by Melissa Tagg
If only she hadn’t promised that reporter she’d call Jeremy.
She straightened. “You know what’s weird? I’ve talked about Jeremy and the divorce more in the past two weeks than I think I have in the almost three years since it all went down.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Amelia. You needed a sister and instead you got platitudes.”
Genuine regret filled Eleanor’s eyes. Understanding, too. The kind Amelia had been so desperate for in those days and months after the divorce. The kind she’d finally found in Maple Valley.
“And I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you last weekend.”
Eleanor gave a half smile. “It’s hardly the same level of sisterly infraction.”
“But still. You drove all this way. You obviously needed someone to talk to.” She lightened her tone. “You know, Trevor sounded crazy with worry when he called.”
“He did?”
“You love him, El. And he loves you.”
“That’s not always enough.”
She leaned her head against Eleanor’s arm. “Maybe there’s more going on than I know about, but I can tell you this: You can’t see into the future. You can’t control what changes are going to come into your lives. You can only control your choices. You know what kind of man Trevor is. Is he a person you can see yourself choosing to love, day in and day out, even when it gets hard?”
“Yes.” Not even a moment of hesitation. And then, stronger, “Yes.”
“Well, then.” Amelia straightened and reached for the bag she’d dropped on the porch floor next to the loveseat. She towed it onto her lap and opened the top flap. “I may have stopped at a convenience store on the way here. Just in case.” She pulled out a stack of magazines.
“Bridal magazines? Really?”
“I know you probably still need to think and pray. And you definitely need to talk to Trevor.” She set the magazines in Eleanor’s lap. “But for this afternoon, let’s just put all that aside for a while and look at pretty dresses and take a quiz on whether you should be a spring, summer, or autumn bride.”
“Not winter?”
Amelia couldn’t help a grin. “No, because if I ever get married again, I get the winter wedding.”
Eleanor opened the top magazine. “Speaking of, tell me about the guy at open-mic night.” No missing the glint in her tone.
“Nothing to tell.” Lie. Except . . . “Actually, there’s this call I have to make, and it has to do with him. It’s not going to be fun.” Apprehension flooded in. “I could use a sister to get me through it.”
Eleanor met her eyes, a new and comforting softness there. “You’ve got one.”
11
Six hours. Logan had six hours to turn the high school gymnasium into a fundraiser venue for tonight’s event. Catered dinner. Live music. Candlelight.
Half an hour ago, he’d thought it impossible. But now—perched three-fourths of the way up a rickety ladder and surveying the circus of activity in the room—his confidence buoyed. Music pumped through speakers, drumbeats reverberating off the gym walls while the bump and clatter of round tables being rolled and set up joined the noise.
They might actually pull this together. As long as the fluke May 1st snowstorm that had all the meteorologists in a tizzy didn’t come to fruition.
“You’re doing it wrong, Logan.” Jenessa Belville’s voice climbed over the ruckus from her spot below.
Logan tugged at a pleat in the draping that would provide the backdrop for the raised platform serving as a stage. “I’ve hung pipe and drape plenty of times. I know what I’m doing.”
“You should’ve slid the curtain on before you got up there.”
He was still halfway in shock Jenessa had even shown up today. He hadn’t seen her since that discomfiting night at her house last week. Had tried calling once, but she didn’t answer. He’d thought maybe she regretted spilling so much to him, planned to go back to avoiding him.
But no, she’d been the first one to arrive today.
“Anyway, aren’t you in charge of this thing? Shouldn’t you be roaming around with a clipboard making sure everything else is getting done?”
“Not a clipboard guy, Jen. And I’m not in charge. Colton is.”
He could hear her tsk even from up here, over the music and the racket. “I think we all know Colton’s the queen of England here. It’s a title. You’re the prime minister who’s getting everything done.”
“Wouldn’t he be the king?”
