by Donna Alward
She came back moments later, holding a takeout bag in her hands. “Here,” she said, putting it on the counter. “Charlie had some turkey left from what he cooked this morning, and I put in a scoop of mashed potatoes and some of the daily vegetable. And a roll with butter and there’s a piece of chocolate cake, too.”
“You’re a doll.” Aiden reached toward his hip, and his wallet.
“Just take it, Aiden.” Julie smiled but her eyes were soft with compassion. “The turkey was scraps and we’ll never miss a few scoops of vegetables.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. It’s a good thing you’re doing.”
“Thanks. Tell Charlie I said thanks too.”
She leaned over the counter and winked. “Who said Charlie has to know?”
Aiden smiled. “You’re a good woman, Julie.”
“Go on. Give the man a meal.”
He took the bag and left the restaurant.
George was still sitting under the tree, his ball hat on the ground beside him. He’d showered recently, Aiden realized. He must be staying at the shelter. But he’d lost more weight. Aiden went over and crouched down in front of him. “Hey, George.”
George looked up. He’d shaved sometime in the last day or so, and Aiden was surprised to realize that George wasn’t as old as he’d thought. The guy was mid-forties, if that. What on earth had happened to him to make this his life?
“Officer.”
“Call me Aiden. I thought we went through that before.”
George looked up. “I need to move, huh. Somebody complainin’?”
“No, you’re okay for now. You going back to the shelter tonight?”
George nodded.
“I brought you some dinner. When’s the last time you had a good meal, huh?”
George eyed the plastic bag. “It’s hit and miss.”
“You’re sure you don’t have any family around? Someone who could help you get on your feet?”
The look in George’s eyes was haunted, and Aiden dropped the subject. He handed over the bag. “Lady inside says it’s turkey and mashed potatoes and vegetables. And cake.” He grinned, hoping to see the man smile, just a little.
“What kind of cake?”
“Chocolate.”
“Damn,” George said.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” Aiden said.
“Naw, this’s good, brother. Thanks.” George took the bag, then pulled in his ball cap, which held a few coins and nothing more. He took the money out of his hat and held it out to Aiden. “Here. For supper.”
“You hold on to that,” Aiden said, shaking his head, feeling his heart pang at the man’s pride. “Tonight we’re square.”
George tucked the coins away. At the same moment, Aiden’s radio crackled as dispatch sent out a call.
He listened for a moment and then turned back to George. “I gotta go. Enjoy your dinner and be safe, okay?”
George nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Aiden walked back to his car. When he got there, he glanced over at where he’d left George sitting. George had opened his container and was already dipping into the potatoes and gravy.
An idea took hold, but he didn’t have time to think about it much as he hopped in and started the engine. But somehow, he determined, he was going to get to the bottom of George’s story. And then maybe he could help the guy get his life back.
CHAPTER 7
The May Chamber of Commerce breakfast was held at The Purple Pig. Laurel didn’t dress up quite as fancy this time, opting for plain trousers and a comfortable, pretty shirt. Willow had put up a sign in the window, saying the café was closed for a private function from nine until eleven. Laurel stepped inside and was assaulted by the delectable scents of coffee, cinnamon, and chocolate.
Willow was putting out platters of croissants, scones, cinnamon rolls, and a big bowl of fruit salad. Still feeling slightly out of place, Laurel went over to lend a hand. She’d rather keep her hands busy.
“Hey, long time no see!” Willow shot her a grin. Today Willow’s streaked hair was gathered up in a topknot and she wore one of her Purple Pig aprons.
“Hey.” Laurel smiled back. “What can I do?”
“Go to the back and grab the tray of butter and jams for the scones,” Willow said, putting a stack of plates on a long table.
For a few minutes Laurel helped out, marveling that her friend ran this sort of business. The sourcing of ingredients alone had to be challenging. Everything was either locally sourced, organic, or both. A couple of her employees were already doing prep for the lunch crowd. Laurel figured Willow must have been up before dawn to have all this baking done.
“So what’s new with you?” Willow took a moment to put her hands on her hips and stretch out her back. “Damn, I missed doing yoga this morning. It feels like my whole day’s off if I don’t do my practice before work.”
