Yours to Hold: Ribbon Ridge Book Two

by Darcy Burke

  She shook her head. “Nope. Still not inviting you inside. I didn’t even invite you over.” She gave him a scolding look.

  He held up his hands. “Sheesh, tough crowd tonight. You sure your day was fine?”

  No, but she didn’t want to get into it. Listening to Ryan talk to her about contemplating suicide had been enough to drive her directly to the Xanax as soon as she’d gotten into her car.

  “It was fine. Look, when I’ve restocked my garlic and collection of cross-shaped mirrors, I’ll invite you in, okay?”

  He laughed. “Fair enough. I won’t push it, since I didn’t give you warning. I did want to ask you something.”

  She looked over at him, sensing a thread of nervousness that was sort of cute. Was he about to ask her on a real date? Her blood heated just as her neck iced—such a damn conundrum.

  “Why do you avoid Ribbon Ridge?”

  After soaking the tomatoes, she moved on to the cukes. “I don’t avoid it.” The hell she didn’t. “I just don’t have any reason to go there.”

  “The Ribbon Ridge Festival is this weekend. It’s really fun. Great food, Archer beer of course, arts and crafts, fireworks.”

  Yeah, she’d gone last year. She’d loved it. She’d loved Ribbon Ridge. It was just far enough from the big city to be a cozy half-country town, but close enough to feel civilized. And she loved the wine country views and the denizens’ charm. But after Alex had died, it had completely lost its luster. The Archers were the first family of Ribbon Ridge, and she’d utterly failed one of them.

  “Mmmm,” was all she said.

  “I though you might like to go.”

  Her finger came off the trigger of the hose nozzle, and she snapped her head around to look at him. Was he crazy? Being in Ribbon Ridge would be disquieting enough, but being in Ribbon Ridge with Kyle Archer would invite a whole world of criticism she wasn’t remotely ready to endure and might never be.

  “Thanks, but no.”

  When he looked genuinely disappointed, she felt a moment’s regret. However, just the thought of being in Ribbon Ridge was taking the edge off her Xanax.

  “Are you going to tell me why you left?”

  She pressed the trigger on the hose again and shot water all over the cucumbers and zucchini. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “You had a practice there and a home, right? You threw all of that away because Alex killed himself?” There was a note of concern in the questions, but his phrasing pushed her over the edge.

  She swung around, and he jumped back before the spray hit him. She lifted her finger from the nozzle, cutting off the stream of water. “I didn’t throw anything away. I had to leave. I couldn’t . . . I’m not talking about this.” She pulsed a bit more water on the zucchinis.

  He stepped closer. She could see him from the corner of her eye but didn’t turn to look at him. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push. I figured his death must have been hard for you, but I guess I didn’t realize just how bad it was.”

  “I’d never lost a patient before.” But then she’d only been practicing for about a year and a half. After breaking up with Mark and looking to start over somewhere completely new, she’d bought a retiring therapist’s practice in Ribbon Ridge. She’d been so excited for the future, for the changes she’d made. Things had started slow, but by the time Alex had killed himself, she’d established a decent little practice. And just like that, her dreams had collapsed. “I felt like a complete failure.” She still did, but she couldn’t tell him that. She wouldn’t.

  He touched her arm, tugged her elbow to get her to turn around. “Maggie.”

  She shut the hose off and let herself be pulled. His blue-green eyes were full of compassion, and she nearly spilled everything—Mark, her breakdown . . .

  “Helloooooo? Magnolia?” Mom’s voice cut off Maggie’s train of thought and shrouded her in dread. The questions she’d have to suffer once Mom caught sight of Kyle in all his wet T-shirt glory . . .

  Mom stopped short as she stepped into the backyard. “Oh! You have company. I didn’t realize.”

  No, because you just dropped in. Like Kyle. What happened to respecting a person’s privacy?

  Kyle had also turned at the sound of Mom’s voice, and now he looked between them, probably guessing they were related. The curly hair, though Mom’s was almost entirely silver, was a dead giveaway.

  Mom strode forward with purpose. “Hi, I’m Magnolia’s mom, Val.” She offered her hand.

