by Leah Atwood
Maren stopped at the upright piano that took up half the living room wall—a monstrosity of a thing in dire need of tuning and a new keyboard. Cheaper, probably, to replace the whole thing.
But Drew couldn’t make himself. Not with so many memories written into it like swirls in the wood’s grain. Lessons with Grandma. Colin’s once a week pleas to quit. Leigh’s collection of recital ribbons. He’d kept the piano as much for her as anyone, hoping it might bring back the same memories it did for her as it did for him.
She hadn’t mentioned it, though. Hadn’t tipped open the lid like their guest did now. Maren ran her fingers over yellowed keys as voices drifted from the kitchen. Leigh must be home from work.
“I love pretty old pianos.”
“Do you play?” He stepped beside her.
She lifted her gaze. “Barely. I took lessons as a kid, but we moved so often I never made it very far. But I don’t need to play well to appreciate an antique like this.” She tapped out a scale.
“Well, if you like antiques, you’ve come to the right place. Maple Valley has more antique stores than churches.”
“Colin mentioned that.” Her thumb landed on a high C. He could hear the key stick, its tone flat and muted.
“Actually, can I ask, how do you know Colin? I mean, I know he’s on your book cover…”
She seemed to sigh her words. “We only met once—on the day my publisher did the cover photo shoot. But we got to talking and we went out for coffee and that turned into dinner and…”
And of course. He should’ve known. Colin had wooed her. Because Colin was Colin and that’s what he always did. “But you haven’t seen him since?”
It was like watching a balloon deflate. “No.”
Had she hoped to find his brother here? For all Colin had apparently told this woman about Maple Valley and the farm, had he bothered to tell her he didn’t actually live here? That he’d been town-hopping for years?
But before Drew could ask another question, the voices in the kitchen ramped.
“You did what?” Definitely Leigh. Winnie must’ve made good on her promise to confess. “Where’s your uncle?”
He hurried into the kitchen. Winnie slouched at the small table in the corner of the room. “I’m right here, Leigh.” His sister still wore her coat, blond hair pulled into two half-undone braids and a paper sack over her arm. Dinner, probably.
“She broke into the school? And no one bothered to call me?” Exasperation—or maybe exhaustion—strained Leigh’s voice.
“The principal called you several times, and I called on my way to school. But we knew you were working, and I figured it’d be best if I went ahead and handled it. I already paid for the window she broke.”
Leigh’s eyes flashed. “Win, what possessed you to do such a thing?”
“I left my science notes in my locker.”
Drew leaned against a counter and blinked. Why hadn’t she told him that? Or the principal, for that matter? She’d let them think it was all a rebellious prank. ’Course, either way, she’d thrown a baseball through a window.
Leigh dropped the paper sack on the table, her voice ragged. “I really don’t know what to do with you, Win. I thought this was the answer, moving here. But I really don’t know.”
He yearned to reassure his sister. Tell her of course it was the answer. That it’d get better. They’d settle in and Winnie would loosen up. That she didn’t have to work so many hours at the restaurant. He could help with their expenses and—
The words gummed in his throat.
And then Winnie jumped from her chair. “Maren!”
His gaze jerked to the doorway. He’d left her standing at the piano. She looked as uncomfortable as he felt, hands hidden inside the long sleeves of her green sweater, only the tips of her fingers poking out.
“Mom, this is Maren Grant. She’s the author of that detective book. The one Uncle Colin is on the cover of.”
Winnie tugged Maren into the kitchen and he watched as the author’s eyes traveled the room. He’d just finished remodeling last month, right before Leigh and Winnie moved in. He’d sanded and painted the old cupboards until they looked brand new—white with frosted glass inserts. He’d built an island for the middle of the room, replaced the old countertops and installed a new farmhouse style sink.
“Mom brought dinner from The Red Door—that’s where she works. It looks like an old bank because that’s what it is, but this guy named Seth Walker—everybody knows who the Walkers are around here—turned it into a restaurant.” Winnie walked a still clearly discomfited Maren to the table. “Mom always brings way too many leftovers home, so there’s plenty for you.”
Leigh offered Maren a “nice to meet you” before sidling up to him as Winnie continued chattering. “What’s she doing here?” she whispered.
“Long story.” He shook his head. “Actually not that long. Just weird.”
“She’s staying?”
“Just for the night. In the attic.” Unless he acted on that impulse from earlier and let her stay longer. Pathetic as it sounded, she felt like a link to the brother he hadn’t seen since Colin stormed out last Christmas, right after Mom and Dad had made the announcement about their plans to give Drew this property.
Whatever rift had divided Drew from his brother before only intensified in that moment. And he’d been wondering for months if it was a pipedream, thinking he could convince Colin to return.
But maybe if Colin knew Maren was here…
“He said December is his favorite month here.”
“Yoo-hoo.”
The knock on the back door nabbed his attention. “Drew? It’s Diana Pratt. From next door.”
Next door? The Pratt Farm was three miles away. Reluctance anchored his steps as he moved to the door, Leigh’s knowing chuckle following him across the room.
He dragged the door open. “Hi, Diana.”
