Like Never Before

by Melissa Tagg

  Scared of her own heart and the things it wanted.

  The things it couldn’t have.

  “I’m crazily happy for you, Owen. And not at all surprised. Even when your sports pieces made zero sense to me, I knew the writing was good. You’re going to have an awesome career.”

  He crunched a bite and swallowed. “And you’re not mad at me for leaving?”

  “Nope.” How could she be? He knew what he wanted, and he was going after it.

  That’s what she’d thought she’d been doing all this time in Maple Valley. Especially these last two months—trying to salvage the paper any way she could. Begging Logan. Begging the bank.

  Because she’d been so sure. Of course it was the right thing to do. The obvious thing.

  Like Dani and the baby, the adoption.

  Everyone had tried to tell her it was a bad idea, but she’d barreled on, convinced the adoption would save her marriage and maybe somehow complete her at the same time.

  And look how that had turned out.

  “So what’s your news?”

  Owen’s question jarred her into focus. Her news. Yes, the email. She’d read it a dozen times already. And all she’d wanted to do was call Logan. Better yet, drive out to his father’s house and join their family for breakfast and watch Logan’s imagination dance as he read the email.

  She’d come here instead.

  “Remember how Logan’s friend’s wife is a genealogist? She found Harry Wheeler’s granddaughter. I emailed the woman yesterday and already heard back. The history lover in me about freaked out when I read it.”

  It was her turn to pull out a folded sheet of paper. She’d half-memorized the email already.

  Dear Amelia,

  What a pleasure to meet you via email. I’m not sure how you found my address, and it’s rather fortuitous I received your message so quickly after you sent it. I check my email perhaps once a month, twice if I’m feeling ambitious.

  You’re correct about my grandfather. He is the Harry Wheeler who was at Le Bourget field when Lindbergh landed in Paris. And yes, he was mistaken for Lindbergh. He told us the story over and over when we were children. How he was hoisted onto shoulders and carried through the field. How his clothes were tattered and he got separated from his friend.

  And yes, his friend was Kendall Wilkins. I heard about him as a child, too. Only it was a different story Grandfather told whenever he talked about Kendall, though one that also took place in France. You said you’ve researched Kendall, so perhaps you know he fought in WWII?

  According to my grandfather, they lost touch after that day in 1927 . . . but met again in France in 1944. Kendall Wilkins saved my grandfather’s life on a battlefield somewhere in France. Grandfather was tangled in a barbed-wire fence, gunfire all around. Kendall rushed into fire to help him.

  Grandfather used to say that was the moment that changed his life forever. He’d prayed, you see, to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in. Kendall was his answered prayer.

  To thank Kendall, Grandfather sent him a memento from the day Lindbergh landed, something he’d brought home with him in 1927. I wish I knew what it was. Perhaps it’s the item missing from the safe-deposit box you mentioned. Grandfather said he used to believe it brought him luck. After being spared in WWII, he no longer needed luck. He had something better . . . a Savior.

  And also, a friend. I believe Grandfather kept in touch with Kendall until he passed away in 2001. He was 92, and even fourteen years later, we still notice the hole in our family.

  Please feel free to email any other questions you might have, although I’m afraid this is the extent of what I know of your Kendall Wilkins. I never had the privilege of meeting him. But in a small way, through Grandfather’s stories, I always felt he was a part of our family.

  Best wishes with your story.

  —Annalise Wheeler James

  Owen looked up. “He was a war hero?”

  “I knew he fought in World War II, but not this. And the extra awesome thing is this email supports what I’ve said all along: There was supposed to be something in that box. I just know it.” She held up the page. “This is proof.”

  “Too bad you don’t know what.”

  “But see, I’m realizing maybe I don’t need to know. The real story is that Kendall Wilkins tried to give us something special—the same thing Harry Wheeler gave him. He wasn’t playing a prank on the town, Owen.”

  And, too, there was something comforting in the thought that maybe Kendall hadn’t been so family-less, after all.

