The Wonder of You

by Susan May Warren

  “Hey, Colleen,” Amelia said. “When did you get back?”

  “This is the last week of classes. But Vivie said the deadline for applications is in a week, and we all need pictures, so . . .”

  “Please, Ames? No one takes pictures like you,” Vivien said.

  Oh, well—

  “And everyone else costs so much. We’re poor college students,” Colleen added.

  Ah. A free gig. She sighed. “Sure. I guess. When do you need them by?”

  “We can set up the sittings as soon as possible. Thanks, Ames; you’re a doll.” Vivie leaned over and gave her an air kiss.

  “There you are.” Ree’s voice came from behind her, and Amelia turned, accepting the cup of coffee she held out. “I picked you up a Becky.”

  “Thanks, Ree.”

  “I got us a seat near the window. Hey, Viv,” Ree said as she hooked Amelia’s arm. She led her to a table near the picture window with a view of the lake. Amelia sat down, turning her armchair to face the lake and the too-cheerful blue sky.

  “So,” Ree said, sitting opposite. “Guess what?”

  “Chris Hemsworth checked into your motel.”

  “Sadly, no. We did get a Mr. Melvin Applewood, traveling from Thief River Falls, here for a weekend of bird-watching.” She gave a nod of mock approval.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll bite. What?”

  Ree wrinkled her nose, leaned close. “I got a job. A real, full-time job at a newspaper!” She held up her cup. “Congratulate me. I’m moving out of this backwoods joint and off to the big world of journalism.”

  “Ree, that’s fantastic,” Amelia said. And she meant it, really. Despite the hitch in her throat. “Where?”

  “A town about two hours north of the Cities. It’s a resort town like Deep Haven, but bigger. They have a daily. A daily! They need a features reporter.”

  Amelia kept her smile, but, “When are you leaving?”

  “A couple weeks—probably after the Memorial Day rush. My parents need me until then. Unless . . .” She caught Amelia’s eyes. “Unless I can find a replacement at the front desk right away.”

  Amelia stared back until—“Oh! You mean me.”

  “Well, you do know the resort industry. And you want to get away from Evergreen.”

  “Not to another resort—Ree, seriously?”

  Ree sat back. “It was worth a try. I mean, I just thought with the fiasco at the paper . . .”

  “You heard about that? Already?” She took a sip of her coffee. Sweet and bracing. “Sometimes I hate this town.”

  “Rhonda texted me. Actually, during your very conversation. Apparently Lou was loud.”

  Amelia watched a couple tourists amble down the street with paper bags of purchases from the local Ben Franklin. “Yeah, well, I probably deserved it. I didn’t get any shots of the accident. But that was the weirdest day. When I got there, I thought I saw—”

  “Hot guy alert at the counter.” Vivie broke into their conversation by sticking her head down, crouching next to their chairs. Amelia started to turn but Vivie grabbed her arm. “Don’t look!”

  “But you just said—”

  “Don’t be obvious.”

  “Oh, my,” Ree said softly. With enough weight to her tone that Amelia couldn’t help but turn, despite Vivie’s warning.

  Oh. What—? But . . .

  “See. Hot, right?” Vivien said, pulling up a chair beside Ree.

  “You’re not wrong,” Ree said.

  No. Not in the least. Because standing behind the counter—wearing a crisp white Java Cup T-shirt under a gray-striped apron, his hair shorter than she remembered but still curly, the dusting of a dark early morning beard on his face, along with the smile she couldn’t ever quite pry from her mind—stood a man who appeared to be the spitting image of European heartbreaker Roark St. John, serving a tall latte to Colleen Decker.

  Who giggled.

  Amelia turned back. Stared hard at Ree. “It can’t be him. It just can’t be.”

  “Can’t be who?” Vivie said.

  “It’s 007,” Ree said. “The Brit. Mr. James Bond in the flesh, back from over the pond.”

  Vivie’s mouth opened, her eyes big. “The playboy.” She gave Amelia a look of delight.

  “It’s not him. How could it be him? Roark isn’t going to get a job at my local coffee shop and learn to pull an espresso shot just so he can, what? Make me a double-shot latte?”