Jenessa laughed—and not a dreary, end-of-her-rope laugh today, but the real thing. “Fine, I’ll go help with decorations.” She almost waltzed away, a lightness to her step. Hardly seemed like the same Jenessa from last week.
Maybe she’d just needed someone to listen. To hear her. And he’d been in the right place at the right time.
So much of these past weeks in Maple Valley felt that way—right place, right time. The way he’d been able to step in and help with this event. That opening with the speech pathologist.
The newspaper, too. They should be able to launch the website in a couple weeks, and advertising for the centennial issue was coming together. He’d even written some articles here and there, actually enjoyed himself. It’d been a long time since he’d written in his own voice rather than the voice of whatever candidate or committee or foundation hired the firm.
“Logan!”
Amelia’s voice carried across the gym, and he leaned over the hanging curtain to see her mazing through the tables. A belted tan coat, unbuttoned, flapped behind her, and a newsboy hat bounced at an angle on her head. And was that a bag of Twizzlers in her hand?
She stopped in the center of the room, scanning the space.
“Up here, Nellie Bly.”
She cocked her head to find him, his arms resting on the top of the curtain piping. He waved with one hand. She made it to the foot of the ladder in seconds. “Logan, you will never guess what I just discovered.” The ladder quivered as she stepped on the bottom rung.
“Careful, this thing’s rickety.”
She ignored him and climbed the other side. “I was at the office, researching this Harry Wheeler guy.”
“Not a word about the nickname? Nellie Bly? I was proud of that one, especially with your hat and coat. You’re very reporterly today.”
Her package of licorice crinkled against the ladder as she clambered toward him. She stopped when she was face-to-face with him across the top of the ladder. “Did you know Nellie Bly married a millionaire who was almost forty years older than she was? He was in his seventies when they got married.” She held out the bag of Twizzlers. “Licorice?”
Her cheeks were flushed, and please tell him those weren’t specks of snow in her hair and on her hat. The high school was located six miles out of town. If they really got that blizzard the forecast called for, would people still come tonight?
“What’re you doing here, Amelia? I thought you were in Des Moines?”
She’d taken the day off yesterday, something about wedding dress shopping with her sister. The office had felt . . . empty. But there was a new lightness to her steps ever since she’d reconnected with her sister.
Not unlike his own calm lately. Something about this town, his family . . . the woman facing him across the ladder.
“I came back early this morning ’cause everyone was talking about a snowstorm, and obviously I didn’t want to miss tonight because I never miss town events, and besides, I promised Charlie I’d sit by her and—” She bit into a piece of licorice. “I think you’re doing the curtain wrong.”
“Why doesn’t anyone trust my curtain work?”
She leaned to the side, reaching for the curtain he’d just arranged, the ladder wobbling beneath them both.
“Hey, careful.”
“You scared of ladders, Logan?”
“No, only of crazy women who climb up and feel the need to undo my work.” This close to her now, he could smell her hair. Like honey or vanilla or c
oconut or he didn’t know what, but it was nice.
“I’m not undoing your work. Just perfecting it. The way you feel the need to perfect all my headlines. And switch up my ad placement. And—”
A voice came over the mic—“Testing, testing”—followed by the static-y screech of an amp. Amelia jerked at the sound, dropping her bag of licorice to the ground, as the ladder trembled again. She let go of the curtain, grabbing for the top of the ladder, where Logan’s hands found her arms and held them both steady until the ladder stabilized.
He loved the sound of the spooked laugh that chased out her “whoa,” her nervous smile. “That could’ve been bad.” Her hat had gone even more crooked on her head.
“We could’ve fallen off this ladder and broken all kinds of bones all because you didn’t trust my curtain-hanging skills.” He still held her arms, and for a breath of a moment, couldn’t make himself let go.
Because Amelia was . . .
Fun and funny and charming and . . .
Enticing.
He swallowed—more like gulped—suddenly recognizing the pulsing under his skin for exactly what it was. Pure, unmistakable desire.
