
“I know you and Dad were talking about splitting up before he died.” She said the words softly, looking for surprise on Mom’s face.
But Mom only nodded. “I wondered.”
“And Ava left so suddenly.” Although this last time, there’d been something different about the good-bye after Christmas. It had been a long time since she’d seen her sister loosen up, slip back into life in Whisper Shore while home. It seemed Ava was on her own journey these days. “Anyway, I’m sorry I’m leaving now, too, and—”
Mom stilled her with one palm raised. “No, don’t apologize for stepping into your new adventure. It may have taken me a long time to let go—not sure I actually have just yet—but I’m proud of you. As for your father . . . it wasn’t the first time he talked about leaving, Autumn. He always changed his mind. I like to think he would’ve changed again if he hadn’t . . .” Mom’s voice cracked, and Autumn inched to her side of the window seat, placed her arm around Mom’s shoulder.
The stillness of the room, the gentle snowfall outside the glass doors, matched the peace trickling through Autumn. One conversation and she felt closer to Mom than she had in a decade. And something told her even her upcoming move wouldn’t change this.
“Mom . . . thanks.” And thank you, God. I needed this so much.
Those few minutes with Mom felt like a direct answer to prayer. And the kind of reminder she couldn’t ignore. God hadn’t forgotten her. He knew exactly what she needed.
And when she needed it. She’d thought losing the inn meant leaving a mess behind her, glaring and public evidence of her failure to live up to the Kingsleys who’d come before her. Yes, it’d take a while for that sting to ease. But a new place in her relationship with Mom was a better soothing salve than she could’ve imagined.
A couple quiet moments later Mom took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “I can smell Betsy’s meal. Your staff is probably gathering.”
“Stay for the meal and meeting?”
Mom grinned, closed the curtains and stood. “I’d love to.”