by Leah Atwood
If he could just get Colin home for Christmas he might be on his way to putting his family back together. And he still had time. The snow, the holiday decorations all around town made it feel closer to Christmas than it actually was. But today was only the first of the month.
He blinked to adjust to the dim lighting of the shed, wan rays of light streaking through cracks and highlighting floating dust particles.
Byron’s voice echoed off metal walls. “This the first time you’ve been in here since you came home?”
Drew nodded, picking his way across the dirt floor strewn with abandoned tools. He’d spent plenty of time in the woodshop next door, but had so far avoided this cavern. The shadows of old tractors, a combine, other equipment, clambered up the walls. Maybe it would’ve been quicker to run into town, buy a plastic shovel from the hardware store. Better yet, a snow blower.
Byron stopped in front of a grain wagon. “Tires are flat.”
Which was probably only the beginning of the repairs he’d need to find a way to pay for. Sure, living the life of a bachelor for the past decade since college meant he’d had plenty of years to build a tidy little savings account.
But no way could he afford to pay out of pocket everything getting the farm up and going again would require.
No need for Byron to know that, though. “Tires can be replaced.”
Byron only sighed, stuck his hands in the pockets of his Levi’s, tan coat with the John Deere patch stretching over his torso. “All right, son. I’ve said my piece, and my offer stands. If you decide to sell your land—”
Drew felt his jaw tighten. “I won’t.” Never mind how peculiar it still felt to even think of it as his land, his house. It had been less than a year since his parents had signed over the property—a gift he’d not asked for, one so unexpected it’d taken more than half a year to make the decision to actually move here.
And the longer he was here, the harder and harder it was to believe he could make a go of this. And the easier and easier it was to wonder if whatever divine nudge or guidance he’d thought he’d felt earlier this year was just his imagination.
“But if you change your mind, I hope you’ll see me first.” Byron pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket. “Or if you decide you need to hire on my boys to work it again this year, give me a call. Have a good afternoon, Drew.”
The man turned, bulky form silhouetted by the sun outside the shed’s entrance.
And for an uncertain moment, Drew had to fight the temptation to call after him. Just give in. Because what did he know about running a farm? Byron had said earlier that most area farmers had already purchased their spring seed by now. Drew didn’t even know what kind or how much or where to buy seed.
What in the world was he doing?
You’re being an older brother. You’re helping your siblings. He was finishing what Grandpa and Grandma had started. What Mom and Dad had given up on.
The farm, yes. But mostly, the family. “Oh, and Drew?”
Byron had turned at the shed’s entrance and he stood now, one hand at his hip and the other straightening his ball cap.
“Yes?”
“Almost forgot. My daughter wants to know if you’re available.”
His daughter? The scrawny kid with the freckles and high-pitched voice who used to play house with Leigh?
Correction, not a kid now. “Available?”
“As in, I’m pretty sure she’s making a pie right this very minute with every intention of getting dolled up and bringing it by.”
“Actually, I’m…” What? He couldn’t say “taken.” He’d been on all of three dates in as many years.
“I’m not big on desserts,” he finally said, an uncomfortable twinge in his voice. Only thing he could think to say and a complete lie, at that. He should feel guilty.
So why, as Byron chuckled and walked away, could he only feel the scratch of unease?
Because you’re worried Byron’s right. Worried this is too much for you.
Worried all the repairs in the world wouldn’t fix what was really broken.
But then, as he angled around a tool cabinet, he saw it…not the shovel he’d come looking for, but something better.
Grandpa’s old table saw. Somehow, despite its age and possibly only because of streaking sunlight poking through a hole in the roof, its gray metal glinted, almost gleamed with promise.
And suddenly he was nine years old again, wearing goggles too big for his face and ears buzzing with the sound of the saw’s hum, its vibration shaking his arms as his grandfather talked him through the movement.
“Always make sure you’re using a sharp blade. Dull blades bind in the wood and it can kick back at you. And never push the wood into the blade, just feed it slowly. There you go…you’ve got this, son.”
With a steadying breath, Drew turned and made his way back across the shed. Okay. He’d head in to town. Buy a shovel. Come back and get the drive scooped before Leigh and Winnie got home.
“I’ve got this.” A whispered promise.
But he didn’t make it to his car before his phone blared into the quiet. And the ID on the screen stopped him. Maple Valley School District. On a Saturday?
“Hi, this is Drew.”
Winnie?
“Drew, this is Principal Hardin from the middle school. I’ve tried your sister three times already—”
“She’s at work and when the restaurant’s busy—”
“I just need one of you to get to the school.” A hard edge sharpened the principal’s voice. “Now.”
* * *
It could’ve been Maren in the back seat of the antique Ford, its black exterior shined to perfection and the words “Just Married” scrawled in white across the back window.
“I can’t believe you stayed for the reception.” Remy’s voice reached over the cheers of the wedding crowd. “If it was my ex-boyfriend’s wedding, I would’ve escaped after the ceremony.” Sleet tapped against the canopy of umbrellas outside the church, the winter-white sky overhead smudged by gray clouds.