“Logan?”
“Tell me about Harry Wheeler.” His words toppled, his voice choppy to his own ears.
Her focus was on his hands, securing her to the ladder. “How about down on the floor? Where it’s safe?” She looked up, and the amber flecks in her eyes told him she hadn’t missed a thing.
And that maybe he wasn’t the only one who’d felt the surprise, magnet-like pull.
He let go of her arms, used the seconds climbing down the ladder to steady his staccato-ing breath. He pretended to take stock of the progress in the gym instead of looking at Amelia. Colton was rolling in a rack of folded chairs. Jenessa and Rae and others were draping tablecloths into place, and Kate was following around behind them, arranging centerpieces.
Whoever had been testing the mic had finished, and the music was back on. A slower song now, some jazz thing.
“Harry Wheeler was with Kendall in Paris.”
He exhaled, tried to focus. “In Paris when?”
“When Lindbergh’s plane landed. In 1927. They were both there together. And it gets way better than that.”
He let himself look at her then—the ruddy excitement in her cheeks from whatever discovery she’d made. Or maybe, like him, the lingering effect from whatever had just happened on top of that ladder.
The lilt of a saxophone slid in.
“When Lindbergh landed, he was rushed by a crowd and practically dragged from the plane. It was chaos, and in the craziness, someone else ended up being mistaken for Lindbergh. He was hoisted onto people’s shoulders and carried through the crowd, and it actually worked out well because it allowed Lindbergh to make it to the French Ambassador.”
He reached down to pick up her bag of licorice. “You really have been doing your homework.”
“Some sources say the accidental decoy was an American journalist. One random newspaper says he was a fur trader. Several others say he was a Brown University student.” She pulled her hat off her head, hair a static-y mess. “Guess what his name was.”
Honestly, he didn’t even care. Not nearly as much as he cared about the fact that here, right now, in the same gym where he’d danced at Homecoming with Emma and posed for a graduation photo with her—the one that still sat in a frame on Rick and Helen’s fireplace—he wanted to kiss Amelia.
With her tangled hair and her hat in her hand and those eyes that couldn’t decide what color they were. Just . . . kiss her.
Because he’d missed her yesterday. Because she’d promised to sit by Charlie tonight. Because she’d come running to him with her latest story development—and he loved it.
“Harry Wheeler, Logan. Kendall’s friend was the Lindbergh decoy. They were both students at Brown together. Do you know what that means?”
“I’m not sure . . . I guess . . .”
But before he could force his common sense into actually, like, working, a ringtone blared from her coat pocket. She pulled it out, blanched. “Um . . . I better take this.”
Colton’s voice jumped in from behind as she walked away. “Well, that was just adorable.”
Logan turned. “What was?”
“You. Amelia. The top of the ladder. Like a moment in one of those old movies your whole family loves.”
Logan reached for the ladder, pushed it closed with a clack. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Colt.” Except that he did, and it stirred him, and he couldn’t decide if it was a good stirring or bad. Just a month ago, he’d had a moment of missing Emma so immensely he’d made a fool of himself in front of Amelia. And now he was close to making a fool of himself for an entirely different reason.
“Don’t worry, your sisters were too busy to notice. Pretty sure I’m the only one who saw.”
“I don’t know what you think you saw.” So not true. An unsettling lump clogged his throat.
“That tackle last year might’ve killed my knee and shoulder and career, Walker, but my eyesight’s just fine.”
“Whatever.” He hoisted the ladder under his arm, Colton’s laughter following him across the gym.
Everything in Amelia wanted to ignore Jeremy’s call. After all, she’d left him the message last week. Passed on Belle Waldorf’s request. Wasn’t that enough? Couldn’t he take it from there?
But Belle had called Logan earlier this week, done an interview and everything. Amelia had heard the whole thing from her desk, along with the follow-up call Logan had made to his partner afterward. “I have no idea how she even heard about me, but there’s going to be a story or something. Next week, I think. Think it might get Hadley’s attention?”
