From the Start

by Melissa Tagg

  “I take it this trip is getting real.”

  “Incredibly.”

  Dad leaned one arm over his car door. “And . . . you really want to go?”

  “More than anything.” The answer came out by rote. She’d been talking about it for a month, dreaming about it for years. Well, maybe not dreaming of this exact thing, but about playing some kind of significant role in carrying on the work Mom started. “Mom would be so happy I’m going.” She looked up to meet Dad’s eyes, an unexpected desire for affirmation.

  “Your mother would be proud of you for going after what you want. You can be sure of that.”

  Wind rustled the papers in her hands, carrying with it a faint and lilting voice.

  Dad grinned. “And that’d be Colton. He likes to sing if he thinks no one’s within hearing distance.”

  She glanced toward the depot. Colton singing. It should make her giggle, send her skipping to the building with a dozen ready teases. So why couldn’t she muster more than an unsteady sigh?

  “Kate.”

  She turned once more to Dad.

  “Don’t assume saying yes to one dream automatically means saying no to another.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  He dropped into his car. “Oh, I think you do. Know how I know?”

  They smiled at each other as Colton’s voice raised and his song drifted in on the breeze.

  “How?”

  “Because I’m quoting a line from one of your movies.” He grinned, closed his door, and waved as he drove away.

  “Well, if this doesn’t smack of déjà vu.”

  Colton’s glance slid to the right. That reporter, the one who’d shown up here his first morning of work at the depot. Amelia, right? He grunted as he hefted the oak door sitting behind the depot, waiting for installation. “Except you’re not flashing a camera at me this time.”

  The woman patted the bag slung over her shoulder. “Not yet anyway.”

  Amelia close on his heels, he started walking toward the depot’s entrance, the muscles in his arms tightening as he lugged the door into the building, familiar pang in his shoulder throwing a fit. Seven hours until tonight’s fireworks kicked off the weekend’s Depot Day events—and until this building where he’d spent as many hours lately as he used to on a football field was reintroduced to its community.

  He angled around a freshly sanded wood pillar, the smell of sawdust still lingering in the air, and stopped halfway across the room, waiting as Seth and Bear carried in the repaired grandfather clock that would gulp up one corner of the room. Amazingly, they’d found the clock damaged but not beyond repair about two miles from the depot after the tornado. Somewhere around the place Kate and Raegan, probably Ava, too, were washing windows and glass display cases.

  Amelia’s footsteps picked up once more as Colton’s did. “So I know this is a busy day for you,” she said. “I’m doing a story about Depot Days, all the work that’s gone into getting the depot and museum ready.” She double-stepped to keep up with him. “I called Case, but he left to go home a while ago. He told me you could give me just as much info as he could—that you’ve done most of the work.”

  Colton set the door down, relief shooting down his shoulder, and leaned it against the pillar.

  “So do you mind?”

  He rubbed the dust from his hands onto his flannel shirt. “Mind what?”

  Amelia rolled her eyes in exaggerated amusement. “If I ask you a few questions. About the renovations, all the work you’ve done.”

  “I haven’t done that much.”

  “Right.”

  He followed the direction of her focus around the room. Fresh paint in rich hues of blue and gold. New glass displays in place of the shattered cases he’d seen that night he and Kate stopped by the storm-damaged building. Salvaged railroad relics and reprinted town photos in frames and on wall shelves all around the room. “Modesty’s all well and good, Colton Greene. But you’re just plain wrong. The place hasn’t looked this good in years.”

  “Whatever you say.” He hefted the door once more and moved it to the closet-sized ticket booth, its doorframe empty and waiting. “Ask away.”

  Amelia pulled a notebook from the pocket of her jean jacket. “All right. For starters, did you really think you’d manage to get all this done in time for tomorrow’s big event?”

  Colton inched the door toward its frame. “Oh yeah. I mean, sure, there was a lot to do. But I’ve been in town long enough to know that around here, everyone pitches in. This week alone, we’ve had so much help from community members.”

