by Melissa Tagg
“Who?”
“Logan.”
Owen didn’t even try to hide his scowl. “He’s stringing you along, Bentley.”
Wait, Owen didn’t think . . . “This isn’t—”
“Not just you. Everyone in the office.” Owen’s voice rose as the music amped. “He might’ve put off the sale for whatever reason, might be having fun playing Perry White, but he’s still going to sell.”
The standing-room-only crowd in front of her parted just long enough to offer a glimpse of the restaurant’s gaping front windows. A lone figure stood out on the sidewalk. Logan?
“Not Perry White.”
“Huh?” Owen had to nearly yell the question.
“Perry White was the editor. I’m the editor.” The figure outside turned. Definitely Logan. “Logan’s the owner.”
“The owner who’s going to sell, no matter how friendly you guys get.”
Amelia stood. “You can have the table, if you want.” With that, she left Owen and his bad attitude, wound her way through the mostly teenaged crowd, and reached the door.
The day’s earlier springlike warmth had given way to chilly night air that curled around her as she stepped aside. “Logan?”
The hazy light of lampposts that wrapped like a line of sentries around the town square spotlighted the tension coiling his features. The tick in his jaw. The clearly finger-raked hair. The shadow in his eyes. “Hey.”
“Whatcha doing? I’ve been inside for ten minutes.” And why was he still wearing this morning’s tie? He’d loosened it at some point, untucked his shirt, but his attire still pushed the formal side of the scale.
“I . . . well, I was thinking about . . . wasn’t sure I . . .” White puffs of air chased his sigh and unfinished sentences.
She leaned against the lamppost with one hand. “You were going to stand me up, weren’t you?”
“I wasn’t going to stand you up.”
“You SOS-ed me—for what reason, I don’t even know—and you were going to up and leave me here by myself with a bunch of emo teens and a growly Owen.”
Logan glanced at the restaurant, uncertainty gliding through his expression. What had happened in the hours since she’d seen him at the office this morning? He looked back to Amelia. “Emo teens and Owen, huh? You’re not doing much to convince me to stay.” At least his tone had sloped into its usual ease. His postured loosened, too. “I just don’t know how I let myself get talked into this stuff. I felt bad for snapping at Colton today, so I agreed to help with this fundraiser thing for his nonprofit, but I had no idea how much work there is to do. Now somehow I’m basically in charge of cobbling together an entire event that’s only three weeks away, and he told me to go to open mic night to find live music possibilities, and Charlie got hurt today and I have this feeling my in-laws think I’m a negligent parent and—”
“Whoa, Logan.” She moved her hand from the lamppost to his arm. “Charlie got hurt? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. More than fine. Helen texted me a photo of her playing house in Emma’s old room and . . .” Another sigh.
“And if I’m understanding right, you need to pick out a band or musician to perform at a fundraiser? And you SOS-ed me because . . . you trust my taste in music?”
“You have, like, three shirts of your favorite bands. Kat told me the office goes into collective shock if a week goes by without you wearing one of them.”
“Which makes me a music expert?”
“Or I just didn’t feel like hanging out at this thing by myself.”
So he’d invited her. Best not even to acknowledge the flutter of pleasure that fact raised. So instead she patted his arm and reached for his tie.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping you loosen up.” She tugged at the tie’s knot. “You’ve dressed for the office, not a night of live music and appetizers.”
“Sure you’re not strangling me?”
She yanked the tie again. “You could help.”
“Kinda more fun watching you try.”
She paused, fingers still wrapped around the tie, and had to tip her head up to look up at him. “Boggles the mind, Logan Walker, how you can go from broody to mocking in the span of a few seconds.”
“I am a man of many talents.”
One of which clearly included dousing every last speck of common sense from her brain. Because standing this close, invading his space . . . well, it probably wasn’t the best idea she’d ever had. He’s your boss.
“Amelia?”
She whirled, pulling Logan’s tie—and him—with her. He exaggerated a choking sound that might’ve made her laugh if she hadn’t suddenly gone jumpy.
No laughter from Owen, though. He stood just outside The Red Door’s entrance, looking back and forth between them. “What’s going on?”
“I was just—”
“She was just—”
They spoke at the same time.
Logan stuck one finger into the knot in his tie, gave a swift tug, and it slackened and fell into her hand.
“How did you do that?”
“I told you. Many talents.”
“I’ve got a busy weekend, so I’m taking off.” Owen lifted his hand in a halfhearted wave and started down the sidewalk before either one of them could argue.
Logan took his tie from her and stuffed it in his pocket. “I swear that guy does not like me.”
“Owen is just . . . overprotective.” And possibly still smarting from their failed date-that-wasn’t-a-date.
“I’m the one who was out here getting choked by my own tie. Come on, let’s go in.”
A new band had taken the stage while they were outside—a trio—and they were just ambling into the first chords of a folk song as she led the way to the table her coat still reserved. Logan held out her chair, then pulled out his own.
They listened through one song, and then another. During the third Logan stood and disappeared into the restaurant kitchen. Being related to the owner apparently had its perks. By the end of the song, he’d returned—Diet Coke for her, bottle of water for him—and Raegan in tow. He gave his sister his chair and instead stood across from them.
