by Kim Amos
It wasn’t for trying. He had dates all the time. But he also had his business and his routine, and he wasn’t about to foul those up for a complicated relationship that wouldn’t go anywhere. Anna should know this better than anyone, Burk thought. She’d been the one with the best view of his heartbreak after Willa left, after all. She knew how determined he was not to let it happen again.
“We can’t all be as lucky as you and Sam,” Burk snapped. He could feel his stomach hardening all over again, the old pain from Willa’s departure weighing like a cold stone in his gut. Twelve years in, and he was still feeling the effects of the first one.
“Hey, easy there,” Anna said, “I just was curious if you and Willa—”
“My relationship with Willa is in the past,” Burk interrupted. “I intend to keep it that way.” He was shifting into contractor mode. Impersonal. Direct. He hated doing it with his sister, hated the hurt expression that flashed across her face, but he wasn’t about to let her stick her nose into his love life. Or lack of it. It had taken years for his hurt to scar over, and now that it had, he wasn’t about to risk opening that wound all over again.
Anna scooted back from the table. “More pie?” she asked, not looking at him.
Two pieces of pie were unheard of for him. But Burk accepted anyway, feeling small and mean. He’d been too harsh—he knew it—but he couldn’t tell her he was sorry. If he looked at her too long, he was worried his sister would be able to tell he’d kissed Willa. That was the problem with siblings. You needed them at the same time you wanted them to get lost.
Burk concentrated on his pie, forcing it down, while strains of The Who’s “I Don’t Even Know Myself” played in the family room.
Somehow, he felt like that was fitting.
CHAPTER TEN
Wednesday, September 26, 9:24 a.m.
Willa crossed her arms, staring at the small coffee table in her dining room. The room was still dingy, the plaster cracked and flaking, the floors scuffed and dull. The table itself was a holdover from her mom’s old junk. But there was something about it she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
It was as if the table was the link between her high-end decorating magazines and the reality of life in White Pine. Or at least, it could be the link if she could figure out how to paint it.
She thought about a light blue, the color of an afternoon sky, with the edges roughed out so it still had a worn feel. It would be shabby-esque, but then Willa could place bright glass bowls filled with lemons on top—and it would work. She knew it. The only problem was, she had no idea how to paint anything, much less a piece of furniture. She bit her lip. When it came down to it, she wasn’t even sure where to buy paint. Did they have that at the grocery store?
No. Of course not. It would be the hardware store, wouldn’t it?
She blushed, even though she was alone in the house. Her inability to know how to do simple things mortified her. How could someone grow up to be so clueless? She felt small and stupid, and wondered suddenly how she was going to make it on her own, in White Pine, without more help. What would happen when winter came? She tried to picture herself shoveling snow off the front porch, or scraping ice from her car windows, or lighting a fire if the power went out, and she couldn’t do it. She didn’t know how to do any of those things.
Yet. She would learn. If Scarlett O’Hara could make dresses from curtains and run a whole plantation, Willa could certainly figure out how to scrape some ice.
“That table giving you a hard time?”
Willa jumped, letting out a little yelp of surprise.
“Oh, hey, sorry,” Burk said, holding up his hands. “I didn’t mean to scare you. It just looked like you were giving that table the stink eye. Thought maybe I should break up the fight.”
Willa’s heart raced, but she wasn’t sure it was from being startled. It might be Burk himself, who was standing there in a white T-shirt and jeans, his flannel shirt discarded on this unseasonably warm September day. So much more of him was showing, from his knotted biceps to his thick forearms. She could see the rise and fall of his strong chest through the T-shirt fabric. The white cotton was in stark contrast to his stubbled chin and dark hair. Good God. She was reminded again how his body had been nice in high school, but nothing like this.
“You—you scared me,” Willa said, trying to get a hold of herself. After all, Burk had barely spoken to her since their short make-out session in the Volvo the week before. She was angry with herself for how totally undone she’d let herself get after a few good kisses. But she was furious with him for starting something and then walking away in the middle of it. Like she was a switch he could just turn off.
“You need a hand moving that out of here?” Burk asked, glancing at the table. “I can help before I get started on the ceilings upstairs.”
She followed his gaze. The safe thing would be to just put the table out on the curb and hope someone drove by and took it. Then she could flip through her magazines and find something else. Something new.
But suddenly Willa didn’t want something else. She wanted this table. And she wanted it blue.
“No,” she said, “I don’t need you to move it. I need a hand figuring out how to paint it.”
Burk grinned. “Paint? You’re telling me you—Willa Masterson—are going to paint a table?”
Willa put her hands on her hips, not liking his tone. “No. The only thing I’m telling you is that I need help figuring out how.”
Burk’s expression didn’t change. Damn him for looking so good, even when he was wearing a shit-eating grin.
“You? You are going to paint?”
Willa’s temper flared. “Why is that so funny?”
“It’s just that you’re not really the house project type.”
“Which is why I need your help, Einstein. What part of this aren’t you getting?”
