by Cindy Kirk
“But you weren’t happy here.”
“I was happy with him.” Their eyes met in the mirror and she smiled. “Your father was home to me . . . everything else was just geography. I don’t think I told him that often enough.
“After he died, I couldn’t face the memories. The whole town was grieving and I didn’t feel strong enough to carry their burden and the weight of my own grief. Besides that, Chicago was my home too. Your grandparents were there. Friends I’d known since high school. I knew your father would understand why I couldn’t stay.”
“If you never planned to come back, why didn’t you sell the house?”
“Because”—his mom reached out and straightened his tie—“even though I wanted my son to have a prestigious, fulfilling career in Chicago, I had a feeling that someday he would need a place to live.”
Ethan wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. “You knew I’d want to come back?”
“Ethan. Please. I’m your mother. I know everything. I also know you’re going to be a brilliant doctor and this little town won’t even realize how blessed they are to have you.”
Ethan finally found his voice. “I’m the one who’s blessed.”
“Your father would have said that too.”
Ethan wrapped her in a hug and breathed in the familiar scents of hair spray and White Diamonds. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Not so tight, dear. Satin wrinkles.” But she clung to him a moment longer. “I’m proud of you, Ethan,” she whispered. “I haven’t told you that often enough, either.”
“I suppose I better get ready to walk my baby sister down the aisle.” Before Ethan started blubbering like a baby and was forced to turn in his man card.
“It gives me peace, knowing my child found someone who will love them as much as your father and I loved each other.”
“Connor and Hollis will have a great life together.”
His mother tucked her arm through his. “Who said I was talking about them?”
“You did a great job on the interview.”
Mac lifted her head at the sound of Grant’s voice. She hadn’t expected him to stop by the office on a Saturday. “Do you really think so?”
“Don’t you?” her editor countered.
The words on Mac’s computer monitor blurred. “It’s hard to be objective about your own work.”
“Fishing for compliments?”
Mac shook her head. “Just the truth.”
“Well, then, here it is.” Grant gripped the edge of her desk and hunkered down until they were almost nose to nose. “You’re a gifted writer, Mackenzie.”
Mac stared at him in disbelief. “Then why won’t you give me a real story? You want me to cover garden club meetings and fashion shows and community fund-raisers. It’s like you don’t trust me.”
“Not trust you?” Grant sputtered. “You’re the only one I do trust . . . because people trust you.”
“Because I’m Coach’s daughter.”
“Because you’re . . . you. You don’t just ask questions; you listen. Remember when I sent you over to Lakeland Terrace to take a picture of Sylvia Morris because she was about to celebrate her one hundredth birthday?”
“Of course I do.”
“You didn’t just take a picture of her, did you? You interviewed her for almost two hours.”
Mac wasn’t sure where Grant was going with this. She’d noticed a wicker basket filled with crocheted baby blankets in Sylvia’s room and found out the woman sent them to an orphanage in Uganda where her granddaughter served as a missionary.
On the way back to the newspaper, Mac had decided a photograph of Sylvia wasn’t enough.
“Sylvia’s an amazing woman, but she didn’t see herself that way.”
“That’s what I’m talking about, Mac. The stories you write . . . they’re like a mirror. People see themselves and realize they matter.”
Mac jumped when Grant pounded his fist on the desk like a gavel.
“If that editor at the Heritage isn’t smart enough to hire you when he reads that interview with Blake, then I will. As my assistant editor. Now I have a wedding to attend.”
“You’re going to Hollis’s wedding?”
“Beverly bought a new dress. She can’t believe she’s actually going to one of Lilah Channing’s fancy shindigs.” Grant slid a business card across Mac’s desk. “And you have an interview with Senator Tipley in an hour.”
“But—”
“What?” Grant tossed the word over his shoulder as he stomped toward the door. “I’m still your boss and I promised you this story. This was what you wanted.”
Yes, it was.
So why wasn’t she jumping up and down at the chance to meet with the senator?
And why hadn’t she already hit Send?
The door snapped shut behind Grant and Mac closed her eyes.
What should I do?
As soon as the prayer slipped out, Mac realized it was the first time she’d asked God for direction. Asked him to direct her steps, the way Ethan had, instead of forging ahead on her own.
Mac had told Grant she wanted to write real stories. She hadn’t considered that was what she’d been doing all along. Writing real stories about real people.
People who’d known her for years. People who were frustrating and quirky and fascinating and amazing.
People she loved.
People who loved her.
Hollis was right. It did change things.
What do you want me to do, Lord? I promise I’ll listen this time.
Coach always said God had a sense of humor, but Mac still laughed when her cell phone rang.
“Where are you?” Hollis demanded.
“I’m at my desk.”
“I figured that out, but why aren’t you here?”
For some reason the imperious tone made Mac smile. “Because you’re getting married in . . .” She glanced at the clock on the wall and choked. “An hour.”
“I know what time the ceremony is. I’m the bride,” Hollis said. “I thought you were supposed to be covering the wedding for the Register.”