  Kyle shook it, looking perhaps a tad bemused. But most people were when they took in the henna tattoos covering Mom’s hands, the long batik skirt that grazed her Birkenstocks, and the amalgamation of jewelry cluttering her neck and arms. At least she was wearing a bra.

  “Hi, I’m Kyle Archer.”

  Mom’s brow curved up, and she shot Maggie a questioning glance. Mom knew all about Alex, of course, and Maggie only prayed she wouldn’t taunt the elephant in the room, er, yard.

  Mom shook his hand. “Are you, now? Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m so sorry to have interrupted.” She darted a suggestive look between them, and it was all Maggie could stand.

  “Kyle just stopped in to return something he thought I might like to have. A totem I gave Alex during therapy.” She was rather impressed with herself for coming up with such a good lie so easily.

  Kyle looked at her in question, clearly wanting to ask if the totem part was true. She averted her gaze, wanting nothing more than for one of them to leave. Or both, preferably. Why wasn’t her Xanax working better?

  “Is that all?” Mom asked, sounding dismayed. “I was hoping Kyle was the guy you had dinner with last week.” She glanced between them again, her hazel eyes dancing. “Oops, did I just let the cat out of the bag? Maybe my little flower bud has a few boys trailing after her.” She patted Maggie on the shoulder. “That’s my girl.”

  Maggie wanted to melt into the ground in mortification. She chanced a look at Kyle, who didn’t look the least bit upset. No, he looked amused, the jerk. Nothing about her mother was funny.

  “All righty, then,” Maggie said, dragging the hose back to the house and winding it up. “Thanks for stopping by, Kyle.”

  Thankfully, he took the hint. “Nice to meet you, Val.” He waved at Mom and then came over to Maggie. He dipped his head toward hers and spoke next to her ear. “Magnolia? Your name is Magnolia?”

  She gritted her teeth. “Can it.”

  A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. He kissed her cheek. “Next time I come over, you’re going to invite me in and tell me all about this situation.” When he backed away from her, his eyes glowed with mirth, and she resisted the urge to kick him in the shin.

  Instead, she forced a smile. “Bye.”

  He turned and waved at Mom again before disappearing around the side of the house.

  “Oooh, he’s yummy!” Mom brought her hands together, jangling the bracelets encircling both wrists. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

  “I haven’t. He’s no one. What are you doing here, Mom? It’s not like I live down the street, for crying out loud.”

  “Oh I know, dear, but I wanted to bring you something. It’s in the car. I couldn’t carry it on my own. My neighbor is downsizing, and he wanted you to have his night-blooming cereus.”

  “Really?” Maggie stalked past her mom and followed the path around the house to the front. She heard Kyle drive away and was glad that he was gone and away from her mother. She also heard Mom following her.

  “I know how much you’ve always liked it.”

  No, she loved it. Coveted it. Had wanted one of her very own since the first time she’d watched it bloom. Harv—their neighbor—held parties to watch the flower because each bud opened for just one night. Maggie had seen it for the first time when she was twelve, and she’d been entranced with plants ever since.

  It sat in the back of Harv’s truck, which Mom had clearly borrowed to transport it. Over six feet tall and in a large box-like planter, it w
as an incredibly ugly plant from the cactus family, with spindly branches and stems. Its flat, uninteresting leaves were sparse, almost making the plant look as if it were dead or dying half the time. You’d never guess the massive flowers, which bloomed just once and only at night, were so delicate and beautiful.

  “I brought a little wheeled cart to get it inside,” Mom said.

  Sure enough, there was a flat cart, sort of like the scooter Maggie had zoomed around on in gym class as a kid.

  “We should’ve had Kyle stay and help us,” Mom said beside her. “Call him and have him come back.”

  That would mean letting him inside—no way. “No, we’ll manage.” But now she had to let Mom inside. There was no help for it. Thank God Maggie had taken the Xanax, or she’d probably insist on wrestling the thing inside by herself. Or settle for just leaving it in the garage.

  Mom lowered the gate to the truck and pulled out the cart, setting it on the driveway. She climbed up into the back, incredibly agile for a woman in her late fifties, but then she’d done yoga every day for the last thirty-plus years. She unhooked the bungee cords holding the plant against the side of the truck while Maggie circled around to the side to help her scoot it to the edge of the bed.