  “But it was completely torn apart by the tornado—far worse damage than anywhere else in town. What all did you have to do to get it ready?”

  Colton worked to fit the door into the open space while rattling off the list of projects he’d completed alongside Case in the past four weeks. But something was wrong. The hinges lined up, but the door itself was about a centimeter too tall for the space. Shoot, what now?

  “Bet you never expected to find yourself pulling handyman duty in small-town Iowa.”

  “Guess not.” He stepped away from the door, hands on his hips. Was there some other door that was supposed to go in this space?

  Amelia stuck her pen behind her ear. “It’s almost funny to think about. You, a former NFL quarterback. And not just any quarterback. You helped break a forever-long losing streak in major franchise. Last couple seasons, your team was the dark horse of the playoffs—and you were the jockey who made it happen.”

  He turned, brow furrowing. “In keeping with the metaphor and all, I’m the jockey who fell off his horse and hasn’t been back on since. And I thought this interview—or whatever it is—was supposed to be about the depot.”

  Amelia shrugged, one corner of her mouth lifting. “Yeah, but when it comes to the depot, you’re as big of news as its reopening.”

  He caught sight of Kate through a window across the room. She was scrubbing its glass, making faces at her sister, who wiped the other side.

  Kate, who’d stood in the middle of the football field a week ago, arms knotted so tightly around him it was as if she’d hoped to squeeze any pain right out of him.

  Kate, who’d filled his days and his thoughts ever since.

  Who’d become so much more than a friend to him it was crazy to think he’d only met her four weeks ago today.

  “Did I lose you?”

  He blinked and swiveled his attention back to Amelia. “Sorry. Busy day. My focus isn’t at record levels.” And he needed to figure out what was up with this uncooperative door. Maybe there was a different one somewhere.

  “Now that the depot’s back in operation, when do you head back to LA?”

  Why did the question feel intrusive? “Uh . . . originally the plan was early next week, but Kate and I still have some book details to work on.” And he still hadn’t bought a return ticket.

  “You’re probably eager to get back, though. Iowa has to feel so . . . small to you. Slow and unexciting. But then your book will come out and there will be signings and readings and a bunch of media stuff, right? You’ll be back in the spotlight.”

  “Tell you the truth, Amelia, I don’t miss the spotlight at all.”

  “You don’t know how to have a normal life.”

  In the past week, most of the pricking from Lilah’s words had worn off. But the words themselves had stuck around. Because a normal life was exactly what he’d begun to experience here in Maple Valley. And somewhere along the way, he’d started to like it.

  Not started to. Did.

  He liked this funny little town and all the characters that filled it up.

  He liked being one of the characters.

  And Kate . . .

  He liked her best. Had stopped even trying to deny it.

  Problem was, everything holding him in Maple Valley had an expiration date. Just like Amelia said, the depot repairs were about finished. He and Kate had planned out the rest of his book
. She’d already written several chapters. She could do the rest on her own. And she’d be going back to Chicago any day now.

  And Colton?

  He wished he knew.

  “Listen, Amelia, I gotta figure out what to do about this door. Any more questions . . . about the depot, that is?”

  “I think we’re good. Can I get a quick photo, though?”

  “Of me?” He frowned.

  “Yes. How about you and the door?”

  Reluctance tugged at him, but he acquiesced, posing beside the door with a smile that probably screamed cheesy. Amelia lifted her camera, snapped the photo . . .

  And with the flash of her camera, all went dark. The present stripped down to nothing. And in its place, a voice.

  “Show me a smile, Colton. A great big smile.”

  An eruption of light.

  Metal shrieking.

  Crashing.

  And a force pounding into him, thrusting his eyes open and his mind back to the here and now, and Amelia’s stare, rimmed with worry and curiosity. “Colton?”

