by Cindy Kirk
Robin enjoys being with her family, spending time in the beautiful Idaho outdoors, reading books that make her cry, and watching romantic movies. She and her husband make their home on the outskirts of Boise, sharing it with Poppet, the high-maintenance papillon, and Princess Pinky, the DC (Demon Cat).
To Wendy Lawton
It’s important for an author to have a good agent, but it’s a blessing for an author to have an agent who is also a good friend! This one is for you
“Have you finished that special feature on the historical society’s fashion show yet, Mac?”
Mackenzie Davis smiled up at her editor as she discreetly hit the Send button. “It should be in your in-box, Mr. Buchanan.”
Right about . . . now.
“Great!” Grant Buchanan stepped into Mac’s cubicle and held up a sheet of paper. “Because I’ve got the perfect story for you.”
“Great,” Mac echoed, trying to match the editor’s enthusiasm. The last time Grant claimed he had the “perfect” story for her, she’d been sent to interview the cheerleading squad about their upcoming fall fund-raiser. Forcing Mac to relive certain moments she’d rather forget.
Like all four years of high school.
“I guarantee this will have the whole town talking.” Grant continued to hold the piece of paper just beyond her reach, the proverbial carrot dangling in front of a hungry reporter’s nose.
“Senator Tipley agreed to an interview?” Mac was the one who’d found out the politician planned to spend a week at a friend’s cabin a few miles north of Red Leaf. She was also the one who’d hinted that someone should set up a meeting with Tipley to discuss his stand on proposed cuts to Wisconsin’s tourism budget. And Mac wanted—no, needed—that someone to be her. The interview would be her ticket out of Red Leaf.
“Senator—no, this is better.” He slapped the paper down on the desk, creating a breeze that ruffled the collage of multicolored Post-it notes stuck to Mac’s bulletin board.
She glanced down and the one-word subject line shattered the front-page byline dancing in her head. “A . . . wedding?”
“That’s right.” Grant looked so happy, one would think he’d come up with the concept. “What do you think?”
Probably not a good idea to tell him what she was thinking. Not when Mac practically had to beg the man to hire her in the first place.
In a world where people had instant access to the headlines on their cell phones and tablets, the Red Leaf Register’s survival depended on low overhead costs—Grant’s wife, Beverly, and her twin sister worked for free—and good old-fashioned loyalty. The weekly newspaper had been around as long as the town itself because really, where else could people list their children’s accomplishments or find out the stats for the men’s summer baseball league?
Grant hadn’t been looking for a reporter, but the fact Mac had a minor in photography seemed to tip the balance in her favor. Kind of a two-for-the-price-of-one special. It probably hadn’t hurt that she’d turned in her résumé on the opening day of fishing season, either.
Mac hadn’t cared. She needed a job and working for the Register would give her experience. An opportunity to write stories—serious stories—that would capture the attention of a larger newspaper. Except . . . no one in Red Leaf seemed to take her seriously. After being assigned to attend the garden club’s monthly meetings instead of the city council’s, Mac realized that in her editor’s eyes—and in everyone else’s—she would always be little Mac Davis. The coach’s daughter.
And right here, in black and white, was the proof.
Trying to hide her disappointment, Mac dropped her gaze to the first sentence of the e-mail and her heart stalled. “Hollis Channing”—she practically strangled on the words—“is getting married? In Red Leaf?”
Grant’s eyebrows hitched together over the bridge of his nose. “Brides traditionally return to their hometown to tie the knot, don’t they?”
“Yes, but the Channings moved away years ago.” Ten, to be exact. Not that Mac was counting.
“The family never sold the house on Jewel Lake after Dr. Channing passed away, so maybe they still feel some sort of connection to the town,” Grant pointed out. “It doesn’t really matter why Hollis chose to get married here. The Register is going to be there every step of the way.”
“But . . .” Mac pushed out a laugh even though the expression on her boss’s face told her that he wasn’t joking. “Newspapers don’t cover weddings. At least, not unless you’re a celebrity.”
“Or marrying one.” Grant smiled. “Hollis is engaged to Connor Blake.”
“Connor Blake the actor?” Mac recognized the name immediately. Critics who’d previewed Dead in the Water were already predicting that Connor’s big-screen debut about a rookie cop who takes on a powerful drug cartel would be a runaway hit at the box office when it opened in three months over Thanksgiving weekend.
“That’s right.” Grant spread his hands apart, framing an invisible headline in the air. “Future Academy Award Nominee Marries Daughter of Prominent Local Family.”
Given the recent buzz surrounding Connor Blake, Mac couldn’t refute her editor’s claim. But Hollis, a local? That was a bit of a stretch.
“The Channings live in Chicago,” Mac muttered.
“Doesn’t matter. This is going to sell newspapers. Lots of newspapers. People love all that hoopla, happily ever after, blah, blah, blah,” Grant went on, revealing the heart of a true romantic. “Don’t you remember how big the wedding reenactment went over last fall? It was the highlight of the historical society’s open house.”