“You hired a photographer. And I can get the rest of the details from your mother.” The excuse sounded weak even to Mac’s ears. She was hiding, plain and simple.
In fact, she’d been hiding for the past few days.
From Ethan. From herself. From the future.
Hollis’s very unladylike snort told her that she knew it too.
“I’m not technically on the guest list.”
“You’re my friend.”
The Channing siblings didn’t fight fair. “All right.”
“I’ll see you in five minutes,” Hollis said.
Panic squeezed Mac’s chest, but it wasn’t because she was imagining what the ramifications would be if she postponed the interview with Senator Tipley. She’d just taken a silent inventory of her closet. “Fifteen.”
“Ten.” Hollis hung up.
He’d lost her.
One moment Ethan had been watching Mac teach his grandfather—a man Ethan was convinced had been born wearing a three-piece suit—how to polka, and the next she was . . . gone.
“I heard you’re moving back to Red Leaf.” Grant Buchanan, Mac’s editor, blocked Ethan’s path as he reached for a cupcake on the buffet table. “Would you be willing to sit down for an interview?”
“Sure.” Ethan discreetly scanned the yard. Where was Mac? He hadn’t been able to talk to her since she’d arrived for the ceremony. Their eyes had met briefly when Hollis and Connor were exchanging vows, but Ethan had been busy making sure the day went smoothly.
Now it was time to start thinking about the future . . .
“I’ll call you Monday and set up a time,” Grant said.
“A time?”
“For the interview. Unless you want to talk to Mac about it now.” Grant’s face was the picture of innocence. “I saw her walking up the hill a few minutes ago.”
“Thanks,” Ethan said ove
r his shoulder as he strode toward the path leading through the rose garden.
Mac wouldn’t be going home already. Not without saying good night. Would she?
His steps slowed when he spotted a flash of yellow inside the gazebo. Mac sat on the bench, stunning in the strapless yellow dress she’d worn to the wedding.
He couldn’t repress a grin when he noticed she’d kicked off her strappy high heels.
“Hey.”
Mac’s head jerked up. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the reception.”
“I know. I came up here to get some fresh air.”
“It’s an outdoor wedding, Ethan.”
“Truth? I wanted to ask you to dance.” Ethan held out his hand.
She stared at him. “Here?”
“Why not?”
“There’s no room to polka . . .”
Ethan ignored Mac as he drew her to her feet.
As if on cue, Hank Ackerman began to play a love song on his fiddle. The music provided the perfect accompaniment to the lap of waves against the shoreline, the spray of stars above Ethan’s head, and the woman in his arms.
Mac didn’t seem to know what to do. Her hands moved from his arms to his shoulders and back again.
“Did you forget everything I taught you?” Ethan chided.
Mac’s lips parted, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to kiss her.
“You remember?”
“Of course I remember.” Ethan spun her around and Mac’s fingers tightened on his shoulder. “It was pretty embarrassing.”
Color flooded her cheeks. “Tell me about it.”
“I have to admit it was the first and only time I’ve been stood up.”
“I stood you up?”
“I asked you to save me a dance, but when I got to the gym, you weren’t there.”
“I was in the kitchen. I thought . . .” Mac looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”
Ethan could tell it did. “One of the guys on the team called me when I was on my way back to the school. His car had broken down so I gave him a ride home first. I got to the dance a little late and looked for you, but I figured you’d changed your mind.”
“And I thought you felt sorry for me.”
“Why would I feel sorry for you?”
“Because I was awkward and . . . freckled. And I was dressed like a lion.”
“I remember that too.” Actually, Ethan remembered she looked kind of cute.
“I would never want to relive my high school years.” Mac shook her head. “I’m glad all that is in the past.”
The past. Right.
“Connor said the interview went really well,” he said slowly, unable to read Mac’s expression in the shadows. “You were worried you wouldn’t have a great story to submit with your résumé, but an exclusive with Connor Blake will get the editor’s attention. It looks like you’ll make your deadline for the Heritage and have your dream job.”
But what if her dream had changed?
Over Ethan’s shoulder, Mac watched Hollis and Connor dancing near the water.
The wedding gown was everything Hollis had claimed it was. Lacy and puffy and gaudy . . . and she looked absolutely stunning. And totally content in her husband’s arms even though she had no idea what the future held.
Maybe it was time for her to show a little courage too.
“No,” Mac said softly, “I won’t get the job.”
“You have to believe in yourself, Mac.” Ethan frowned at her. “You’re a great writer.”
“I won’t get the job at the Heritage because I e-mailed it to Grant. It’s going to be on the front page of the Register next week.”
“Why would you do that?”
“My boss made me an offer I can’t refuse . . . although he probably didn’t realize it at the time.”
“What kind of offer?”
“Assistant editor if Connor’s interview didn’t get me the job at the Heritage.” Mac peeked up at Ethan through her lashes. “But Grant didn’t stipulate that I had to apply for it.”