  Rapid blinks. Heart pounding in his chest.

  “Are you okay, Colton? You just . . . froze. You’re completely white.”

  Why was this happening . . . again? First at the parade, then at that studio in Chicago.

  “Smile for the camera, Colton.”

  “I’m . . . I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  Not at all. “Yeah. Sorry. Guess the flash messed with my head for a sec.”

  “All right, then.” She replaced her camera in its bag and pocketed her notebook. “See ya around.”

  He mustered his own “See ya.” Glanced at the door. Shook his head with enough force to strain his neck. And tried to convince himself the flashback meant nothing.

  The first firework of the night rocketed into the sky and burst into ribbons of pink and purple and green, the boom echoing over the field in front of the depot.

  Kate felt her whole body stiffen at the sound, even as she oohed along with all the community members gathered in clumps. Some in lawn chairs, some on blankets, others—probably the ones who didn’t mind ladybugs scurrying over their shoes and up their pant legs—sprawled on the grass.

  The distant scent of smoke drifted in a lazy fog over the crowd, along with the murmur of voices and the faint drone of country music from someone’s vehicle. The scene should have been peaceful. But the noise in the sky and the disruption in her head—or maybe her heart—dissolved any chance of that.

  “Don’t assume saying yes to one dream automatically means saying no to another.”

  “You don’t like fireworks?” Colton leaned over from the lawn chair he seemed to dwarf.

  “How’d you know?”

  “You winced when that first one went off the way I do anytime someone suggests a round of golf.”

  Another eruption of color, fiery threads fingering every direction into the sky’s midnight-blue veil before tipping toward the ground. “What’s wrong with golf?”

  “Nothing, if you like a sport that’s basically the equivalent of a nap. Just thinking about it makes me yawn.”

  “Should I put that in your book?”

  Those perfect dimples bracketed his smile like always. “We never did have that all-important discussion about what’s on the record and what’s off.”

  “Oh, it’s all fair game, my friend.”

  “All of it? Everything I’ve done or said the past month? Anything could make it into the book?”

  “I’m mad with power—the power of a writer’s pen.” The next firework barely fazed her.

  “Well, if it’s all fair game, then I think there’s one moment from the past few weeks that definitely needs to make it into the book.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Remember that time you kissed me back in Chicago?”

  “Colton!”

  “We’ve never talked about that, Rosie—”

  “It was an accident.” How did he make a smirk look so appealing?

  “That’s the thing. I didn’t even know it was possible to accidentally kiss someone.”

  “Nice air quotes on the accidentally.”

  “And I just think it’s a moment that needs to be recorded for posterity.”

  “You’re incorrigible—you know that?”

  “Nice vocab, Walker.” He leaned back in his chair, the perfect picture of relaxed satisfaction, eyes fixed on the sky.

  She lowered her voice then, even though Dad had abandoned his chair next to her to go talk to someone across the field and Raegan had her earbuds in and Seth and Ava were so caught up in their own conversation there wasn’t anyone else to hear her words. “But since you asked, I’ve never liked fireworks. They’re pretty and all, but the color doesn’t make up for the noise. Freaks me out.”

  He turned his gaze on her. “So why’d you come?”

  “Because my dad runs the depot and I’m a Maple Valley native. Which means the idea of a Walker skipping any of the festivities is basically up there with, like, your not watching the draft.”

  “Have to tell you, I’m so proud of you, working football references into your everyday conversation.” He leaned forward to tap her nose. “My little student, using all her new knowledge.”

  More colors sliced into the sky in an irregular rhythm of booms. How had her chair ended up so close to Colton’s anyway? And why couldn’t she unhook her attention from him?

  “Let’s bail.”

  She blinked. “Huh?”

  “Ditch the fireworks. Got something to show you.”

  He stood and held out his hand to her. And despite every chiding voice grumbling in her conscience, she couldn’t help herself. She took his hand and let him pull her to her feet, and when he still held her hand as he led her away from the lawn chairs, she couldn’t make herself pull away.