  “You like it?” Mom’s tone was hopeful, like a child asking his parents if they liked the macaroni necklace he’d made them.

  But Maggie didn’t have to pretend to like anything about it. Her mother’s lifestyle drove her crazy, but Maggie couldn’t deny her thoughtfulness or find fault with the depth of her love. Despite their differences, she was grateful to have someone who cared for her that much. “I love it, Mom. Really. Thank you.”

  Mom smiled. “I knew you’d love it. How many nights did you go over to Harv’s to watch this thing bloom?”

  “As many as I was around for.” It could bloom several times in a summer, sometimes multiple flowers going at once. The most she remembered was four . . . and the stench! The fragrance was sweet and somewhat pretty with one flower, but with so many it had become cloying and oppressive. Harv had opened every window and even run some fans to move the air. Maggie smiled at the memory. Sometimes it was good to remember that her youth wasn’t all awkwardness.

  With Mom in the back of the truck and Maggie walking alongside it, they worked together to slide the planter to the edge of the bed and lower it to the cart. Maggie wheeled it into the garage, which was open; then they had to take it off the cart to get it up the step and into the laundry room. She transferred the cart inside, and they hefted the planter up onto it.

  Maggie’s gaze flicked to the basket of clean clothes on the dryer and the stack of recyclable bags on the washer. This room wasn’t bad, but the rest . . . She turned to Mom. “I can take it from here. Thanks.”

  Mom glanced down at the cart. “I’ll need to take that back to Harv.”

  Duh, right. “Okay, wait here, and I’ll just bring it right back.” She started pushing it through the laundry room into the kitchen.

  “Can’t I come see where you’re going to put it?”

  No. “Um . . . I don’t know where. You know, I’ll just set it here for now.” She pushed it through the kitchen to the eating nook. Stacks of mail and some work papers cluttered the table, and a few boxes she had yet to unpack formed a short tower in the corner.

  “You’re acting strange—” Mom’s jaw dropped as she turned and looked into the large living room. She inhaled sharply. “Holy mother. Haven’t you moved in?”

  Not really. Several stacks of boxes sat at intervals throughout the space. Pictures leaned against the wall. The television was perched on its media cabinet facing away from the couch, its wires hanging to the ground in a mess. The couch was covered with a pile of clothes, mostly coats.

  Mom swung around and looked at Maggie. “I don’t understand. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. I only moved in at the beginning of last month.” Her defenses kicked into high gear. “Thanks for bringing the plant, Mom. You should probably head back into town before it gets too late.” Maggie bent and guided the planter off the cart.

  “Oh, no. You aren’t getting rid of me yet, Magnolia.” God, how that name grated on Maggie’s nerves. Who named their kid after a flowering tree? A hippie who thought sticking out was far better than fitting in, that’s who. “Why does your house look like this? It never used to—not when you lived with Mark anyway.”

  No, because he’d required everything to be perfect. When she’d moved to Ribbon Ridge, she’d done what he’d trained her to do—adhered to strict order and tidiness. But over time, she’d realized she didn’t have to do that anymore. With each item of clothing she didn’t hang up and every book she left sitting on a table instead of on a bookshelf, she felt a little more of her freedom returning. Perhaps she’d gone a little too far . . .

  No, she knew she’d gone more than a little too far. But now it was overwhelming. She’d accumulated so much stuff, things that Mark insisted she take, things she hated and ought to get rid of but simply couldn’t face.

  “Maggie, are you going to answer me?”

  Jarred back to the present, Maggie refocused on Mom. “I’ve been putting all my energy into the yard because it’s summer and the weather’s good. I’ll take care of the house later. It’s not like I have company.”

  Mom shook her head. “That’s another problem entirely. How can you invite that attractive man over when your place looks like you’ve become a hoarder?” She flicked a glance at the television. “Though I wholeheartedly approve of you forgoing the TV.”

  Never mind that Mom had become quite the Internet whore over the past few years. What was the difference really? Maggie couldn’t resist saying, “I have a TV in my bedroom that I watch.”

