by Melissa Tagg
This was why she belonged in Maple Valley. She was a part of that town, the people. And it wasn’t going anywhere.
“Sleep on it, Logan. Pray. Maybe it’ll feel clearer tomorrow.”
He nodded, walked her to the door in between their rooms. And then, just like he had the other night in her loft, tucked her against him for a hug.
But she didn’t let herself linger this time. Forced herself to pull away before the buttons on his shirt left an imprint on her cheek and his chest felt too much like home.
She closed the door between them. Dragged herself to the bathroom and changed into pajamas. Washed her face. Brushed her teeth.
And then paused outside the bathroom door as Charlie’s voice drifted in. “Daddy?” A muffled whine.
She padded to the door between their rooms, listened to Logan’s muted voice settling his daughter back down. And then—oh—then he sang her a couple lines. Just like he had that first night home. Soft, faint words she couldn’t make out.
But it was enough to magnetize Amelia. Pressed against the door, she lowered to the floor, knees bent to her chin. He sang another line. She closed her eyes.
And maybe she would’ve fallen asleep there, listening to him sing, balled against the door closing her into a room way too big for just her . . . if not for Logan’s voice once more. Closer now.
“Amelia?”
He was back at the door? “Yeah?”
“I’m weirdly not tired.” Even with the door between them muffling his voice, she could feel his closeness. “Want to see if there’s a late-night movie on or something?”
Yes.
And no. Because any later, any longer . . . and she’d lose whatever last hold she might have on a heart that’d already broken too many times.
“I’m already in my pajamas.”
“I’ve seen you in pajamas before.”
“I already washed my face.”
“I’ve seen you without makeup, too.”
For a tempting second, she considered it. Why not open the door and find some classic movie on TV that reminded him of his mom? Sit on the bed and munch on vending-machine snacks and . . .
No.
Because he was going to leave.
And the sooner she accepted it, the better.
“I just . . . don’t think it’s a good idea.”
His pause was long enough she almost changed her mind. And then, “Maybe we could just talk? Just for a few minutes. Right here.” His voice had moved downward, as if he, too, had lowered to the floor. And there, through the crack under the door, she could see his shadow.
Tell him you’re tired. Tell him you should both get some sleep before tomorrow’s early flight.
Tell him you can’t spend any more time exchanging pieces of your heart because it’s getting too hard to tell yours from his.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Anything. I just like talking to you.”
She leaned her head against the wall. And couldn’t even attempt to lie. “I do, too. Okay, then, so tell me what’s so great about Roberta S. Hadley.”
14
Just when I think Maple Valley can’t get more bizarre, it does.”
A laugh tracked Logan’s words as he hoisted one end of a six-foot folding table. Across from him, Raegan lifted her end. “You know you love it here.”
“We’re setting up for an outdoor event under clouds so black they could rain soot.” All around the town square, activity whirred as community members readied for the day’s event—setting up tables and booths, unfolding tents and awnings.
Like one of Charlie’s pop-up picture books. And it wasn’t even seven in the morning yet. The stocky clouds blurred the blush of sunrise and daubed a greenish tint over everything below.
“Remember for a second where you are, brother. This is the town that went on with its live nativity even after one of the wise men burned down the stable. We had a parade last year just a few days after a tornado.” She stopped right in the middle of Main Avenue, letting her end of the table conk the cement. “And, if you’ll recall, just a couple weeks ago we had a fundraiser during a blizzard. So I don’t think a little rain is going to deter our first festival of the summer.”
“Clearly.” Not if the citizens of Maple Valley could help it. Because apparently nobody cared that the forecast called for a ninety percent chance of thunderstorms, complete with lightning and hail.
And here he was out with all the rest of them, helping set up a booth where Seth would serve The Red Door’s sliders and strawberry lemonade. Such a contrast from a few days ago, when he’d sat on a chair across from a senator with her eye on the White House, imagining a life he’d dreamt of for years but that was only now coming into focus.
How could two such vastly different worlds both feel . . . right?
A gust of wind carried Charlie’s giggle across the square from where she played in the band shell with several other kids under a couple parents’ supervision. He’d debated bringing her, especially considering the coming storms. But it wasn’t supposed to get bad until lunchtime.
His gaze roved over the green space, hooked on Kate and Colton walking down the sidewalk, Coffee Coffee drinks in hand. Dad was around here somewhere—he was helping man a booth for the church. All the antique shops had sale racks and tables set up outside their stores, and over in the corner of the square, a bouncy castle was swaying its way into existence.
“She’ll show up.”
He turned back to Raegan. A stack of beaded bracelets cuffed both her wrists, and since when had she added pink and green streaks to her hair? “Who?”
“Men aren’t supposed to play coy, Logan. That’s for girls.”
“Whatever.” He hefted the table once more, and Raegan followed suit.
To be fair, he didn’t blame his family for the curiosity that had revealed itself in hints and subtle questions ever since he’d returned from D.C.
Subtle? Yeah right.
Last night Seth had just come right out and asked. “All right, we gave you forty-eight hours. Long enough. What’s up with Amelia?”