Not a pretty day for a wedding.
But at least the gloomy weather would make for a cozy evening. Tonight called for a crackling fireplace, mug of hot chocolate and a Christmas movie. Preferably one in black and white.
Yes, Maren would go home and crash—her reward for making it through Dean’s afternoon wedding, composure intact.
That is, after returning the call from her agent she’d missed during the reception.
“Scratch that.” Remy tilted her umbrella so it shielded Maren. Her best friend’s pitch-black hair was cut in a cute 1920s-ish bob that somehow defied the wind and rested in place. “If it were my ex, I wouldn’t have attended at all. Who goes to their ex’s wedding?”
“Mature, well-adjusted adults, that’s who.”
Or maybe more accurately, ones who still saw the guy at church each Sunday and moved in the same circle of friends. Ones who knew how obvious it’d look if they didn’t attend.
Remy hooked her arm through Maren’s “No one would’ve blamed you.”
Maybe not, but she hadn’t spent over a year and a half putting up an amicable front to blow it now. Besides, she’d made it through the day, hadn’t she? Managed to smile at all the right moments and pretend to be truly happy for Dean and his new bride.
And maybe she wasn’t pretending at all. Maybe a piece of her truly was happy for him. Just because she hadn’t found her own version of happily ever after yet didn’t mean she’d begrudge him his.
Maren leaned in to her best friend. “Regardless, I’m glad you came with. You’re the perfect ‘plus one.’”
“Of course I am. I remembered an umbrella, for one. And I totally pretended not to notice when you dumped a handful of those table mints in your purse, for two.”
“You saw that?” So much for covert.
“Yeah, and I made it a point to distract the rest of the table.”
The wedding crowd had begun to disband as Dea
n’s car disappeared around the corner. That man loved his antique cars—rented a shed on the edge of town where he stored three of them. She’d loved taking drives on county blacktops in the early days of their relationship.
But she’d never quite understood how he could spend thousands of dollars and possibly as many hours on his hobby and then turn around and call her writing dream “too consuming.”
And eventually use it as a reason to break up. “Maren Grant?”
The astonished voice behind Maren sounded at the same time as her phone buzzed again from the pocket of her knee-length winter coat. It gaped open in front, cold creeping over her legs and through the fabric of her dress. She’d welcomed the chill after the crowded warmth of the church’s reception hall. But now it scraped through her, harsh and jarring.
“I knew you’d RSVP-ed but I didn’t realize you’d actually…”
The voice trailed as Maren turned. Dean’s sister. The only thing she’d worked on harder than her plastic smile during the wedding was avoiding Elaine.
She tugged her coat closed, cinching the belt at her waist. “Nice to see you, Elaine.” Not entirely true, but polite, anyway.
“Yes.” Under her pink umbrella, Elaine combed her fingers through russet waves before nudging her hair over her shoulder. “And Remy. It’s been awhile. I never see you anymore.”
Remy tensed. “Well, you know how quickly social calendars fill. I can barely keep up with Maren here.”
Oh, please, let’s not do this, Rem—
“I mean, she’s a famous author. Always on the go.” Remy waved one hand. “You’ve read her book, haven’t you?”
Elaine’s magenta-tinted lips pinched. “I’m afraid I really don’t have time for pleasure reading.” “You’re one of the few then. Her first book has so many five-star reviews it’s like…constellations or something. That many stars. Between her writing career and changing students’ lives during the day—seriously, think Dead Poets Society—and dating a male model—”
Elaine lifted one eyebrow. “You’re with a model?”
Now hold on. One magical date did not a relationship make. She reminded herself of that fact every time she looked at the postcard Colin Renwycke sent eleven months ago. But oh, the temptation to exaggerate right now…
“Actually, he’s an actor. Modeling is just a side gig.” That much was true, even if the implication wasn’t. Colin had told her all about his acting aspirations that night in Minneapolis, his plans to eventually move to Hollywood.
Maybe that’s where he was now. Maybe he’d landed one role after another and that’s why she’d never heard from him again. Why they’d never had his promised second date.
Her phone buzzed again. A text this time. And the perfect out.
“I’m sorry, Elaine, but my phone’s been going crazy all afternoon. I should probably get going.” Remy’s expression turned I-told-you-so. “See, she’s annoyingly popular.”
Elaine only shifted her umbrella. “Yes, well, good day.”
The second Dean’s sister was out of earshot, Remy snorted. “Did she seriously just say ‘good day?’ When did we land in a Regency novel?”
Maren started toward her car, pulling her phone from her pocket. “You shouldn’t have done that, Rem.”
“Done what?” Her heels clipped on the sidewalk.
“Made me out to sound like Minnesota’s It-girl. The only reason I have a busy schedule is because I juggle substitute teaching and online teaching to keep from financially flailing. I write and I work, which doesn’t entirely scream social butterfly. And I’ve been on exactly one date in the past year.”
She lifted her phone, scanned the text.
Dayton okayed the extension.
But this needs to be the last time.
She sighed as they reached her car, sleet streaking down its windows. At least it wasn’t cold enough just yet to freeze.
