by Melissa Tagg
But then he’d heard the voices coming from upstairs, not down. He’d climbed the attic steps to find his sister and niece trying to guess the identity of the woman in the bed.
“Don’t be mad, Col,” Leigh said now.
He yanked open a cupboard. “I’m not mad.”
“I might believe you if you didn’t almost jerk that cabinet door off its hinges.”
Plates. Bowls. Glasses. No coffee mugs. He refrained from slamming the door, but only because Leigh didn’t need another reason to harass him. “Why are you even here?”
“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that? I’m trying to remember when I last heard from you. There was that oh-so-wordy text in July. ‘Happy Fourth.’ Lovely. Nothing since. No phone calls, no emails.”
He flung open another white cupboard door, its frosted glass inserts rattling. There was Drew’s attention to detail on display. He’d probably placed every last subway tile in the backsplash under the cabinets with his own two hands, too.
Because he was Drew and that’s what he did. Fixed things. As if he actually believed every broken thing could be put back together if he just worked hard enough. Even as Drew had remodeled nearly this entire house last year, he’d put just as much effort in attempting to rebuild their family.
An effort Colin had solidly rebuffed. No wonder Drew hadn’t bothered to tell him about his nuptials.
“I’m sorry I didn’t keep in better touch.”
Leigh harrumphed. “That apology had about as much sincerity as one of those letters Mom used to make us write when we’d fight as kids. I never knew which was worse—Mom forcing us to apologize and tell each other we loved each other in writing or a lecture from Dad.”
The mention of Dad made him flinch. Freeze. He abandoned the search for coffee.
The pungent smell of whatever cleaning product Leigh must’ve used on the sink rose up to clog his throat as he stared out the window. Bleak—that was the only word for the day. Wan sun, white sky.
Leigh’s voice softened with her next words. “Colin, about Dad—”
He jerked around. “You never answered when I asked what you’re doing here. I thought you and Win moved out.”
“We did.” Resignation shaded her words as she lowered onto one of the stools around the island. “I thought it’d be nice for Drew and Maren to come home to a clean house. They left in a hurry. This is my only day off this week.”
They left in a hurry? “So the wedding wasn’t planned?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Planned? Drew hadn’t even officially proposed yet.”
So they’d eloped. “I wouldn’t have thought Drew capable of being so impulsive.”
“Not entirely impulsive. He’s been trying to figure out how to propose for months. He already had the ring. But before he could make up his mind how to go about asking, he got the news about Dad and, well . . . ” Her whole body seemed to droop as grief pooled in her eyes. “Drew texted me from the airport. Said the news was a wakeup call. Said he never should’ve waited so long. They stopped in Vegas, got married, then flew down to Hawaii for an impromptu honeymoon.”
“Lucky for him Maren agreed.” He’d met Maren Grant exactly three times. The first time, he’d been the one to catch her eye. They’d even gone on a date. But of course, irresponsible fool that he was, he’d waltzed out of her life as quickly as he’d waltzed in.
By the time he saw her a second time, nearly a year later, she’d met Drew and the rest was history.
That’d been his wakeup call. No, he’d never had any real attachment to Maren. It wasn’t disappointment that’d triggered his first steps toward a complete life overhaul. It’d been seeing both his brother and Maren so . . . happy. Realizing his own life would never be so put together and settled if he didn’t start making changes. Shed his nomadic, partying lifestyle in favor of something resembling adulthood.
No, he hadn’t kept in touch well with his family this past year. But that was only because he’d been trying. He’d worked three jobs the first seven months of the year, saving up for culinary school. He’d sent off applications to two dozen institutes, applied for scholarships. He’d settled on baking, his eyes on an eventual career as a pastry chef, his hope assuring him that this time, this plan would work.
He plucked a photo from the fridge, moving its magnet aside. Drew and Maren grinned at him from the glossy print.