  “What about win your heart back?” Ree said. “He was pretty determined.”

  “And my brothers ran him out of town. No.” She shook her head. “It can’t be him.”

  “Go order something. See for sure,” Vivie said.

  “What? No. Ree, you were at the counter—didn’t you see him?”

  “Maybe he just got on shift.”

  “He sort of looks like he’s in training,” Vivie said, peering past Amelia. “Kathy’s showing him how to press the espresso shot.”

  Amelia hazarded another glance. It certainly looked like him—his arms filling out his shirtsleeves, the apron outlining his lean torso, the way he listened to his boss, then worked the machine, capable, serious. She traced his high cheekbones, the curl of his hair against his collar. Without a doubt, he wore that musky cherrywood cologne that stirred up memories of a walk along the Vltava among falling stars and the heady hope of tomorrow.

  Then he smiled, and her world stopped.

  It had always stopped, then tilted just a little, right on that smile.

  “Amelia? Is it him?”

  She turned back, breathing hard. “I . . . I think so.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “No. Ree, no.”

  Ree leaned back. Lifted her shoulder. “Someone has to go talk to him.”

  “Me. I’ll do it.” Vivien was up before Amelia could stop her.

  “Viv—!”

  But she’d already angled toward the counter and the dwindling line. Amelia faced Ree. “I can’t watch.”

  Ree grinned. “Fine. She’s approaching the counter. Flipping her hair, laughing. Oh, look, he’s smiling back. She’s ordering, pointing to the menu. He’s laughing now. She’s touching his arm—”

  “She’s touching his arm?”

  “Nah. Just testing.”

  “Ha.”

  “Here she comes.”

  Vivien sat down, her expression alight. She grinned.

  “So?” Amelia said.

  “Anyone want a spot of tea?” she said with a wretched accent.

  “No,” Amelia said. “Seriously?”

  “I’d say, old chap, your man has blown back into town.”

  Ree’s hazel eyes widened. “Go talk to him.”

  “No. I mean, uh . . ” Amelia turned back around, watched him again. He didn’t spare even a glance her direction. “What if he doesn’t know I’m here?”

  “Really, Amelia? We’re sitting over here giggling like we’re in fourth grade. I promise you, he knows we’re here,” Ree said. “At least say hi. It might be your only chance before your brothers erect a force field around you.”

  Hmm.

  “I think he could use a friend,” Vivien said. “He looks lonely. Oh, wait, here comes Colleen . . .”

  “Fine!” Amelia got up and headed to the counter, bypassing the line and stepping right up to the espresso makers, where he frothed a latte.

  Up close he still had the power to tangle her brain, reduce her words to babbling. Especially when he looked at her with those amazing blue eyes that could turn at once dark and smoky or twinkle, like they did now.

  Then he smiled. Like he expected her. “Amelia,” he said with that accent that rippled clear through her. No one quite said her name like Roark.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Okay, not exactly the hello she’d rehearsed in her dreams but—

  “Probably.”

  She blinked at him, stymied. “What are you doing here?”

  “Making coffee.”

  “Oh,
you’re a smart one. Seriously. What are you doing?”

  “I believe it is a tall Moose Special, blended,” he said smartly.

  “Roark!”

  “Go out for dinner with me tonight.”

  She blinked again, but he didn’t look at her, just began to blend the mixture. She waited until he finished to keep from shouting.

  “What—?”

  “I just want to talk.” He poured the drink into a cup, added the lid. “Emma?”

  Emma Hueston looked up from where she was texting near the door and retrieved her coffee. “Amelia. Hey.”

  “Hey,” Amelia said, glancing at Roark, then at Ree and Vivie, whose expressions made the entire thing feel like an episode of Big Brother.

  Emma walked away and Amelia pitched her voice low. “No, I won’t have dinner with you.” Although why those words issued from her, she couldn’t say. Didn’t she long for this, a chance to talk to him, forgive him?

  But what if her brothers—or Seth—found out? She’d call the feeling panic. “No.”

  To her shock, he lifted a shoulder. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  He shrugged again. “I’ll wait. I have coffee to make.”