Laurel couldn’t imagine being up and doing a whole yoga practice before work, or even being zen before a second cup of coffee. She reached for a coffee cup and poured herself some of Willow’s special Fair Trade blend. “Lots and lots of work. And we need to get together soon so I can fill your ears.” She raised her eyebrows at Willow. “Now’s not the time or place.”
“Would it have anything to do with Aiden Gallagher and some lewd graffiti?”
Laurel choked on her coffee. “What?”
“I drove by the night of, thinking I’d stop in and give you a hand. I saw Aiden’s truck and it looked like you two were painting together. Feud’s over, huh?”
Oh Lord. Of course they’d been seen. “Sort of? Not really. I don’t know.” She had a hard time meeting Willow’s gaze so she made a point of scanning the gathered business owners.
“Laurel?” Willow came closer. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing. He stopped by and offered to help. We’ve buried the hatchet, I guess.” They’d done a lot more than that, too, and Laurel’s pelvic muscles contracted instinctively as she recalled how she’d locked her legs around his waist and let him grind against her. Oh Lord, she was in trouble.
“And you didn’t bury it in his back? Wow. He must be some smooth talker, because you hated his guts.” She frowned. “That night of the robbery, when he stopped by … there was tension between you.”
“Yeah. It was kind of stupid to hold a grudge that long.” She wasn’t sure Aiden was a smooth talker, but he sure was a hell of a kisser. Not that she was going to say that to Willow. At least not right now. “And Dan has news, too. When are you free again?”
Willow laughed. “I own an eatery that’s open seven days a week. How about you?”
Laurel sighed. “Same. Seriously, let’s grab some dinner some night after we both close. I could use a wise ear.”
“Me? Wise? Hah.” Willow laughed lightly. “Hold that thought. The blueberry scones are nearly empty. Happens every time.”
Laurel helped herself to a cinnamon roll and found a space to put her cup as she cut into the pastry with the side of her fork. Before long she was approached by Jack Sheridan, who ran a farm just outside of town and sold his produce at the Saturday Farmer’s Market. When he asked if she was planning to stay open through the holidays, and she said yes, they worked out basic details for him to set up a Christmas tree lot at the Ladybug. That sparked a new idea, and Laurel made a point of touching base with Molly Flanagan, a local artisan. If Jack sold his trees at her place, then she should look at stocking more holiday items, like handcrafted ornaments and decorations.
The coffee hour was almost done when Oaklee Collier cornered her. Oaklee was young, with perfect skin and long blonde hair that curled around her shoulders like it was from a shampoo commercial. It didn’t matter that Oaklee was sweet and nice. She was the kind of woman who made the person next to her feel dowdy and dumpy just because she was so damned attractive.
“Oaklee. What can I do for you?”
“Hi, Laurel. I just wanted to congratulate you on
rejuvenating the old garden center. The Ladybug looks fabulous.”
“Oh, well, thank you.” Laurel smiled, aware that next to Oaklee, her trousers looked plain and her hair was a dull brown rather than the color of a thoroughbred.
Huh. Thoroughbred was the perfect way to describe her.
“I heard that you did the window boxes for the businesses along Main, from Birch to Sycamore. They look lovely.”
“Everyone’s been so supportive since the break-in, and put in orders for their planters and boxes. It’s been a real boost for sure.”
“I’m glad. But Darling’s like that. We tend to support our own. I was sorry to hear about your divorce.”
She sounded genuine, but Laurel bristled. Most people weren’t so blunt about bringing it up, but she’d heard plenty of whispers at the meetings, and even in her store when no one thought she could hear. “Thank you,” she replied, her tone significantly cooler than it had been before.
But Oaklee was undaunted. “Speaking of town support, are you on Twitter? Instagram? I’m the social media manager for the town and while I always put out information on what’s going on in the community, I’d love to link to you and share. Instagram would be awesome for sure, because you could post pics of your products.”