“You’re staying in Red Leaf?”
“It looks that way. Why would I leave a place I love, people I-I . . . love, when I’m already doing what I love?”
“I think I actually understand that.” Ethan released a slow smile. “But changing your plan . . . now I’ll have to change mine.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had it all figured out. I was going to make dinner reservations at Salvatore’s in Milwaukee. Woo you with chocolate and flowers and convince you that we could make a long-distance relationship work.”
“You were?” she squeaked.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty crazy about you, Mackenzie Davis, and I really hope you feel the same way.”
A good reporter always told the truth . . .
“I’m actually pretty crazy about you too,” she whispered.
Ethan’s hands tightened around Mac’s waist. “Then I suggest we come up with a new plan.”
“What kind of new plan?”
“A burger at the Korner Kettle tomorrow night. After that, we’ll take a walk around the lake and look for a full moon. How does that sound?” As Ethan drew her closer, Mac saw the promise in his eyes.
The promise of a future together.
“It sounds”—Mac smiled as Ethan bent his head to kiss her—“absolutely perfect.”
Kathryn Springer is a USA Today bestselling author. She grew up in northern Wisconsin, where her parents published a weekly newspaper. As a child she spent many hours sitting at her mother’s typewriter, plunking out stories, and credits her parents for instilling in her a love of books—which eventually turned into a desire to tell stories of her own. Kathryn has written nineteen books with close to two million copies sold. Kathryn lives and writes in her country home in northern Wisconsin.
VISIT HER ON FACEBOOK: KATHRYNSPRINGERAUTHOR
To Jason and Tara Hardin—for living out a real life example of love. I love your story and your hearts!
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of pastries is in need of a hungry man.
He was back.
The bell on the door to The Dough Knot chimed a heads-up as the tall, semidark, and handsome not-quite stranger strolled inside, head down as he typed on his phone.
Charlotte Cantrell tried to disregard the flutter of butterflies in her stomach, but it was rather like ignoring a herd of stampeding elephants. You didn’t linger in denial—you just got out of the way.
But Charlotte had nowhere to go.
Behind the display case full of pumpkin cheesecake muffins, orange-coated petit fours, and cinnamon pecan cookies, she pretended to clean the already spotless counter and tried to look nonchalant. Like it was every day a drop-dead gorgeous man with amazing hazel eyes walked into her bakery and placed an order.
It wasn’t every day—it was actually only every Tuesday at 5:40. She could set her watch by him.
Charlotte automatically reached to box his standard to-go order—two of her delicious, secret-ingredient giant snickerdoodles—and hesitated. Would it be good customer service to let him know she remembered his order, or would it just come across as desperate?
She might be a single mom, but she certainly wasn’t desperate.
She waited, taking the opportunity to study him while he was occupied with his phone. The sweep of dark hair over his forehead. The perfect cut of his button-down shirt.
Mr. Right, who came every Tuesday, without fail.
And bought cookies for another woman.
He looked up then, caught her in her hesitation, and offered a sheepish grin that made him all the more charming. “Sorry.” He held up his phone. “I had to answer that. My friend’s on his way to meet me here.”
“It’s no problem.” She forced herself to act nonchalant. Or tried, anyway. Attractive, polite, and apologetic for something as small as texting while walking into a business?
So that’s where Mr. Darcy went.
It was enough to make Charlotte swoon like one of Jane Austen’s heroines, but then there’d be no one to work the register, and Ms. Mystery-Right wouldn’t get her weekly treat. Besides, swooning had only left her with a broken heart in the past, and she had no desire to repeat history.
Mr. Almost-Right caught her gaze then and smiled broader, as if somehow he could read her thoughts. She blushed, afraid the heat of the attraction pulsing toward him over the counter might overbake the baked goods. “The usual?”
So much for pretending she didn’t know.
She was a glutton for punishment. The man clearly had someone else in his life, someone he cared about enough to make a special trip to the bakery every single Tuesday. And yet Charlotte had deliberately sent her friend and part-time employee Julie on her afternoon break at five thirty so that she would be alone when Mr. Right showed up. What did she expect? That he would throw himself across the counter and proclaim his undying love?
It didn’t matter. Julie was due back any time now. A new bride—Julie called her Bridezilla—was coming in to taste a wedding cake. Julie was going to work the counter while Charlotte dealt with the bride.
Charlotte had spoken with the woman on the phone the other day. She had managed to compliment and insult the bakery all at the same time, and yet somehow left Charlotte eager to please her.
Such evil was almost impressive.
“The usual, yes, please.” He slid his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled his wallet from the other side. No ring on his tanned left hand. A few weeks ago, she had wondered if maybe he was a single dad, and the sweets were for his daughter. She usually had a pretty accurate radar for picking out fellow single parents.
But all of his comments over the last month or so hadn’t added up to that deduction. Melissa said to tell you thanks. She said the cookies this week were even better than last. Melissa said she hasn’t had a cookie this good since high school.