  “It’s okay to admit what you want.”

  What if she let herself believe just for today—maybe tomorrow, too—that whatever this was could work? That she wanted it to work.

  And what if it really could? She was only leaving the country for a few months, after all. So what if they lived halfway across the country from each other? It was just . . . geography.

  What about not letting yourself get distracted?

  Well, Colton wasn’t Gil. And she wasn’t the same silly twenty-two-year-old, walking blindly into a doomed-from-the-start relationship. No, her eyes were wide open this time around.

  Colton led her in a labyrinth-like path through the crowd and toward the line of trees at the back of the field, the blast of fireworks continuing overhead in a backdrop of wriggling colors.

  “Think we’ll find someone breaking in again?”

  He tugged her closer to him as their path to the building cleared of blankets and lawn chairs. “Man, doesn’t that seem like months ago?”

  Yes. And it seemed like yesterday. Time was a funny thing in Maple Valley.

  They reached the depot, and Colton unlocked the door and held it open for her. Dad must have planned to return to the depot before going home for the night, because the windows were still open—screens ushering in the night’s cool breeze, tinged with the faintest ashy smell of the fireworks, their sound now muffled. Dim lighting from old-fashioned sconces on the walls muted colors and shadows.

  Instead of turning on the lights, Colton led her toward one of the glass displays with a hand on her back.

  “It’s crazy to me what stuff survived the tornado. On the one hand, a half mile of track was torn up. On the other, stuff like that old clock and what I’m about to show you made it through.”

  He rounded the case and bent to pull out the old book she recognized as the depot’s once-upon-a-time guest register. Long creases wrinkled down the grayish-blue cover that curled at the corners, and the pages creaked with age and possibly water damage as Colton unfolded the book.

  She stood across from him, elbows on the case and eyes on Colton’s tousled hair. He found the page he was loo
king for, turned the book around, and slid it to her. “Look.”

  She gasped as her attention landed where he pointed. Flora Lawrence. She underlined Mom’s name with her finger. And right underneath, Dad’s. Case Walker. 1979.

  “1979. That’s the year the depot and museum officially opened after the Union Pacific donated a final mile of track. My grandma was part of the planning committee for the first ever Depot Days, so my mom came home from New York for the event.”

  “And your dad?”

  His scribbled handwriting looked exactly the same on the page as it did now. “By that time, he was finishing up a two-year stint with the Foreign Services Office in London. He just happened to be between assignments on the weekend of the depot opening, so he came home. And that’s when he and my mom finally got together once and for all, after years of starts and stops.”

  Colton leaned one elbow on the counter, attention fixed on her.

  She perched her chin on her fists, moved her focus to the book once more. “It’s a long story. Sometimes I think about writing it—it’d make such a good novel. Even with all their initial hits and misses, my dad likes to say that from the very start, he knew Mom was the one for him.”

  “Mmm.”

  At his bare response, she glanced up to find him still watching her, gaze intent and . . . Was that longing? “I’m sorry.” Her words came out a whisper.

  He squinted in question. “Sorry?”

  “For flaunting happy memories when . . .”

  “You’re not flaunting.”

  His gentle tone, the warmth of his breath she could feel even from across the case, awoke every nerve inside her. She met his gaze, lamplight flickering in his eyes.

  “Kate, I had a flashback today. Third or fourth time it’s happened recently.”

  She straightened at his unexpected remark. “Of the accident?”

  “I think so? I’m not sure.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I don’t really . . .” He blinked once. Twice. Shook his head. “It’s not really important—”

  “But it is.”

  He rounded the case to stand in front of her. “No, what’s important is, any other time and place and that flashback would’ve thrown me for a loop. I’d let it gnaw at me for days. But in Maple Valley . . . it just kind of fades away. Things feel normal for the first time in a long time.”