He’d mumbled something pathetic about friendship and working together and just when he’d run out of lame, stock explanations, Charlie—that little apple of his eye—had asked for another glass of milk. He couldn’t have timed it better.
Thing was, he couldn’t have answered Seth’s question with anything concrete if he’d tried. He didn’t know what was up with Amelia. One minute they were kissing in a closet or knotted together in her loft window or posing like a family for a photo at the Smithsonian. The next she was practically fleeing from a simple hug and hiding behind a hotel door.
At least she’d talked to him. One hour had stretched into two and then three Wednesday night as they’d whittled away the remainder of their time in D.C. The floor had grown hard underneath him and his throat was dry, but he hadn’t been willing to peel himself away. Not until the red numbers on the hotel alarm clock let him know it was after two.
He might’ve slept all of three hours before rising to catch a cab to Dulles.
“Where are we going with this?” Raegan’s arms strained at the weight of the table.
“Other side of the square, but we can take another break.” He should’ve waited for Seth to get back instead of enlisting Rae’s help. She was no weakling, but this table could’ve been made of lead.
“Uh, can I help?”
A shadow flickered in Raegan’s eyes as she looked over Logan’s shoulder. He angled to see Bear McKinley, the guitar player whose name matched his appearance. Coal-black hair, granite eyes, tattoo visible under the edge of one sleeve. He rounded the table as if to take over for Raegan.
“We’ve got this, Bear.” Raegan’s voice was as wooden as her posture.
Actually, no, they didn’t. At this rate, it’d take them half the morning to make it across the square. No way was he arguing with Rae, though. “Thanks, anyway.”
Something of a plea
ding expression crossed Bear’s face as he looked from Logan back to Raegan. “Rae.”
And that, apparently, was enough. His sister shoved her hands in her pockets. “Fine. I’ll go help Ava with the lemonade.”
“I didn’t mean—” Bear started to call after her, but the drop of his linebacker shoulders signaled his defeat. His sigh dragged as he gripped the table, lifting it up as if it weighed as much as a puppy.
Logan nudged his head toward the table’s designated spot in the park.
“For the record, I never wanted to hurt her.”
They wedged their way around a red-and-white-striped tent. “For the record, I believe you.” He’d heard enough from Kate to get the picture. Bear had no more blown into town before Raegan had latched on. They’d become fast friends on their way to something more before Bear had pulled the brakes—not because he didn’t care, but because he did.
“She’s my sister, though.”
“I get it. Team Raegan.”
“There really has to be teams?” They reached the section in the grass reserved for The Red Door.
Bear looked back to the spot on the road where Raegan had stood a minute ago. “Rae and I . . . I’m a leaf blowing in the wind, and she’s got roots so deep, there’s no pulling ’em up.”
“Quite the metaphor.”
“Quite the truth. I’ll be in South America this time next week. Raegan made it clear she’s staying put in Maple Valley. Wasn’t meant to be, I guess. Or whatever other relationship-ending cliché works.”
But if the outright longing in his expression was any indication, the man didn’t feel nearly as nonchalant as his words sounded. Ledge walked past with a couple folding chairs under each arm, and in the slot beside them, Webster Hawks and others from the high school football team were setting up a face-painting booth.
Bear ducked under the table to secure its legs, then rose, tucking a shaft of hair behind his ear. “Look, I really have been trying to stay out of Raegan’s way. Don’t want to make anything worse—for either of us. But when I saw her arms about ready to fall off carrying this thing—”
“I know.” He glanced at Charlie again, still playing in the band shell, chasing a kid he recognized as Nick Sheffield’s son, the pastor of Dad’s church. He’d attended almost every Sunday since coming home, just like he did back in LA, telling himself he was doing it for Charlie.
But there was a piece of him—wasn’t there?—still hoping for a spiritual second wind. A voice or even just a whisper from the God who’d gone silent the day Emma died.
“Can I ask you something, Bear? How do you know going to South America is the right thing? You’re in as deep as anyone here in the Valley. You sing in church and at Seth’s, you’ve got friends, you’re out here playing along even though this thing’s doomed to get rained out.” Even as he said it, a stray raindrop landed on his cheek. “And then there’s Rae.” He turned from the square back to Bear. “How do you know it’s the right thing to do?”
Bear appeared to consider the question. “It’s interesting you’d ask that. I talked to Kate once last fall when I couldn’t figure out what to do about Raegan. She asked the same question about South America. I told her it came down to doing the next right thing, walking through the open door, you know?”
“So what if several doors open? How do you know which is the right one? How did you decide to choose the door to South America over my sister?” Another raindrop. But it wasn’t supposed to storm until later. “And, man, forget all that for a second—how do you know it’s even God opening any of the doors?”
Finding any kind of spiritual foothold was like trying to pin down spring in Iowa, when rain and snow and sun and clouds turned everything unpredictable.
Bear leaned against the table, arms folded, thoughtful. “Man, I don’t think God is out to confuse us. When multiple doors open up, maybe there’s not a right and a wrong one. Maybe sometimes God says, ‘Dude, choose.’ That whole free will thing.”
Yeah, well, then Logan was right back where he was after Emma died. Looking to God for answers and getting only silence in return.