“We’ve got a Facebook page,” Laurel said. Not that she’d been that great in posting often. “Honestly, I haven’t had time to set up more than that.” Her personal accounts had been neglected for months. The last time she’d logged in, the inspirational quotes alone made her want to throw her phone against the wall. Add to that all the DMs from old friends asking about the divorce, and she’d opted for a self-imposed cone of silence.
“Would it be okay if I stopped by sometime? I could help you set it up so that anything you post automatically goes to other platforms, saving you time. And if we add a town hashtag, I’ll be sure to see it and can share.”
Sure, Laurel thought. I’ll do all that in between all the other stuff I do all day, because I don’t need sleep anyway.
And yet Laurel knew Oaklee was right. The best way to reach a lot of her potential customers was online. “It’s not a matter of knowing how. It’s the time suck. Maybe I can hire a student to help me,” she suggested. “You know, keep my website updated and stuff. Though that might not work if I wanted to post stuff more than once a week.”
Oaklee waved a hand. “That’s what scheduling posts is for. And if you’re serious, there’s probably a co-op student from the high school who’d be willing to take on a few hours a week, particularly over the summer.”
“That’s a great idea.”
“I’ll give you a call,” Oaklee said. “Oh, and one more thing.”
Maybe it was Oaklee’s nonchalant tone that lured Laurel in. She really wasn’t sure. But she answered, “How can I help?” and instantly regretted it when Oaklee’s eyes lit up.
“You know we’re rejuvenating the tourism campaign,” Oaklee began, smiling brightly. “The picture of you and Aiden Gallagher is sweet, but it’s over twenty years old. We’d like to revisit that.”
“I told the mayor that I was fine with the old photo coming down,” Laurel assured her.
“That’s not exactly what we had in mind. We thought it would be really neat to re-create that moment.” She frowned slightly. “Honestly, all this should have been done months ago. Anyway, the plan is to use the new campaign for at least a few years, so what we miss out on this summer, we can capitalize on next.”
“I don’t understand. Where do I come in?”
Oaklee put her hand on Laurel’s arm. “We want the two of you to pose for a new, updated photo. I talked to Aiden already, and he’s on board.”
Laurel’s mouth dropped open, and she struggled to close it again and compose herself. Bad enough they wanted her to pose for a new photo. But with Aiden! And he’d already agreed. When? Because he hadn’t said anything to her about it.
“Oh? You spoke to Aiden?”
“Yes, a few weeks ago when we first came up with the concept. We’re going with a whole new branding for the town, and we’re going to put the pictures side by side. Didn’t anyone mention it?”
Laurel’s stomach turned. “No. This is the first I’ve heard of it. But surely someone else can model for it?” Even the word “model” felt strange in her mouth. She was so not model material.
Oaklee ignored her question. “We’re hoping for the second week of July for the photo shoot. Unfortunately, the photographer we want to use is booked for a number of weddings and graduation events. But it does give us time to plan and do the rollout right.”
Oaklee looked at her expectantly, and Laurel started to squirm. On the surface, it seemed like the obvious answer was yes. What would it hurt? But it was more complicated than that. “Do you mean just the two of us posing on the bridge?”
“Oh no,” Oaklee replied, flipping her mane of hair over her shoulder. “Didn’t I mention? The original has you in flower girl and ring bearer dress. We’d be putting you two in a tux and wedding dress for the occasion.”
Oh God. Abso-freaking-lutely not. For one thing, her relationship with Aiden was complicated and weird and … undecided. For another, it would be awkward as hell, dressing up in a white gown for a photo shoot—she was no model. Or bride.
And then there was the plain fact that the idea of putting on a wedding dress made her just the slightest bit queasy. It felt so wrong and fraudulent. Maybe she’d handled herself well, at least she hoped she had. But her divorce had still left scars. Pretend pose or not, it was just too soon. She’d done enough pretending over the last year to last a lifetime.
“I’m sorry, Oaklee. I won’t be able to help you. I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone else.”
Oaklee’s face registered disappointment. “But the whole premise is based on the photo from the past and re-doing it for the present. It’s a … a symmetry thing. It’s not just the tourism board either. We’re lining up press releases and the paper in Montpelier is doing a feature story. The bridge has always been a draw, but the new plan is to really put us on the map. The human interest part hinges on it being the same two people, don’t you see? Even the branding alludes to it. Kiss for a moment; love for a lifetime. Darling, Vermont.”