  “Yeah, but if you’re right, what happened to whatever was supposed to be in the box? Did it get stolen? Did he just forget to put it back in the box the last time he stopped by the bank?” Owen’s spoon scraped against his bowl, and he chewed on another bite before saying anything more. “And the biggest question I’ve got: Why’d you come to me with this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He set down his spoon. “I mean, I’m happy for you. It’s fun. Your detective work paid off, and you’ll probably write a great article.” He pointed at the printout. “But I’m not the one you want to show this to.”

  She looked down, his implication perfectly clear and her next words quiet with admission. “You were right. I got too attached, but he’s going to leave. So call this a first attempt at detaching.”

  She waited for him to say he’d told her so. “Dumb move, Amelia.”

  Her gaze shot up. “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve worked with you for two years. I’ve watched you be all perky and plucky and flit from town event to town event. Friends with everyone. The opposite of old Wilkins.” He tapped his spoon against his bowl. “And yet, not. Did you know I didn’t even know until just now that you consider yourself a history lover? And until a few weeks ago, I had no idea you have event planning and marketing in your background. And man, Mae says you were married to Jeremy Lucas. Jeremy Lucas?”

  Great, she’d spread that around? “What are you saying, Owen?”

  “I’m saying, Logan Walker got past a wall with you that none of the rest of us could, and now you’re trying to put it back up for a dumb reason like geography?”

  “It’s more than geography. What about the paper? You might be going to grad school, but other people actually need their jobs. And doesn’t this town deserve a newspaper? I should just drop that and—what?—follow Logan to whatever coast he ends up on?”

  Owen added more cereal to his bowl. “You’re putting words in my mouth, Amelia. I’m just saying, let go of the need to protect yourself and you might be surprised where it gets you. Besides, you should know, no one’s going to blame you if the paper folds. And it might be worth asking yourself why you’d rather fight for paper and ink and other people’s futures than your own.”

  Don’t panic.

  But with the wind rattling through tents, and swaying tree branches batting against a now-steady rain, alarm choked Logan. He threaded through the square, Rick on his heels.

  “Where did you see her last?”

  “I told you, she was playing in the band shell. I just saw her five minutes ago.” Or had it been longer? He and Bear had been talking . . .

  Rick’s steps crunched over a fallen branch behind him. “Who was she with?”

  “Several kids. A couple moms were watching them—”

  “Names, Logan.” A crack of thunder punctuated Rick’s demand.

  And Logan’s heart thudded at the thought of Charlie cowering against the sky’s growl. Without him. He turned a circle in the middle of the lawn, rain now trailing down his face in rivulets.

  Surely she was with one of those parents. With . . . someone.

  He scoured the groups of people huddled under awnings—most of them laughing, shaking their heads, this almost-storm a joke.

  “Logan!” Rick yanked on his arm, fingers digging into his flesh.

  Logan spun at the pull. “You’re not helping.” The words came out tense, tight, as he looked past Rick.r />
  “Neither are you, running around half-cocked. Maybe if you’d been watching her in the first place—”

  “Don’t.”

  “What were you thinking bringing her? You knew it was supposed to storm.”

  “I didn’t think it would roll in so fast.” But he should’ve known. As soon as the clouds had thickened, he should’ve loaded Charlie back into the car so they could sit out the storm at home, where he could rock away her fear.

  But no. He’d wanted to be here. Wanted to be a part of the event.

  Wanted to see Amelia.

  Rick stepped closer. “You didn’t think at all.”

  “Logan?” Dad’s voice barely registered as he jogged over.

  “This,” Rick said, tone black. “This is why Helen and I asked what we did. About Charlie living with us.”

  “I don’t have time for this now.” Did Rick really think they were going to argue this out in the middle of the square, in the rain, when he didn’t know where his daughter was?

  He pictured her then, back in LA, in the walk-in where she always hid. In the tulle of Emma’s wedding dress. And the urge to start running, calling for her, nearly overcame him.

  Rick was only inches from him now. “She deserves more than a dad who would lose her in a storm.”

  Something snapped in Logan then. Something untamed and unchecked.