How could Mac forget? Grant had given her that assignment too. Annie Price and county deputy Jesse Kent’s wedding reenactment at historic Stone Church, meant to honor the young couple who’d founded the town, had been scripted—except for the part when Jesse actually proposed during the ceremony.
Grant expected Mac to do a follow-up story when the couple exchanged their real vows at the end of September, but she wasn’t sure she’d be in Red Leaf that long. In fact . . . Mac skimmed through the rest of the e-mail and found an escape clause.
Yes! Thank you, Lord!
“According to this, Hollis’s wedding is the last weekend in August.” Mac tried to hide her relief. “I might not be here.”
Not if everything went according to plan. It had to. Mac refused to consider the alternative.
“Well, you’re here now, aren’t you?” Grant didn’t look the least bit disturbed by the reminder, which Mac found . . . disturbing. Did everyone assume she’d come back to Red Leaf to stay?
When she’d returned to her hometown to take care of her dad after he’d suffered a mild heart attack, it was supposed to be a temporary arrangement. And yet here she was, a year later, monitoring his diet. Making sure he got his prescriptions refilled and didn’t overdo it. It was the last one that proved the most challenging.
Red Leaf’s beloved Coach—even Mac called him by his title—wasn’t going to let a little thing like a blocked artery prevent him from doing what he loved. Coaching football and teaching PE at the high school. And because Mac loved her dad, she’d put her dreams on hold and moved back into her old bedroom with the glow-in-the-dark stars pasted on the ceiling, the shelves lined with books instead of sports trophies.
“There’s going to be an outdoor ceremony and reception at Channing House, so I want you to get some shots of the property today. We’ll run them on the Local Scenery page in this week’s issue, get everyone talking about it—and next week, we’ll run part two of the story.” Mac could almost see the subscription sales rising in her boss’s eyes. “Interview the caterer. The florist. The guy in the penguin suit who’s going to stroll around the grounds with a violin. Anyone connected with the wedding.”
“That seems kind of intrusive.” Even as Mac voiced the comment, she remembered this was Hollis Channing they were talking about. The girl who’d been taking selfies a decade before there’d been a name for it.
“Intrusive? Here’s our personal invitation.” Grant rapped his knuckles against the e-mail. “I’m sure there will be other newspapers angling to get the details, but the Register has an edge.”
“An edge?” Mac realized her vocabulary was shrinking in direct proportion to her level of control.
Grant leveled a finger at her nose. “You.”
“Me?” Mac squeaked.
“You lived next door to the family for years. You must have been friends with Hollis and her older brother, right?”
Wrong, Mac wanted to howl.
When Hollis hadn’t been ignoring Mac, she’d made her life miserable.
And Ethan . . . Ethan Channing had broken her heart.
After searching underneath practically every stone that lined the overgrown walkway for the spare house key, all Ethan Channing had to show for his effort was half a dozen night crawlers. Useful for catching a stringer of perch on Jewel Lake but not for opening a front door.
You can’t go home again. Isn’t that what the old adage claimed?
Ethan dropped a set of rusty hinges on the ground and smiled. Not true. A person could go home again . . . Sometimes he just had to choose an alternate route.
Like a window.
He slung one leg over the sun-bleached ledge and eased his body through the narrow opening. The thick carpet muffled his landing but didn’t stop his knees from buckling as he took in his surroundings. He hadn’t simply found a way into the house. He’d stepped back in time.
The study looked exactly the way Ethan remembered it. The faint scent of lemon furniture polish remained trapped in the air, along with a whole lot of memories.
Three months after his father’s funeral, with the ink barely dry on Ethan’s high school diploma, his mom had closed up the house and they’d moved back to Chicago, where her extended family lived.
Lilah Channing preferred city living over small towns, a complaint Ethan had heard on a regular basis while he was growing up.
He still wasn’t sure why his mother hadn’t sold the house in Red Leaf. She wasn’t known for being overly sentimental, and when she wanted to get away for a weekend, she booked a spa vacation or a shopping trip to New York.
His cell phone rang, shattering the silence.
“And so it begins,” Ethan muttered as he saw his sister’s name flash across the screen. “Hi, Hollis.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking. How are you?”
“I’ll let you know after you answer the question,” came the impatient response.
Ethan smiled. “I’m at the house.”
A high-pitched scream pierced his eardrums. “Really? How does it look?”
“It’s still standing.” Ethan heard a rustling sound behind the wall and wondered how many four-legged critters had built tiny condos in the insulation during his family’s absence.
“What about the boathouse?”
“I haven’t been down there yet.”
“What’s taking you so long?” Hollis demanded.
“I’ll walk down to the lake before it gets dark.” Ethan went over to the bank of windows that overlooked Jewel Lake. Branches littered the yard, debris left over from a summer storm, and cattails crowded the shoreline where the dock had been.
Ethan frowned. Was it his imagination or did the boathouse look closer to the water?
“You aren’t saying much. Is it . . . terrible?” For the first time a note of uncertainty crept into his sister’s voice.
“We probably could have used a little more time to get things in order,” Ethan said carefully. Like two months instead of two weeks.