“Maren would’ve married our brother last winter if he’d asked,” Leigh said. “Personally, I think he was waiting for . . . ” She didn’t finish. Didn’t have to. Her pointed look said it all.
Drew had been waiting for Colin. Waiting for reconciliation. Hadn’t given up on his quest to glue their family back together.
Well, I’m here, Drew. I came home.
“Anyway, we’ve all had our own way of dealing with the news about Dad,” Leigh went on. “Winnie’s been acting up in school again. I could’ve sworn that was over with, but just last week she had detention three times. Drew went off and got married.”
He forced himself to look into his sister’s eyes. The sister he’d all but ignored for years upon years. His life had been a mess for so long, but Leigh’s . . . hers had been in tatters. Getting pregnant in high school had only been the start. After that, there’d been nearly a decade of alcohol and pills and treatment centers.
And he’d done nothing. Nothing.
Other than continue on with his own reckless way of life. A string of meaningless relationships. Job-hopping from town to town. Broke, more often than not. When his parents finally tired of bailing him out, Drew had taken over for a time.
Just like he’d stepped in to help Leigh and Winnie. Gotten them out of their shabby apartment in Omaha, invited them to move in with him, helped Leigh find a job in Maple Valley.
He was probably already formulating a plan to help Mom and Dad now that their lives had been shaken.
“And you, Leigh? How are you dealing with the news?”
A glimmer of defiance sparked in her eyes, despite the telling circles underneath. “I’m still clean, if that’s what you’re asking. Not that you have any right.”
He didn’t. Oh, how he knew he didn’t. He lowered onto a stool beside Leigh, wishing for words, wishing for the impossible—to take back the past ten years of his life.
“Alzheimer’s. He has Alzheimer’s.”
Leigh’s words were an arrow, sharp and cutting, reaching past his regret and aiming for the pain he’d been refusing to acknowledge for days. Six days, to be exact. Ever since Mom’s phone call.
Same day he’d burned the meringue in class. So numb he’d hardly heard a word of Rylan’s scolding tirade.
“He has Alzheimer’s,” Leigh said again. “Dad has Alzheimer’s.”
“Do you have to keep saying that?”
“Yes. Because that’s how I’m coping with it. Forcing myself to say it. If I say it enough times, then eventually the shock of it will have to wear off, won’t it? It won’t be as scary and . . .” Her voice caught and if he looked over, he knew he’d see tears swimming in her eyes.
He should comfort her. He should slip off this stool and embrace her. Or at least lift an arm around her shoulder.
But it would mean forcing away the numbness. It would mean shaking off the dull comfort of his own denial. It would mean acknowledging the anguish that threatened to strangle him if he gave it even the tiniest leeway past what little self-restraint he had left.
He couldn’t do it. He just . . . he couldn’t.
“I should go find Rylan. How do you feel about brunch?”
“Col—”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Leigh.” Selfish. Coward. Sour, familiar guilt jammed in his throat. He swallowed.
And then fled.
Just left her there in the kitchen and slunk through the house. Past the antique upright piano with the yellowed keys Leigh used to play. Past the sprawling dining room table and around the living room couch. Out the front door.
Cold
slammed into him. He gulped like a man parched, lungs stinging from the icy air, and closed his eyes.
“Colin?”
Rylan. He forced his eyes open to see her standing with Winnie on the porch. She still wore those silly oversized pajamas, though her winter coat hid her top half. The wind brushed through her already messy hair.
Winnie looked back and forth between them. The girl must’ve gone through a growth spurt since he’d seen her—briefly—last Christmas. She had almost an inch on Rylan.
“Are you okay?”
Rylan asked it as if she actually cared. As if he hadn’t annoyed her to no end just a few minutes ago back in the attic. As if he hadn’t dragged her into this mess solely for his own benefit.
Except, no, that wasn’t entirely true. There’d been that strange, inexplicable sense. That moment standing outside her house when he’d honestly thought maybe he was supposed to . . . do something. Help her somehow. Be there for her.