Her full-wattage smile competed with her flaming red hair for attention. And why was she wearing a dress and heels…while standing on his doorstep…while holding out a pie?
“Blueberry.” She said it without displacing her grin. “Fresh from the oven.” “Well, thanks, but—”
She crowded past him. “You don’t know what I had to go through to get Dad to keep his hands off this. He kept asking for a piece, and I kept saying, ‘Oh no you don’t. I baked this for Drew Renwycke and Drew Renwycke only and—” She cut off at the sight of Leigh and Winnie.
And Maren. Who held a French fry halfway to her mouth, something a little too close to amusement in her emerald eyes.
“Why, Drew…” Diana shot him a questioning look. “You already have company?
He looked from Maren back to Diana out the back door window to the woodshed. What he wouldn’t give to escape out there.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
While he was still cobbling together an answer, Maren crossed the room. She was at his side, arm extended before he could say a word. “Maren Grant. I’m Drew’s friend. His good friend.”
Um, what?
And why the heck was she lacing her arm through his? Looking up at him as if they hadn’t just met an hour ago?
“Well, I…that is…” Diana stuttered, focus flitting from their threaded arms to the pie in her hands. “I guess…here.”
She thrust the pie toward Maren, who dropped his arm to accept it, and then Diana retreated from the doorstep as quickly as she’d appeared, the door behind her closing with a wallop.
And his gaze sloped down to Maren. “What was that?”
She had a nice laugh—low-pitched and lilting. “I couldn’t help it. You looked so uncomfortable. Like you were wearing a shirt three sizes too small.”
“But I…you…she thinks…”
“That was kind of the point.” She gave his arm a consoling pat. “But I didn’t lie. All I said was we’re good friends. Way I see it, you found me climbing up the side of your house and instead of calling the police, gave me
a place to sleep for the night. That pretty much makes us friends, doesn’t it?”
She grinned and held up Diana’s offering. “And now we’ve got pie.”
* * *
It’s funny how life works, isn’t it?
You see, if Diana Pratt hadn’t brought over a still-hot blueberry pie on the same Saturday night that Maren Grant found herself sleeping in a farmhouse attic in Iowa, then Maren might never have snuck down from said attic in the middle of the night to eat a second piece.
She might never have found Drew Renwycke already in the kitchen, halfway through a slice of his own.
They might never have argued over whether blueberry pie is best served hot or cold.*
And Drew might never have found himself maybe kinda sorta liking the author from the attic. Enough that an unbidden, spontaneous side of him took over and he surprised himself with his own words.
But Diana did bring over a still-hot blueberry pie.
Maren did sneak down from the attic.
She did find Drew and they did argue over pie temperature.
And Drew did surprise himself when he said, “Hey, you can stay. In the attic, I mean. To write. If you want. If it’s helpful. However long you need to.”
And so she did.
*For the record, Maren voted hot. Drew voted cold. They both voted á la mode. Because, honestly, what’s the point of pie without ice cream?
Chapter 4
Maren was beginning to think Drew Renwycke had secrets.
Either that or he was out to give “strong, silent type” new meaning. “So you really aren’t going to tell me what’s happening right now?”
A snappish, winter air carried his answer. “Just wait. You’ll see.”
The wind grappled with the awnings hanging over quaint storefronts and tipped the tinseled decorations dangling from old-fashioned lampposts. They stood in the center of the town square. Glistening snow ribboned over craggy branches and capped the buildings that wrapped around the oblong block of white-swathed lawn. Christmas greenery traced the band shell in the corner and twinkle lights wrapped around every tree trunk in sight.
So this was Maple Valley. A week in Iowa and this was the first Maren was seeing of the actual town.
If only she had any idea what was going on. The crowd gathering around the square hummed with anticipation. And next to her, Drew seemed to be growing more agitated by the second. He’d zipped and unzipped his vest at least a dozen times.
“Well, if you won’t tell me what’s about to happen, at least tell me about Maple Valley. We drove past a sign for a historic railroad and museum. What’s that? And I heard Winnie talking about the restaurant where Leigh works. She said it’s inside an old bank or something?”
“Tell me again how tagging along with me today counts as work?”
There he went with the zipper again. Did the man never wear an actual coat? How many times had she seen him from the attic window traipsing out to the barn, the shed, that smaller building Winnie told her was his workshop, never more than a fleece pullover or the navy blue puff vest thing he wore now? Couldn’t possibly be enough to keep him warm. At least he wore gloves—even if they were the kind without the fingertips.
“It’s ‘work’ because I’m researching your town, Drew. The bulk of my second book takes place in
Ethan Whitney’s hometown. I need inspiration.”
She’d managed to eke out a good six chapters in the past seven days, but as soon as her fictional detective had stepped foot in his still unnamed town—first scene of chapter seven—he’d gone as silent as the man standing next to her.
“In the first book, I built up Ethan’s hometown to be this intriguing, almost mysterious place.”
Drew rubbed one hand over his stubbled jaw. “Hate to tell you this, but Maple Valley’s about as mysterious as a dandelion.”