Laurel hated saying no. She wasn’t good at it. But she needed to learn sometime and now was as good a time as any. The idea of standing across from Aiden, dressed in a wedding gown … it would be uncomfortable. Humiliating. And then there was the fact that he’d kissed her senseless in her tiny foyer. Not that she had designs on marrying him, but there was still context. The original photo had the two of them kissing, an innocent preschool kind of kiss, but lip-to-lip just the same. Would they be expected to re-create that, too?
“I’m just too busy. My business is quite seasonal, as you know, and it’s taking up so much of my time. Besides, you’ll do far better with an actual model. Someone who knows what they’re doing in front of a camera.”
Oaklee’s happy expression had fled and her face flattened with clear disappointment. “Well, darn. We thought since Aiden had already agreed…”
Laurel pondered Oaklee’s age. If Laurel was twenty-eight, then Oaklee had to be twenty-four or twenty-five. Maybe she’d been too young to remember when the whole kerfluffle with Aiden had erupted. She certainly didn’t seem to fathom that Laurel and Aiden weren’t friends.
Or at least they weren’t then. Now … she wasn’t so sure where things stood. Not not friends, not something more, either. It didn’t help that he hadn’t even called since their steamy kiss.
“Sorry,” Laurel repeated, and tried very hard to sound sincere. “Good luck though. It’s a great concept.”
Before Oaklee could say anything more to try to change her mind, Laurel excused herself and snuck out the door. She walked all the way back to her house and stalked inside, unbuttoning her floral blouse and shrugging it off on the way to the bedroom.
Jeans, sneakers, her Ladybug golf shirt, and a tidy an
d efficient ponytail. That was her usual uniform. Maybe if Oaklee had seen her dressed like that, she would have abandoned any idea of having Laurel appear in the picture.
It was a stupid idea. Laurel laughed out loud at the very suggestion that she put on a wedding dress and stand across from Aiden. And when did Aiden ever wear a tuxedo?
Then again, he did look rather sexy, all buttoned up in his uniform. Aiden in a tuxedo would be hard to resist.
And why the heck was she even giving it a second thought?
She stopped in front of her mirror, stared at the figure there dressed in nothing but a bra and panties. She was nothing spectacular. Just … plain. She’d always been plain. The one time she’d really gone all out and been done up was when she’d married Dan in the big church with the tall spire and huge windows. That hadn’t been her. She hadn’t wanted such a big, elaborate production. Instead she’d become someone she’d wanted to be, pretended to be. Who she thought she should be.
She couldn’t do that again. Dan wasn’t the only one who’d lied that day. She had, too.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t put on a wedding dress and pretend to be someone else again.
* * *
Willow lived in an apartment above The Purple Pig. Or something like an apartment. It was all one big open concept, mostly dominated by gleaming maple hardwood floors.
Laurel closed the door behind her, inhaling deeply. Something smelled delicious, and her stomach rumbled. She really needed to start eating more regular meals.
“Heya,” Willow called out. She was standing in front of the stove, stirring something in a pan, her hair tied back in some sort of scarf. “I need to keep on top of this, but come on in.”
Laurel took off her sandals and left them by the door. There was something so sunny and open about Willow’s place. Maybe it was that she kept the window blinds up, letting in all the natural light. Or maybe it was the utter simplicity of the décor. There was a futon and a few comfortable papasan chairs on either side. Her kitchen table was small and only had two chairs, and there was another small occasional table beside the futon that held a charging dock and right now, a small laptop. Those two items formed the sum total of technology. The rest of the room was Willow’s yoga room. There was a Buddha, a stone fountain that trickled water, which Laurel couldn’t hear right now because of the sizzling in the pan, and a row of mats, blocks, bolsters and straps, all precisely organized. The walls were painted a creamy white, but the solid wall in the yoga area was a pale green. In the center was a large white lotus flower. It was airy and serene—just like Willow.