But it sounded even more ridiculous now than it had then. He couldn’t even manage to comfort his hurting sister.
“I’m fine,” he finally answered.
“You better be.” Winnie crossed her arms. “Now that you’re home, maybe we can finally have some fun around here. This town is the most boring place ever. I thought when Maren Grant got here last year, she’d finally spice things up, being a mystery author and all. But no, she just went and fell in love with Uncle Drew. Lot of good that did me.”
Her sarcastic complaints prompted a halfhearted smile.
And he wasn’t the only one. Rylan mirrored Winnie’s stance—arms crossed, feet rooted—and she pressed her lips around a grin. “Maple Valley is boring? I’m beginning to think you lied to get me here, Renwycke. There’s no snow and I haven’t seen a single twinkle light or decorated tree. Now I find out the town is boring?”
Somehow, he fought past the emotion attempting to climb up his throat and found a light tone. “Winnie just refuses to see Maple Valley’s charm.”
“If by charm you mean a thousand antique stores and a bazillion lame festivals. It’s the weirdest place on earth.”
He planted his palm on Winnie’s head. “You’re still your delightful self, Win. So good to know some things haven’t changed.”
Now if only he could find some way to convince his family he had.
Chapter 5
Rylan Jefferson might truly be the bossiest woman Colin had ever met.
“Careful, Colin. Don’t rush it. Roll it slow and evenly.”
The thin layer of sponge cake scorched his fingertips through the wax paper. “I know how to roll up a Swiss cake roll.” His back tensed as he hunched over the kitchen island—whether from the effort of concentrating on the cake or the weight of Rylan’s intensity, he didn’t know.
The heat of the kitchen wrapped around him, along with a late afternoon fatigue. Too many anxious murmurs keeping him awake at night, hissing that he might be too late. To reconcile with Drew. To be a good brother and uncle and son. To apologize to his parents.
To finally make his father proud before . . .
Don’t think about. Not today.
It’d become his mantra.
“You waited too long after it was out of the oven.” Rylan hovered over his arm, the honey scent of her hair mingling with the vanilla fragrance of the cake.
“I waited like three minutes.”
“It’s going to crack if you’re not more gentle.”
He’d show her cracked if she didn’t stop barking orders. Any man who had to share kitchen space with her for any length of time might as well reserve a room at the nearest insane asylum.
Carefully, he rolled the paper-lined cake until it curled into a tight ring. So far this trip home hadn’t gone anything like he’d planned. The empty house, the memories. The realization that his brother hadn’t bothered telling him about his marriage and his sister resented his year of silence.
But he couldn’t change any of that, could he? So instead, he’d thrown himself into keeping his promise to Rylan.
Tried to, that is. Three days of commandeering Drew’s kitchen, and he’d discovered Rylan the teacher was no match at all for Rylan the stressed-out baker. He didn’t know whether to feel bad for the woman or insist she hitchhike back to Denver. She was obsessed with her recipe cards, with stringent baking technique, with the idea of impressing Potts.
Bossy. Domineering. Perfectionist.
He glanced up.
Cute. She had a streak of flour on her nose and had tucked her hair under a baseball cap that looked more than a little familiar. One of his from when he was a kid?
“See, Ms. Jefferson? It rolled up just fine.”
“Would’ve been easier if you would’ve done it sooner.”
“Yes, well, I was busy arguing with you about how much passion fruit to add to the filling.” Which pretty much summed up their past three days—arguing. Bickering. The occasional bout of civil conversation followed by more squabbling.
Okay, fine, it was actually kind of enjoyable. He just wished Rylan was having fun, too.
She studied the roll, a half-eaten Pop-Tart in her hand—because apparently Pop-Tarts were an all-day food to her, not just a breakfast item. Her eyebrows angled under her wrinkled forehead. “Something’s not right.”
“We haven’t even added the filling. You haven’t tasted it. You’re paranoid.”
She flopped into a chair at the kitchen table. “We aren’t getting anywhere, Colin.”