Remy lowered her umbrella. “Bad news?”
“The opposite, actually. My editor’s giving me another extension on my second book.” January15. A full month and a half.
If only the good news didn’t come with a sour aftertaste.
“Problem is, this is the second extension I’ve asked for. And I still only have a few chapters written.” And she couldn’t ditch the nagging thought that maybe the first book had been a fluke.
That this series and an initial string of great reviews were fleeting. That her writing ability might have an expiration date.
She dropped into her car, turned to Remy who was already warming her hands in front of the heater. “It’s more than writer’s block. It’s…I don’t know. Who peters out after only one book?”
“You’re not petering out, Mare. You’re just tired. You’re basically working two full-time jobs, maybe three considering those online classes. You’re constantly making trips to see family and attending writing conferences and I don’t even know what all.”
Outside, a streetlamp flickered to life as the last of the day’s pallid sun waned. “You need a break.”
“I don’t have time for a break. Whether or not I get to keep writing Ethan Whitney books, whether or not I get another publishing contract, basically my whole future—it all depends on how well this second one sells. It needs to be amazing, and I keep telling Dayton it’s going to be. Ethan Whitney is going to his hometown for the first time in ten years and facing his past and falling in love…at least, he’s supposed to do all that. But I’m…stuck.”
And her ex-boyfriend had just gotten married. She could tell herself all she wanted that she was fine with it. That she’d moved on. That she was happy for him.
But it’d be a lie to say “stuck” didn’t extend beyond her writing life.
She sunk her key in the ignition, but Remy’s hand on the gearshift stopped her from turning it. “Hand over your purse.”
“Why, you want a mint?”
Remy ignored her and pulled the purse from her lap. She unzipped it and reached inside, a couple mints spilling out as she pilfered through its contents. “No, I want this.”
She held it up—the postcard.
Maren’s jaw slackened. “How did you know—”
“That you still carry this thing around with you? I’m your best friend, Mare. Do you know how many times in the past year you’ve told me about Colin’s invite? ‘What if I actually took him up on it, Remy? What if I just showed up in Iowa?’ Do you know how often you’ve muttered that?”
Probably not nearly as many times as she’d replayed the night in her imagination. Coffee in a little shop that overlooked a bustling street. Dinner at a ritzy Italian place. That carriage ride.
And Colin—enigmatic and talkative—telling her all about his childhood, his hometown, playing with his brother and sister on the farm. She could’ve listened to him talk all night.
“It sounds so idyllic,” she’d said. And so different from her own upbringing—the private schools, the constant moves, Mom and Dad traveling so often.
“I guess it was in its own way. Lots of good memories. And…I don’t know.” Colin had shrugged. “Actually, December’s my favorite month on the farm. Everything’s white and calm and peaceful. The house gets drafty, but that makes the fireplace all the better.”
“Sounds like a great writing spot.”
He’d helped her out of the carriage then, one hand lingering on her waist as they’d stood on the sidewalk, snow salting the air around them and the faint cadence of music from a nearby restaurant drifting over the street. And for a few intoxicating seconds, his eyes held hers captive “You should come sometime. Seriously, spend a week at the farm and write your heart out. If I’m there, we can have our second date.”
She might’ve agreed to pack all her belongings right then, up and move to Iowa at his beckoning. But then his hand had dropped and he’d stepped back, the magic moment broken. “Although, most likely, you’d have the place to yourself.”
“Wait, no one lives there now?”
�
��Not since my parents retired and moved to Arizona. The house just sits there empty most of the time. A neighbor farms the land. Drew keeps hounding us to get together at the farm for Christmas, but…” He’d looked to the ground. “Anyway, consider it an open invitation.”
Remy propped the postcard on the dash in front of them now, covering the clock, its corners frayed and Colin’s scribbled words staring back at her.
“You always say your favorite scenes to write are the big moments. The ones that change everything.”
“Rem—”
“Make a big moment happen. Stop asking ‘What if?’ and actually do something.” “Like what? Randomly show up at a farm in Iowa?”
“Yes, exactly. If nobody’s there, great. Take Colin up on his invitation and spend some time writing there. That’s the joy of substitute teaching. You’re scot-free if you want to be. You can teach your online classes from anywhere. And if someone is there, if Colin’s there…” Remy grinned. “You get yourself that second date.”
The thought bubbled through her. What if… No, it was a completely daft idea.
Except sometimes the best things came from daft ideas. Like when she’d written a book and hoped against hope for a publishing contract, even when the industry blogs and experts and everyone said the chances of breaking out as a debut author were scant. Like when she’d joked to her editor about wanting to meet Colin and then it’d actually happened and…
What if…?
“I don’t have any way of contacting Colin.” She’d actually gotten brave enough to try his phone number once back in February. Disconnected. “I guess I could Google him. I could dig up an email address or maybe he’s on Facebook.”
“Or you could nix wasting any time and hit the road, baby.” “I don’t even know where the farm is.”
“You know it’s in Iowa, so basically next door, and you know the town name and Colin’s family’s last name. The internet can take it from there.” Remy reached over to turn the key in the ignition.