Belle had done her part. The least Amelia could do was answer her phone now and make sure Jeremy had listened to her voicemail, responded to the reporter’s request. Even if her stomach clenched at the thought.
She escaped the noise of the gym, the strains of the jazz music, and the hype in the air and forced herself to answer the call. “This is Amelia.”
Jeremy’s voice was exactly as she remembered. Tenor and honey-smooth. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”
She didn’t have a response for that. For anything, really. Amelia slumped against the high school’s wall, a line of mustard-yellow lockers ogling her across the hall.
She used to imagine what it might be like to talk to Jeremy again. Would she yell at him or cry or don a mask, pretend all was well and she’d completely moved on?
But haven’t you?
Hadn’t she just minutes ago lost herself in another man’s deep russet irises and wondered, for seconds that stretched with tension, if he might actually lean across the ladder and kiss her?
No, not just wondered. Hoped.
“I was surprised to get your message last week,” Jeremy finally went on.
So he had listened to it. “Well, if you got it, then you’ve already got the reporter’s info. Did you accidentally delete it or something? Need her email or phone—”
“No, I’ve already talked to her.”
“Then why . . . ?” An Exit sign at the end of the hallway cast a shadow of red over the gray tile floor. Outside the door, a flurry of white whipped in the wind. Were they really in for a May blizzard?
“I’m calling about Dani.”
She pushed away from the wall, shoes squealing, still damp from her walk across the parking lot. “I don’t—”
“I know you don’t, but Ames, she’s been trying to get ahold of you for months.”
“Don’t Ames me, Jeremy.” The force in her own voice surprised her. But he’d lost the right to a nickname the second he’d called it quits on their life together.
And as for Dani . . .
Her heart threw up barricades as fast as the memories flew at her.
“She said she’s sent two or three letters and you’ve returned them all.”
“Jer—”
�
��I saw her at church last Christmas when I was visiting my parents. She’s still in Des Moines. She asked if I could help her get in contact, and I told her I was probably the last person you’d listen to.”
Darn right.
“But after you called last week, I thought maybe things had changed and enough time had passed and maybe I could help. I at least had to try. You should see her, Ames—Amelia. She hardly looks like the broken-down teen we knew, and Mary is—”
“Stop.” Her voice echoed down the hallway, the beat of music drumming from the gym and a throb beginning in her head. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Someone walked past the gym opening, glancing out at Amelia.
She paced farther down the hall, saw a door marked Janitor’s Closet, and yanked it open. Inside, she pulled on a string, a dangling light bulb buzzing to life.
“Don’t shut Dani down because of me. You used to be so close to her. She looked up to you. She needed you then, and she might need you now. I’m not sure. She didn’t say why she wanted to talk to you, but—”
“Jer, what about, ‘I don’t want to hear it’ don’t you understand?”
“I understand perfectly fine. You’re being as emotional and rash about this as you were three years ago.”
The sting lanced through her. She shouldn’t have answered the call. Should’ve known.
But how could she have guessed he was calling about Dani?
Dani and Mary.
The heady smell of bleach and other cleaning materials twisted in the air around her, suffocating. And in a flicker of a moment, time reversed and Amelia was back in the hospital in Des Moines, standing outside the nursery, looking through a gaping window at the empty bassinet. At the name card written in a nurse’s scribbled handwriting: Mary Danielle Malone.
Lucas, she’d thought. Her last name is Lucas now.
All the paperwork had been signed. And more than that, they’d already bonded. In nine months of doctor’s appointments and hovering over Dani. In days spent picking out colors for the spare bedroom at home, setting up the crib and changing table and rocking chair. In minutes right here in this hospital, cradling Mary in her arms just last night. Cleaned and swaddled and tiny and perfect. Her Mary. Even Jeremy had given in to the haze of wonder as he’d held her after Amelia.