  “Ah.” She touched Maggie’s arm. “Maybe you should see a therapist.”

  I am. But Maggie didn’t tell her that. “I’ll think about it. Listen, Mom, I need to finish up outside before it gets dark. Thanks again for the plant, really.” She smiled, and it wasn’t forced. She was genuinely happy about the cactus. “That was really thoughtful, and I appreciate it.” She leaned over and kissed Mom’s soft cheek, catching the faint scent of patchouli.

  Maggie could tell Mom wanted to stay and say more, but she wasn’t completely clueless. She said good night, then Maggie walked her back out to the truck and watched her drive away.

  Boy, her next appointment with Amy was going to be busy. Mom, Kyle, her almost-suicidal patient, her house . . .

  After finishing up in the yard and closing up the garage, Maggie trudged back inside and looked at her new acquisition. Shit, did accepting the plant prove that she was a hoarder? No, she wasn’t. She just needed time to go through everything and decide what to do with it.

  A tingle of unease crept up her spine. Perhaps she ought to do it soon. There was no telling when Kyle would come back and try again to come inside. She could continue to refuse him, but she was growing weak. And everyone knew the third time was the charm.

  KYLE WAS IN his element. Manning the Archer booth at the Ribbon Ridge Festival reminded him of tending bar in Florida. His family might look down on how he’d spent the last few years, but he’d had a great time and grown comfortable in his skin.

  Mostly.

  It was good to be back home though. A steady stream of Ribbon Ridgers had stopped by all afternoon and chatted him up, happy to see him. And he felt the same.

  But as it drew close to six, when all the Archers were supposed to congregate at the booth for photos and general rah-rah family shit, Kyle’s nerves started to fray. He did Maggie’s breathing exercises and told himself it would be fine—he’d avoid Derek like he always did.

  Maggie. Had he really tried to invite her to the festival? What kind of bonehead move was that? Dating her was out of the question—at least until he regained Dad’s approval. And even then, he wasn’t sure he could do it. Being with Maggie could very well undo all of the work he was doing to show his family that he wasn’t as se
lfish as they thought.

  Sara and Dylan walked toward the booth early, which is what Dylan preferred to be. As the general contractor for the monastery renovation, he was punctual, tireless, and committed. He was also head-over-ass crazy about Kyle’s sister.

  Kyle raised a hand as they approached. “Hey there. Sorry, we don’t have any cider, Sara-cat.”

  “I know,” Sara said, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Any fruity beer? I forget what you brought.”

  “Yes, we have Will Scarlett.” A raspberry ale that he knew wasn’t her favorite, but then drinking beer was usually a stretch for her.

  “I’ll have that. Can’t be an Archer at the Archer booth without an Archer beer in my hand.”

  Kyle flashed her a smile as he drew the beer into a cup and slid it across the narrow counter. “Dylan? Longbow, Arrowhead, or Popinjay?”

  Dylan pondered a moment. “Popinjay, I think. Been awhile since I had a Belgian-style.”

  “Excellent choice on this fine summer evening.” Kyle filled his cup and handed it to him. “I’m surprised you’re here instead of at the site.”

  He lifted his cup. “Are you inferring I should be there?”

  “God no, you work enough. I’m glad you knocked off early. I hope you let the crew go, too.”

  “I gave them the option. Some would rather work later tonight and come to the festival tomorrow with their families.” Likely so they could play the carnival games and ride the rides.

  Kyle nodded. “You’re a good boss.”

  Sara slid her arm around Dylan’s waist. “The best.”

  Kyle rolled his eyes. “Knock it off. You two are enough to make a man nauseated.”

  “You’re just jealous—you’ll find someone,” Sara said, smiling.

  “Ha!” Dylan chuckled. “He has to actually look first.”

  Actually, he’d found someone when he’d least been looking for her . . . not that he could compare what he felt about Maggie to the deep bond that had formed between Sara and Dylan. He was pretty sure a marriage proposal wasn’t too far off.

  Speaking of marriage, Derek and Chloe were striding toward the booth hand in hand. Another couple who could induce vomiting with their cuteness and general in-love-ness. Thankfully, Tori and Dad arrived at the same time with a photographer from the local paper in tow.