“That’s why my awesome big brother is there. To make sure everything is absolutely perfect—and to keep Mom from turning the wedding into a three-ring circus.”
In spite of the neglected condition of the property, Ethan knew which of the two assignments presented the greater challenge. “No pressure there.”
“I want to be sensitive to Connor’s feelings. He’s gone out of his way to keep a low profile.”
And then the poor guy had fallen in love with Hollis, whose mother didn’t know the meaning of the words. Considering the guest list for his mom’s annual Christmas party wasn’t a whole lot smaller than the population of Red Leaf, it hadn’t gone over well when the couple broke the news that they wanted to exchange their vows with only a few close friends and family members in attendance.
“There’s still time to elope.” Ethan was kidding. Kind of.
“Hey, you were the one who gave me the idea, remember?”
“I remember mentioning Red Leaf. You were the one who decided it would be a good place for your secret wedding.”
“Funny you should mention secrets,” Hollis said sweetly.
Ethan winced. “Good-bye, Hollis.”
“Ethan? I . . . I know everything seems like it’s happening pretty fast. But Connor and I . . . we just want to start our life. Is that crazy?”
Sunlight spilled through a seam in the clouds and turned the surface of the lake to gold. Ethan felt something in his soul, something that had felt off-kilter a long time, settle back into place.
“No,” he said quietly. “Not crazy at all.”
Not when he’d waited ten years to start his.
Mac took a shortcut through the hedge of maple trees that separated the sliver of land her father owned from the Channings’ sprawling lakefront property.
Like Coach, the handful of people who lived on Jewel Lake had crafted their houses out of logs and fieldstone in an effort to blend in, rather than compete, with the natural beauty of their surroundings.
Not Monroe and Lilah Channing. They’d built their home like the third little pig in the nursery rhyme. Out of brick. It rose from the shoreline like a miniature fortress, complete with twin turrets and a wall of windows that faced the lake.
Ethan’s mother had waged a campaign against the native flora, gradually bending it to her will until the yard resembled a golf course. A large patio—also brick—fanned out toward the water, and an adorable wooden gazebo with gingerbread trim had been built on the hill overlooking the rose garden. Since no one in the family ventured that far from the house, Mac decided the gazebo was more like an expensive yard ornament, its sole purpose to fill a bare spot on the property.
Well, not its sole purpose. Shaded by a hundred-year-old oak tree whose branches stretched over the property line, the gazebo had become Mac’s favorite hideaway when she was growing up. How many times had she sneaked inside and stretched out on one of the built-in benches, listening to Hollis and her friends’ laughter as they sunbathed by the lake?
She and Hollis might have been next-door neighbors, but contrary to her boss’s assumption, they’d never been friends.
Mac traced it back to an unfortunate incident at Hollis’s seventh birthday party, when Mac had declared she’d rather eat a minnow than have Betty Sadowski from the Clip and Curl Salon paint her fingernails pink. It was the truth, but in retrospect Mac realized she could have stated her preference a little more . . . tactfully.
That was the trouble with having been raised by a man who’d lost his wife to leukemia a week before their only daughter’s third birthday.
Coach spent more time on the field or at the gym than he did at home, and he never dissembled when it came to his players. He was fair but blunt, traits he’d passed on to his only child. It wasn’t until Mac was in junior high that she realized she didn’t fit in with Hollis and her friends, whose primary method of communication seemed to be giggling and shaking their . . . pom-poms.
Coach had done his best, but by the time Mac was a freshman in high school, she’d attended more sporting events than dances.
Nope. Not going there.
What was it about Red Leaf that resurrected every painful moment from her past? She was no longer an awkward teenage girl, harboring a major crush on the most popular boy in school.
You’re a reporter. This is a story. Yo
u have to separate feelings from facts.
But that didn’t stop Mac from wincing when she swept aside a curtain of wild grapevine and saw the gazebo. Harsh winters, the relentless scrape of the wind, and the summer sun had bleached the color from the cedar posts, leaving them as dry and brittle as bones. A thick crust of moss and decaying leaves coated the shingles on the roof.
Mac felt the strangest urge to apologize for the neglect. Whoever the Channings had hired to tend the grounds had obviously stopped caring at some point. The yard had shrunk to a small patch of green that stopped a few yards short of Lilah’s prizewinning rose garden.
Mac took a tentative step inside the gazebo and heard an ominous snap as one of the boards shifted beneath her feet.
Sunlight streamed through the lattice walls, creating an intricate stencil on the floor.
Focus.
Mac raised her camera and the gazebo shrank to one small frame.
And there it was. The tiny heart etched in the corner of the built-in bench. Most girls wanted lip gloss or nail polish for their thirteenth birthday, but Mac had asked for a Swiss Army knife.
The gift had come in handy the night she’d impulsively carved Ethan’s initials in the wood, all the while imagining the story she would tell their adorable green-eyed children.
This is the place where your dad and I fell in love. I was a freshman. He was a senior. He was the star quarterback of the football team. I was the coach’s daughter. He was gorgeous, smart, and popular. I was . . .