“Suppose I shouldn’t say this to a soon-to-be missionary, but I’m not sure what I believe anymore.”
Errant raindrops had turned into a near-drizzle now.
Bear straightened, seemingly nonplussed by Logan’s confession. One he didn’t know why he’d made to a guy he barely knew.
“I think sometimes believing is a matter of deciding. Deciding who you’re going to trust and what you know about who you trust. And once that decision starts sinking into your bones, the wide-open spaces of your future get more invigorating than intimidating. Doesn’t mean the choices suddenly get easy. But it does mean we stop worrying so much that we’re going to mess up and pick the wrong door, as if we could possibly out-wander God.”
Dad’s voice slid in then, his words mingling with Bear’s. “He’ll wait for you.”
And as the rain slicked over him and all the voices and noise of the Market faded, Logan’s heart hooked on something solid.
Because if that was true, then maybe it wasn’t about what he chose for his future—a campaign, a move, a relationship—but Who he chose. And how he trusted.
“Logan!”
His father-in-law’s call cut in, an intrusion. Because here, under rolling clouds and a waifish rain, something was reawakening.
Maybe God had been silent two years ago, or maybe Logan simply couldn’t hear. Maybe it didn’t even matter, not today. Because in many ways, Logan was a different man now.
“Sometimes believing is a matter of deciding. Deciding who you’re going to trust and what you know about who you trust.”
“Logan, where’s Charlie?”
The question knocked into him. Charlie . . .
A rumbling overhead. Thunder. He looked to Rick. “She’s playing in the band shell.” And she hated storms. If those clouds were going to break early—
“No, she’s not.”
He whipped around, only to see an empty shell. And in the millisecond it took to turn back to Rick, the sky broke loose. “I . . . she was just . . .” He blinked against the rain, now falling in sheets, concern that threatened to crest into fear rivering through him. He looked around, gaze weaving through booths and tables.
“You seriously don’t know where she is?” Rain streamed down Rick’s face.
“Don’t worry, Walker,” Bear said. “We’ll find her.”
Another groan in the sky.
Probably this was one of the more idiotic things she’d ever done. Especially considering the intermittent lightning strobing around the edges of storm clouds. But Amelia threw the pebble anyway, aiming for Owen’s window—second floor of the only apartment complex in Maple Valley that’d gone to the effort to add a buzz-in security system.
The pebble thwacked against the glass, but the only response she got was a murmur of thunder. She crouched, felt around for another pebble and sent it sailing.
Seconds later, Owen’s face appeared at the window. He pushed it open. “What?”
Mission accomplished. “You didn’t answer when I buzzed.” She’d hit the buzzer three times, shifting her weight from foot to foot, excitement whittling away every last crumb of patience.
“Because it’s seven on a Saturday morning.”
“I’ve got news.” Raindrops bounced in the grass around her flip-flops.
“And it couldn’t wait two more hours?”
She held up the bottle in her non-throwing hand. “I brought OJ. The kind you like, with the pulp.”
“Fine.” The window slammed shut.
With a grin, she dodged more raindrops and dashed her way to the front door, just in time to hear the latch release. Up on the second floor, Owen was waiting in his doorframe, ISU tee above Nike gym shorts, folded arms.
“I’ve never seen you this dressed down.”
He held out his hand.
She gave him the bottle of OJ. He let her in.
&nb
sp; “I don’t know how you can drink it with the pulp. It’s like little hairs floating around—” She stopped barely two feet into his living room. Bare walls—none of the framed pictures or baseball posters she was used to seeing—and boxes scattered around the room. “You’re . . . packing?”
The news she’d been so antsy to share trickled into a puddle.
She turned back to Owen and waited as he capped his juice bottle and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Yep.” He moved into the kitchen.
“That’s it? ‘Yep’? Were you going to tell me?”
He yanked a cereal box from a nearly empty cupboard. “Of course I was going to tell you.”
“When? When you’d already switched zip codes?”
Bowl, spoon, box. He clunked each item onto the island counter. “I’ve still got three and a half weeks until I leave. I’m just getting a head start on packing. I was going to tell you Monday. Or maybe today at the Market.”
He poured his cereal—some kind of oat and granola concoction she would’ve made fun of any other day—and scooted onto a stool. “I’ve got a letter of resignation written. Wasn’t sure whether it went to you or Logan.”
“Owen.”
He looked up from his bowl, and from the twist of his face, she knew he’d heard the petition in her voice. The need for an explanation, but even more, the regret over how off-course their friendship had veered these past weeks.
He abandoned his stool and disappeared into the bedroom off the side of the living room, returning with a piece of paper. It was creased with the faint smudge of inky fingerprints, as if he’d folded and unfolded the letter for multiple readings.
She flattened it now while he poured milk into his cereal, didn’t have to read more than a line to understand. She lifted her eyes. “You got into grad school.”
“Three of them, actually, but this is the one I’m going to accept.”
“When? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“There was never a good time. Somebody else was always around.”
He meant Logan, of course. But it wasn’t true. She’d hardly seen Logan in the last two days. When he was in the office, she found excuses to flit off—photos to take or interviews to do. She’d turned skittish.