“Didn’t know you guys were here or I would’ve come down sooner.” Raegan wore her hair in two short braids, a line of beaded bracelets stacked on one wrist. “I was upstairs in Ava’s apartment. Been pretending for the past half an hour to be into some movie about some football team.”
“I think she and Colton are on a quest to turn us from a basketball family to a football family.” Logan uncapped his water.
“You guys are into basketball?” Come to think of it, she’d seen the hoop in the driveway.
Raegan held up three fingers. “Breakfast, basketball, and the big screen. Our family hobbies.”
“Nice job with the alliteration.”
“Mom’s doing,” Logan explained.
“Although speaking of hobbies . . .” Raegan turned to tug on Logan’s arm. “You’re going to get up there, yeah?” She nudged her head toward the stage.
The trio’s song hit a minor chord. “Ha. No way.”
Amelia slurped on her pop. “He sings?”
Raegan gave a proud-sister grin. “And plays guitar.”
Logan shook his head. “I can pluck a few chords. That’s it.”
Raegan ignored him. “He’s being modest. He sang at his wedding, at Mom’s funeral, almost every Christmas Eve service I remember attending.”
“I’m not playing tonight, Rae.”
Amelia poked an unwrapped straw at his arm. “Come on.”
“I don’t play anymore.”
“Log—” Raegan began.
But in a look that lasted less than a second, understanding seemed to flash between them. A conversation without words and one Amelia wasn’t privy to. And before anyone could say anything else, a new voice drifted from the stage.
Raegan jerked, and at the sound of the smooth-as-velvet voice, Amelia knew why. Bear McK
inley, an open-mic-night regular who could melt a girl’s heart right into a puddle, him and that guitar.
And one girl’s heart in particular.
She glanced at Raegan.
“Think I’ll get going, guys.” Raegan slid from her chair. “Working at the library tomorrow . . .”
Logan’s brow furrowed in confusion as he watched his sister leave. “That was . . . sudden.”
He didn’t know? “Logan, that’s Bear.”
“As in Smokey the . . . ?”
“As in the guy Raegan’s been half in love with since I met her. Something happened last fall, though. Not sure what, except I think Bear might be leaving town soon—some missionary thing in South America, I think. Should I be telling you this?”
He was watching the guy on stage now, dark eyes narrow and observing. Big brotherly and . . .
Cute.
“Maybe you shouldn’t, but I’m glad you did. Now I know to scope out the guy. So they were a thing?”
“I don’t know if it was ever official or not, but they were definitely . . . something.” A love story waiting to happen, she’d always figured. Next in line after Seth and Ava, Kate and Colton. Something in the Maple Valley water, she’d thought. She looked toward Raegan pushing through the crowd to the exit. Obviously she’d thought wrong.
“I wonder why she didn’t tell me.”
“Maybe it was easier to talk to Kate.” Because, unlike Eleanor, some sisters actually did that—talked.
“He better not have hurt her.”
“I think whatever happened between them, well, it seems like it was mutual.” Bear strummed into a new song. “But I guess it’s good it happened now instead of later. Always better to know early than to find yourself later on wondering how in the world you got where you are. Letting go before you’re completely invested, before . . .”
Stop.
She’d let too much weight into her tone, hadn’t she? Said more than she meant to. The way Logan had turned his studying eyes back to her, patient and prodding and caring.
“It’s just . . . better to know.”
“Amelia.”
All he did was say her name and suddenly she itched to answer the question he hadn’t even asked. “Divorced. Going on three years.”
If he was shocked, he didn’t show it. Only capped his water bottle and glanced at the pop glass she hadn’t yet touched. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s not really my favorite topic of conversation. Don’t know why I told you. I couldn’t even say the word for the longest time. For a while there, I thought it might’ve been easier to lose Jeremy to death than—”
She cut herself off with a gasp, felt the burning regret of what she’d just said.
Who she’d said it to.
“Logan, I—”
“It’s okay, Amelia. We’ve had different experiences, but we both know what it feels like to be one half of a whole one moment, and the next . . .” He shrugged. “I’m sorry either one of us had to go through it.”
She traced a pattern in the ring of liquid at the base of her glass. How could he be so gracious when she’d just compared her divorce to the sudden and tragic loss of his wife? She glanced up at him, the restaurant’s soft lighting brushing bronze hues into his brown eyes.
“Thanks for telling me. About the divorce, I mean.” He reached for a napkin from the holder in the middle of the table. Wiped up the drips of water from her sweating glass. Unwrapped a straw and plunked it in her pop for her. “And for giving me the lowdown on Rae and Bear. And for insisting I come inside.”
His words burrowed inside her, found a space she hadn’t even realized was empty, and filled it with warmth. “Even if I nearly strangled you with your tie?”
“Even if.”
He angled in his chair to watch Bear, and she followed suit. But she couldn’t help one more glimpse his way. And then he did the same—angling his gaze in her direction. And . . .
“Amelia?”
She ripped her focus away at the sound of the voice and nearly tipped her cup. Shock spiraled through her. Eleanor?