  Something scared.

  And he punched his father-in-law, hand connecting with Rick’s cheek in a flash that rivaled the lightning. He felt the jolt of his own shock, the flinch of his anger . . .

  And Dad pulling him backward. “What in the world is happening here?”

  “I can’t find Charlie.”

  Rick just stood there, working his jaw, one hand on his cheek, the other balled.

  “She’s terrified of thunder, Dad.”

  “We’ll find her.” Dad eyed Rick as he spoke, tone even. “We’ll start spreading the word. Get out your phone. Text your sisters.”

  His knuckles stung as he dug into his pocket. Oh Lord, he’d hit his father-in-law, let his fear turn into anger and just completely lost it.

  Concentrate on Charlie. Worry about Rick later.

  “She was playing in the band shell. There were a couple parents . . .” Names, like Rick had said. All he could find were faces. “The p-pastor’s wife, she was there. And that teenager Colton mentors—his foster mom was there, too.”

  “Laura Clancy. I’ve got her number.” Dad pulled out his own phone. “Rick, you might want to get some ice.”

  But no sooner had Dad lifted his phone to his ear than Raegan’s voice carried above the wind and the crowd. He swung around, focus panning for the sight of her. And there, underneath the shelter of a jacket Bear held over their heads, was Raegan with Charlie in her arms.

  Logan’s feet carried him through the grass, relief like the wail of the wind, and it was all he could do not to wrench Charlie from Raegan’s hold when he reached her.

  “When the lightning started, Laura got worried, but she didn’t see you.” Raegan’s explanation tumbled out. “She took Charlie to The Red Door.”

  “Thanks, Rae.” Lightning jagged through the sky. “Hey, sweetheart.”

  Charlie reached for him, but nowhere were the tears he’d expected. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he ducked under a tent.

  “You’ve been on a bit of an adventure, haven’t you?”

  “I’m wet, Daddy.”

  The thrumming in his heart slowed. “What’s that?”

  She palmed his hair. “And you’re wet.”

  He hadn’t imagined it. Six little words. Two little sentences. He could kiss the rain.

  “We are wet. We should get home and change, yeah?” Her hands slid from his hair to his cheeks. She always liked it when he didn’t shave. “I love you, Charlie, you know that, yeah?”

  Sometime in the past few seconds, Dad had joined them under the tent. He met his father’s eyes. Read the delight there.

  But Rick had followed them over, too. He stood at a distance now, watching. And even from where Logan stood, even through the rain, the red of his cheek smarted Logan’s conscience. Dad followed his gaze.

  “You’ll apologize, Logan. He’ll realize you were just worried.”

  “I don’t know,” Logan replied when Rick turned and walked away. “I have a feeling this could be bad.”

  15

  Logan assumed the footsteps swishing through wet grass belonged to Dad. After all, Dad was the one who’d stuck the fishing pole in his hand and sent him down here to the little bridge at the bottom of the ravine, where a wandering creek rustled against the quiet.

  “Go on down to the creek, son. That bridge is this whole family’s thinking spot.”

  If it could be called a bridge. More like a few boards nailed together that had somehow survived last year’s tornado. Sturdier than they looked, he supposed.

  But when the steps paused behind him, and he towed his gaze from where his rod’s weighted hook bobbed in the murky water to the surface of the bridge, it wasn’t Dad’s Reeboks he saw.

  “Hey.” Amelia’s greeting was soft, landing just as he looked up.

  She’d left her hair free today, and it billowed around her face, caught—like reeling leaves and grass and reedy branches—in the windy wake of this morning’s storm. “Hey.”

  She sat down beside him, folding her legs and wrinkling her nose as she settled on wet wood. “Glad I’m not wearing white pants.”

  The storm had left a tinge of cool air behind, and it sifted over him now. “Whatcha doing here, Amelia Bentley? I thought you hadn’t missed a town event since the day you moved here?”

  “There’s a first for everything.”

  “How are we doing on headlines for next week? You skipping the Market might belong on the front page.”