Burk was still grinning, like the whole thing was going to send him into peals of laughter at any moment. Willa wanted to slap the expression off his face, but she forced herself to stay put, to keep breathing calmly.
“All right,” Burk said, his tone still amused. “Later I guess I could take you down to the hardware store. But I don’t want to spend hours on this, if it’s going to be one of those things you start and then just walk away from. Like your jewelry project.”
Willa fumed. It would be just like Burk to bring up something she’d done in high school and throw it back in her face. Granted, she had been really overzealous about making her own jewelry. She was convinced it was going to propel her to fame—all the Hollywood stars would wear her pieces. She bought the supplies—beads, clasps, wire—and then had no idea how to put them all together. It was Burk who sat with her, hour after hour, and helped with the designs.
Of course, she got bored with the whole thing after making two necklaces, a bracelet, and an anklet. It’s a wonder she even made that many pieces. And while she managed to sell the anklet to some freshman girl she’d practically begged to pull out her purse, it hadn’t exactly been a successful endeavor.
So, fine, jewelry making hadn’t been her calling. But it wasn’t fair for Burk to judge her by her past. The table would be different.
“That was a long time ago,” Willa said defensively.
“But you asking me for help for another one of your projects is right here in the present, isn’t it?”
Willa felt like she’d been punched. The past was like a living thing, stalking her wherever she went, ready to mortify her at a moment’s notice.
Asking him for help had been a huge mistake. She should have just taken the table down to Knots and Bolts. Maybe Audrey or Anna could show her how the painting process worked. Of course, Betty would probably hoot like a barn owl when she found out Willa didn’t even know where to buy paint, meaning Willa should probably do a Google search about all this on her phone, and figure it out for herself.
She straightened. She didn’t need Burk’s charity. She didn’t need Burk,
period.
“You know what? Forget it. I got this. You’d better get started upstairs.”
Burk opened his mouth like he was going to argue some more, then closed it. A tense moment passed. Then his nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry if I was rude just then. I’ll help you paint that table. I can show you how right now.” His voice was even, steady.
Willa narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me?”
“Let me help you.”
“No.”
A muscle in Burk’s jaw clenched. “Five seconds ago you wanted my help. Now you don’t?”
“Because you were a jerk about it! I’ll find someone else.”
Burk had that look again, like he was engaged in a battle of wills—with himself. She must have hurt him even more than she realized if he had to battle back anger just to be around her, even after all these years. “I’m sorry if I offended you,” he said quietly. “I just don’t remember these projects working out so well.”
“They didn’t in the past,” Willa agreed, “but people can change.” She felt like suddenly she was talking about more than just the table. She hadn’t done right by Burk in the past. But she could do better by him now, if he’d let her.
It seemed like a weighty thought, somehow about much more than paint and wood. Willa tried to stay focused. Table, table, table, she thought.
“Come on,” Burk said. “We’ll head down to the hardware store and pick out paint. I’ll get a couple other things we’ll need, and we can get started this morning. It won’t take long.”
Part of Willa wanted to stay stubborn and just refuse on principle. But here was Burk, agreeing to help, and she couldn’t deny that it was him she wanted. For the project, that is.
“If we do this, you have to swear that you won’t laugh at me at any point in the process,” Willa said.
Burk held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“You weren’t a Scout.”
“I buy my weight in Scout popcorn every year. That’s close enough.”
Willa cracked a smile. “All right,” she said finally, “let’s do this.”
“We can take my truck,” Burk said, steering her toward the front door. Willa tried not to notice his hand on the small of her back—gently pressing, a rudder guiding her direction. What would life have been like, she wondered, if she’d let him keep his hand there since high school? Not literally, of course, but what if she’d let him help steer her course instead of running away from him?
She squeezed her eyes closed against the tide of memories that came rolling back, and the tear in her life that started when her dad died. She’d felt like she couldn’t stop it, so she just kept ripping until she’d made a clean break with everything. Including Burk.
In the back of her mind, she pictured Lance and wondered suddenly if she’d chosen him because he looked like another pain-free option. After all, they were more like friends who had conducted a few failed experiments in the bedroom than actual lovers. Before he’d made all those reckless financial decisions, he’d been an advisor, a collaborator. But never the cornerstone of her heart. Willa pressed her elbows into her side, wondering suddenly if she’d loved anyone—really, truly loved them—since Burk.
“You okay?” Burk asked as they buckled themselves into the old truck.
If Burk knew what was on her mind, he’d probably just laugh at her confusion. She’d brought it on herself, after all. He’d probably tell her she was right to question her past and feel guilty. She had been foolish. She had been selfish. She had ripped his heart out when she’d tried to save her own.
So instead, Willa gave him her best Miss Dairy smile as they pulled away from the curb. “Never better.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wednesday, September 26, 10:10 a.m.