Maybe not, but it was charming all the same. As if the town founders had crawled inside Norman Rockwell’s imagination before setting up camp. And it wasn’t just the town square. On the way into town they’d driven over an arched bridge, the cobalt waters underneath tussling against chunks of ice.
Drew had broken his quiet streak long enough to tell her about the flooding this past fall—how the whole town had pulled together to line the river ’s banks with sand bags.
“Maybe it’s not mysterious, but I bet it has personality. That’s what Colin said.” Was she imagining it or did Drew’s already dusky eyes darken? “Huh.”
The clumps of people around them seemed to be forming into a fanning shape in front of a man with a megaphone. Wait, a megaphone? Beside him, two other men were moving a pristine bench— had to be brand new—into a freshly shoveled slat of ground underneath an unlit lamppost.
Drew’s focus was on the activity in front of them. And when he spoke, his tone echoed with distance. “It’s just interesting, I guess—and a little unbelievable—that Colin would talk so much about Maple Valley when he hasn’t bothered to come home in so long. And last time I talked to him…”
She knew it was coming even before it happened. The trail of thought cut off before it reached an end. Drew always did that, clammed up when conversation approached Colin.
Not that they’d had that many conversations in the past week. She’d spent most of her time holed up in the attic.
And Drew? Well, the man would make an Olympic athlete look lazy. The light hadn’t gone out in his woodshop until after eleven last night, long after she’d set aside her laptop in favor of a book.
On past nights, she’d happened upon him in the second floor hallway on her way from the bathroom—or down in the kitchen when she’d popped her nightly bag of popcorn. Chance encounters.
But last night she’d purposely waited in the stairwell to hear his footsteps. When he’d appeared, smelling of sawdust and soap, she’d seen the weariness etched into his eyes. And wondered, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, what it was that haunted him. And what it had to do with Colin.
And maybe, truly, that’s why she’d really invited herself along today. Not just to explore this town, but to figure out this man who lived with his sister and doted on his niece and clearly worried about his brother.
“Drew—”
Almost as if sensing she was about to ask a question he didn’t want to answer, Drew dropped his arms and turned to her. “Okay, I’ll tell you a fun fact about Maple Valley. If you’re anywhere in town where there’s a crowd of people and you start singing a song, everyone will eventually start singing. Doesn’t matter what song it is. Someone will know it and join in and then pretty soon, everyone’s singing.”
“Like in a musical?”
“Just like.”
“Don’t know if I can believe that. I mean, I get that it’s quirky here. Or in Winnie’s words, ‘insanely weird,’ but that seems improbable.”
He nearly smiled. “You could start singing something and see for yourself.”
“And risk the chance that you’re just pranking me? That everyone won’t turn to stare at the stranger?”
The breeze riffled through his hair. “Oh, you’re definitely not a stranger. You’ve been here a week. You’ve been spotted by a neighbor. Most people here probably know your life story by now.”
“Too bad for them it’s not a more exciting—”
She was interrupted by the sound of a man clearing his throat into the megaphone. “Attention, folks. Attention, everyone.”
“Do you really need the megaphone, Milt?” a voice called from the crowd, laughter following his teasing question.
“That’s Case Walker.” Drew leaned down. “Probably the most well-known person in town. Which isn’t saying much ’cause everyone knows everyone here. But he’s a fixture.”
“And the guy with the megaphone?”
“The mayor. Milton Briggs.”
“So this is like a town meeting or something?”
Drew folded his arms again. “Or something.”
“We�
��re here today for a wonderful reason.” The mayor’s voice boomed, must’ve come out even louder than he expected. Because he shrugged and tossed the megaphone into the snow. “As you all know, in the tornado this summer, every single bench in the town square either disappeared or was damaged so badly it ended up in the bonfire.”
Maren inched closer to Drew. “Wait, there was a tornado this year, too? In addition to the flood?”
Drew only nodded.
“But thanks to a talented townsperson—a recently returned townsperson, at that—the square will be bench-less no more!” The mayor spread his arms at the announcement.
“Are we supposed to clap?” She whispered the question to Drew.
But before he could answer, the mayor was talking again, gesturing, and then, suddenly, pointing at…Drew? “And this is the fine young man who’s made it happen, folks. Drew Renwycke delivered this bench just yesterday. And has promised six more just like it by the Christmas carnival.”
Maren felt her own jaw drop as the applause started. “This whole thing is about you?”
The applause started then—and in earnest. People clapped him on the back, the mayor kept talking, and Drew—poor Drew—looked ready to bolt.
“Come up here, Drew. I want you to be the first one to sit on the bench.”
Drew held up one hand. “That’s really okay. I—”
“Nonsense. Get up here. Bring your girlfriend, too.” Wait, he didn’t mean…
“That’d be you, Maren,” Drew’s exasperated whisper warmed her cheeks. “But—”
“Remember? Diana Pratt? The pie?”
The next five minutes passed in a blur of hilarity. Drew was practically pushed to the front of the crowd, Maren with him. The mayor made a show of insisting Drew be the first one to sit in the new bench. Again, with Maren. A reporter named Amelia took their picture.