  She drew her cloth bag onto her lap. “Wanted to bring you this.” She pulled out a bag of frozen peas. “Makeshift ice pack.”

  He didn’t know whether to laugh or sigh or just lean in to the concern in her eyes and spill every detail of this morning and every anxiety that’d choked him since.

  Instead, he asked, “How’d you know?”

  “It’s Maple Valley, Logan. You can’t pick a dandelion without someone seeing and finding a reason to spread the word. You go and throw a punch in the square and you’re looking at five minutes—ten minutes, tops—until the news reaches the county line.” She held up the bag. “I know it’s been a couple hours already, and this is barely even cold still, but . . .”

  He set his fishing pole on the bridge and accepted the limp bag, settling it over his fist.

  A leftover drop of rain from a bending tree landed on her cheek, and she brushed it away. “Now I feel like I did something helpful.”

  Didn’t she know just finding him here was helpful? Hadn’t she felt the same blah-ness as he had in the past day of barely seeing each other? “I was freaking out because we couldn’t find Charlie. Rick said things. And really, this has probably been building a long time. But I’ve never just . . . hit someone like that.” Except Beckett when they were kids and playing superheroes.

  And it wasn’t just Rick that had set him off, if he was honest. It was realizing the full cost of his D.C. dream. Having exactly zero clue what to do. Knowing how many people were waiting on him—Cranford and Hadley and Theo.

  It was wanting so desperately to do the right thing for Charlie but not knowing what the right thing was.

  It was Amelia. Even now, with bruised knuckles and the clock ticking on his time in Maple Valley, he couldn’t deny his desire any longer.

  “Confession,” she said. “I tried to conjure the image of you punching someone on my way over. Couldn’t exactly picture it.”

  He mustered a half-smile. “If I thought things were bad with Emma’s parents before . . .” The perspiration from the bag of peas seeped through his fingers and onto his jeans.

  Emma. Did it bother Amelia when he brought her up?
If so, she didn’t show it. Only tipped her head toward his pole. “You were fishing?”

  “Uh, kind of. The creek’s pretty shallow, so there’s not much to fish for. Crappies are the best bet, a stray bluegill here and there. Mostly the pole’s just an excuse to come down here and . . . I don’t now, fish away my frustration, I guess. Kate always came down with a book. Raegan with her iPod.”

  “And your brother?”

  Now he did grin. “Beckett always brought a girl.” A twinge accompanied the memory. Man, he missed his brother. Didn’t always realize how fully, but it grabbed hold of him now. “Mom and Dad came here more than anyone, though. This is where they had their first date, where Dad proposed. And when we moved back to Iowa, they jumped at the chance to buy the land.”

  “I forget sometimes you guys lived out East.”

  “Yep, ’til I was eight. Feels like a different life sometimes.” Sorta like LA felt now. Had it really only been a couple months since he’d been there?

  “I’ve never been fishing before. Can you believe that?”

  “Never? Didn’t you grow up in Iowa? What’d you do in the summer?”

  She shook her head. “I’d say, but you’d never let it go.”

  “Now you have to tell me.” He leaned closer to her. “Tell me, and I’ll teach you to fish.”

  “Fine, but only because some Huck Finn piece of me thinks fishing could be fun.” She reached around him for his pole. “History camp. Grades three through nine, I went to history camp every summer.”

  His laugh cut through the trees, his first since walking away from the square today, Charlie in his arms, wondering how he could’ve messed things up so badly. “Only you, Hildy.”

  “No, not only me. There were always at least five other kids there.” She jiggled the line dangling from his rod. “So I just drop this in the water? Don’t I need a worm?”

  He caught the hook midair. “Nope, I’m just using synthetic bait. If we were really doing this right, I’d teach you to thread the end of the line through your hook, make a clinch knot, and dig for a worm to impale. But you’re gonna get off easy since I already did the prep work. As for casting, this is a push-button spinner reel, so it’s easy.” He pointed out the pieces of the reel. “Pushing this releases the line, letting go stops it.”