Burk steered the truck into town knowing he’d been too hard on Willa, just like he’d been too hard on Anna a few days before. He had to find a way to back off and be nicer, even though “nice” wasn’t really in his wheelhouse. Being determined, professional, hardworking—those things were no problem for him. Nice was a little harder, unless it was directed toward Juniper, who was so tiny and wide-eyed it was impossible not to want to hand her the whole world wrapped up with a bow. But if he expected his plan to work, then he needed to start catching more flies with honey.
Which meant that showing Willa how to paint furniture was actually a brilliant idea. He should have thought of it himself, really. Because when Willa started crying at the first broken nail or paint splotch on her designer jeans, he’d use it to remind her that this wasn’t the way of life she really wanted. It would be more proof that this house wasn’t for her.
The truck coasted down the gentle hill toward the river, then turned right onto Main Street. The sun was just cresting over the tops of the buildings, warming the red brick and glittering on the Birch River. Overstuffed scarecrows and fat, orange pumpkins graced the windows of the downtown shops. Burk glimpsed a sign advertising hay rides, and figured it must be Red Updike, who owned a farm a few miles outside of town. Every year, Red made a corn maze. Last season, he’d carved a path through the rattling stalks in the shape of the Millennium Falcon from Star Wars. Burk had walked through that maze. Twice.
A flap of a black coat caught his eye, and he glimpsed Randall Sondheim ducking into the Rolling Pin Bakery for his weekly donut. The pastor of the local Lutheran church had moved to White Pine a few years ago from the cold, flat plains of Minnesota’s Iron Range. He was devout and stony—but he allowed himself a donut once every Wednesday.
Burk liked him enormously.
Next to him, Willa yawned. “I forgot to make the coffee this morning. You think the Paul Bunyan Diner will give me some to go?”
Burk could smell the scents from the Rolling Pin even through the closed windows. His stomach growled. “They probably would, but the Rolling Pin has better coffee. We should go there.”
Without waiting for an answer, Burk pulled up behind Sondheim’s sturdy Buick. “Come on,” he said, “the first cruller is on me.”
* * *
Willa tried not to think about how Burk’s shoulder was brushing against hers as they stood in line at the Rolling Pin. She could feel the corded hardness, even through their jackets. And even over all the yeasty baking she could still smell Burk—like an evergreen forest with a twist of orange. She licked her lips, suddenly wanting to taste him as much as she could smell him.
To stop herself from reaching out and doing something ridiculous, she concentrated on the Rolling Pin’s sparkling display case filled with crullers and frosted donuts and turnovers. The store’s cheery green walls were paired perfectly with the white metal tables and retro art on the walls. A 1950s girl in a bathing suit smiled brightly from a framed poster, saying, A good baker will rise to the occasion!
In contrast to all the lively surroundings was the rounded back of the grumpy-looking man in front of them. “Usual,” was all he’d said to the aproned woman behind the counter. He didn’t say thank you, even when the woman began ringing him up.
“What was the place here before?” Willa asked, trying to remember back to the Main Street of her youth.
“Neilson Shoes,” Burk said, smiling sadly. Willa tried not to stare at the curve of his lips. “Ed Neilson closed his doors a couple years ago, when people started buying so much of their footwear online. Or going to Minneapolis for a better selection.”
“Poor Ed.” Willa could remember the tall, thin man who always gave her a cherry sucker when she’d come in with her mom. Times sure had changed for shoe salesmen—a dying breed.
“Actually, he’s all right,” Burk said. “Retired to a house on a small lake, about a half hour south of here. Good man. I still see him from time to time.”
Willa smiled, liking how Burk knew what happened to the former shoe salesman. That was White Pine for you, though—people checked in on one another. Sometimes out of caring, sometimes out of gossip. But they always checked.
>
She realized suddenly that she was staring at Burk, specifically at the tiny freckle underneath his right eye, which she’d placed her lips on a thousand times. He was staring back, watching her watch him. Her pulse quickened involuntarily. Damn Burk and the way he could just look at her and set her off-kilter. In all the years she’d been with Lance, he’d never been able to undo her with a glance.
Burk’s mouth quirked, as if he knew the effect he was having.
Good God, the man was smoldering.
To Willa’s dismay, he broke the stare in order to address the grumpy, black-clad customer as he brushed past. “Hello, Pastor,” Burk said.
The man stopped. “Mr. Olmstead. Fine day.”
“Certainly is,” Burk replied, reminding Willa how the weather was always a topic of conversation in Minnesota. He motioned to her. “This is a client of mine, Willa Masterson. Willa, this is Pastor Randall Sondheim.”
Willa barely had time to be hurt that Burk had said “client” in lieu of “friend” or “former classmate” or any number of things that would be preferable. She should know that making out in a car with Burk wouldn’t elevate her status in his eyes, but that didn’t change the fact that she wanted it to. Before she could think much more about it, the man turned his sharp eyes on her. “You live here?”
It was an abrupt question. No “good to meet you” or “fine day for a donut.” Willa thought about how to answer. “I’ve lived in New York for the past few years. But I’m back to open up a bed-and-breakfast here in town.”
The pastor grunted. Then, abruptly finished with the conversation, he gave them a curt nod and went back out into the September morning.