She hadn’t been happy with any of their efforts so far. Not the three-layer mocha trifle they’d made that first day. Not the rainbow of petit fours that’d filled every last inch of counter space yesterday.
“You’re too uptight. You need to loosen up a little. Let yourself have fun with this. Trust your instincts.”
She looked so desolate. “I don’t have instincts. I have knowledge. Baking is science and chemistry. It’s finding a formula that works and then making little tweaks to add your own twist or personality.”
He flipped off the oven light. “That’s playing it safe. Forget tweaks. I think you need to try something entirely new. Get creative, get inventive.”
“I honestly don’t know if I possess the creative gene.”
“But you do. I’ve been in your house, remember? I saw your living room furniture. It was all unique. Not a single mass-produced Pottery Barn piece in the place. Stop thinking about impressing Potts and start expressing yourself.”
She just stared at him.
“All right.” He clapped his hands together, flour dusting the air. “Finish your Pop-Tart and find your coat. We’re getting out of the kitchen.”
“We don’t have time—”
“You know the sponge needs to cool for twenty minutes, at least.”
“Right, so we should clean up. Do the dishes. Get started on some macaroons. Potts loves lemon, so I’m thinking—”
“Winnie said there’s some shenanigan going on in town today. Let’s go check it out. Leigh’s working at the restaurant this evening, so we can eat there.” In fact, he’d like an excuse to see how Leigh was doing. The couple times he’d seen her since coming home, she’d seemed so exhausted. And yet, she said she loved her job, assistant managing The Red Door, one of the newest restaurants in town.
Sunlight burned orange through the window, beckoning and bright. Yes, they’d been cooped up inside way too long. Hadn’t he promised Rylan a picturesque small-town experience? She hadn’t even seen said small town.
“I completely understand that you want to spend time with your family. Feel free to head out. But I’m going to stay here.”
He was shaking his head before she finished. “I am not opposed to taking drastic measures to get my way, Ms. Jefferson.”
“Do you have to call me that?”
He lifted the rolled-up cake. “I will drop this on the floor if you don’t agree to a break.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“And then I’ll add more passio
n fruit to the filling.” Gosh, it shouldn’t be so fun watching her tense up. “Oh, and I’ll tell Winnie that you’re my girlfriend. Give it five minutes and everyone in town will know.”
She crossed her arms. “Why would I care what everyone in your town thinks?”
He smirked. “You don’t know Maple Valley. Words gets out that there’s a new romance brewing and we’ll have a wedding planned by the time this cake cools. Every female in town will stop you on the sidewalk to give you advice about what flowers to carry down the aisle and how to wear your hair. I know how much you love attention.”
Knew how much she hated it, that is. Winnie had plied Rylan with questions about her family, her baking, her personal life that first day they’d been home. He would’ve told his niece to knock it off if he wasn’t equally as curious about the woman he’d invited here. Not that Rylan had given much of anything away. It was as if she’d had professional training in deflecting questions.
But he could read between the lines enough to know she sheltered some kind of hurt behind the curt exterior she wielded like a shield.
All the more reason to get her out of the kitchen right now. Rylan Jefferson needed more than to find the perfect recipe to secure a new job. She needed . . . happiness. Joy. She was starving for it, whether she could see it or not.
And if he got nothing else right this Christmas break, he’d be the one to help her find it. Time and again, he’d let his family down. It could be different with Rylan. He could make a difference in her life if he tried hard enough. And, at the moment, if he teased hard enough. “Might as well start practicing signing your name Rylan Renwycke.”
She bolted to her feet. “You should be so lucky.”
He crossed the kitchen until he stood mere inches from her, the cake still pinched between his fingers. “What’s it going to be? Ruined cake and wedding plans? Or a quick and much-needed diversion into Maple Valley?”
She eyed the cake. He lifted his pinky, his ring finger.
“I really can’t stand you, Colin Renwycke.”