Dear Mary,
If you were my daughter, I’d tell you about my fascination with history. And Amelia Earhart. And Charles Lindbergh. And how it all started because of a lie.
I have a twin sister named Eleanor. She was named after our grandmother—Eleanor Marguerite. Grandma died when I was little, so I never really knew her. But from what my mom says, she was strong. Confident. Full of personality.
My name was chosen from a baby name book. Nothing wrong with that, but I was always jealous Eleanor had a cool story, a cool figure, behind her name. So one day in elementary school, I lied. I told my classmates I was named after the only Amelia I could think of—Amelia Earhart.
And then I decided I’d better learn about this apparent namesake of mine. I found a picture book in the library and read it so many times the librarian laughed. Soon I started reading other biographies for children—Lindbergh, for one, but others, too. By third grade, I was the class nerd—evidenced by the fact that, while my friends spent the summer at the pool, I attended history camp.
7
An azure sky swam overhead today, no foamy clouds, no breathy gales. Clear and brilliant.
But not enough to chase away the fog of confusion still hovering over Amelia this morning. Hands full—coffee and pastries that’d filled her car with such tantalizing scents an animal’s growl issued from her stomach—she used her foot to kick the car door closed behind her.
The cherry red of the barn and golden sunlight gushed through the bowing limbs of the willow. Amelia skirted around the tree and maneuvered her way into the house, ears perked for the sound of Eleanor’s movement upstairs.
Nothing.
She moved into the kitchen, ignoring the sheet and blanket she’d left twisted on the couch when she’d awoken earlier, neck and back both protesting the night she’d spent pretzeled up.
She freed her hands in the kitchen, sat at the table, and tried to decipher for the hundredth time what Eleanor’s sudden appearance might mean.
“How’d you know I was here?” It was the first question out of the dozen scrambling through her that’d made it out of her mouth last night, when she saw her sister for the first time in—what was it? A year?
Whatever weightless, warm exchange had just happened between her and Logan curdled with the sight of Eleanor. Hair cropped to her chin, she had the reedy figure of a runner and a face more angular than Amelia’s.
“I was driving through all three blocks of your downtown. Saw your car, saw the lights here, made an intelligent guess.”
She’d introduced Logan to her sister, forced lightness into her tone as Bear McKinley said something into the mic about his last song of the set.
“What in the world are you doing here?”
“Is it so hard to believe I might want to visit you?”
Yes. Because in the two years she’d lived here, Eleanor had come to visit exactly once, and the only nice thing she’d had to say about the town was that she’d passed a cute B&B on the way in.
Because they hadn’t been close since high school.
Because she was never quite sure her sister liked her all that much.
“Mornin’.”
Eleanor stood in front of her now, red silk pajama pants and white cami, hair hardly mussed after a night of sleep. They’d barely talked when they’d arrived home. Had instead exchanged stilted updates about their past few months as they changed the sheets on Amelia’s bed.
Amelia’s work at the newspaper, her Kendall Wilkins story.
Eleanor’s upcoming wedding. Date TBD. Still. Didn’t she realize by now if she kept waiting to set a date until Mom and Dad got back together, she might never get married?
“I ran downtown and got coffee and pastries. Didn’t think you’d appreciate my usual Pop-Tart and breakfast blend.”
Eleanor took a seat at the table. “You didn’t have to do that.”
But she did. It’d been the only distraction she could think of to run off the memory of last time Eleanor was here, her hurled words before she’d left.
“It’s your fault, Amelia. You made it look easy.”
Those words threatened to sour and swallow her all over again. So she’d fled for town.
Eleanor opened the white bakery bag and pulled out a Danish. “I still can’t believe you live in a barn.”
“A renovated, remodeled barn that hasn’t had a four-legged inhabitant in more than a decade.” And Logan had called it charming.
“Still. We’re eating where a horse or cow used to.” Eleanor pulled a napkin from the holder in the center of the table. “And you know what else I can’t believe? Technically, considering this place doesn’t have much in the way of interior walls, we kind of shared a room last night. On different floors, maybe, but for one night, we were, once again, roommates. And we both survived. A feat, considering past experience.”
Amelia took a long drink of muddy coffee. “One semester. We roomed together one semester our sophomore year. And if memory serves, neither one of us killed each other.”
Eleanor grinned. “Yeah, but we came close, and who knows what would’ve happened if you hadn’t up and eloped over Christmas?”
There it was—mention of the elopement. Never could get more than ten minutes into a family gathering without someone bringing it up. Not that they’d had much in the way of family gatherings since Mom and Dad had separated last year.
“El.”
Her sister lowered her Danish to the napkin, pressed together lips still puffy from sleep.
“What are you doing here?”
Eleanor pulled the lid off her coffee, sniffed the blackened brew. “You wouldn’t answer any of my calls.”
“You called once. One time. I was in the middle of finishing a story on deadline. I figured you were calling about a wedding date and you’d leave a message.” And had, frankly, sighed in relief when she hadn’t.
Because a phone call couldn’t hope to cross the gap their last interaction had forged.
“There’s no wedding date.”
Eleanor said the words with such finality that Amelia couldn’t help honing in on her left hand.