  “You really moved here to get me to go out with you? Isn’t that sort of . . . extreme?”

  He looked at her then, his eyes so full of emotion that it swiped away the present, flung her back to that moment only four months ago, New Year’s Eve, when he’d leaned her direction, one hand braced against the wall over her shoulder, gaze in hers, searching.

  When she could taste her heart in her throat.

  “Amelia,” he said quietly, so softly she felt it more than heard it. “Extreme doesn’t begin to describe what I’d do to win you back.”

  His words pulled her back to the present: the sounds of the beans spilling, the frothing machine, Kathy barking orders at the counter.

  Ree and Vivie laughing from across the room.

  He gave her a sad smile, and it settled deep inside her.

  Oh, Roark.

  She managed a quick, sharp shake of her head and fled to the safety of her friends.

  “What do you mean you said no?” Ree said after Amelia ran down their short, brutal conversation. “What more does the man have to do?”

  Maybe not so safe after all. Amelia sat there gripping her coffee, the sense of him still like heat inside her.

  Roark had returned. For her. Because of her.

  And Saturday, that had been him pulling Yulia’s mother from the river, trying to revive her.

  “You know, he probably needs a tour guide, being new in town,” Vivie said. “I think I’ll go offer my services.”

  “Vivie!” Ree said, but Vivien was already on her feet.

  This time, Amelia caught her arm. “If anyone is showing him around town, Viv, it’s me.” She got up and walked back to the counter.

  “Still making coffee,” Roark said, not looking at her. “Not going away.”

  “I’ll have dinner with you.”

  He smiled. “I’ll come around about seven.”

  Oh, well—“Meet me at the Harbor Grill.”

  “Fair enough.” He capped another drink. “Chai latte for Vivien?”

  “I got that,” Amelia said.

  “Attagirl,” Vivien said as she delivered it. “Now, let’s angle our chairs and watch Mr. Bond save the world with coffee.”

  Apparently Claire Atwood had become his dating therapist.

  “So how much do I tell her?” Roark said. He looked into the dusty medicine cabinet mirror, one hand running the shaver, the other holding his mobile. He could hardly believe his fortune—not only seeing Amelia, but getting her to agree to a date on his first day of work.

  And Ethan had doubted him. He’d texted the guy, just to set him straight.

  “Well, don’t mention the R word. We already know that. But you have to tell her enough so that she’ll give you another chance.”

  “Right.”

  “I think the fire story might be too much. You haven’t told her that, have you?”

  “I omitted that.” In fact, he’d omitted nearly everything the first time around—depended on charm and his vast knowledge of the trivial to make her laugh. “I did teach her about wine. And how to crack an oyster.”

  “What every girl longs to know.”

  He finished the shave, tucked the razor back into his kit. “I mostly let her talk. She told me about her life—and I listened. I’ve heard girls like it when you listen.”

  “You’re not wrong,” Claire said.

  Through the line, he heard Jensen say, “Tell him to take her out to the lighthouse. That’s a great place to—”

  “Jens! It’s a first date!”

  Not quite, but it felt that way, the way Roark’s stomach had roiled with nerves all day. He’d managed to keep his mind on working his way through the different specialty drinks, pulling the perfect shot of espresso and frothing the latte milk to the exact temperature.

  It didn’t help that Amelia and her henchmen sat like critics for the better part of the morning. Or that she’d left with nary another word to him. But he held fast to her promise to meet him.

  “Reiterate that Cicely was a friend. That she needed someone to talk to, and yes, that you had a history. It’s all true.”

  “I said all that before. It didn’t seem to matter. And then I left—how do I explain that?”

  “Your uncle had a heart attack—which is true too.”

  “So play the sympathy card?”

  “Have you never faked an injury to get a girl? Jens, this boy of yours could use some pointers!”

  “I’m not going to lie to her.”

  Silence.

  “Much.”

  “Just take her out, remind her of the guy she knew in Prague, and see what happens.”

  But he didn’t want to be the guy he’d been in Prague. He wanted to be better.

  “And call me tomorrow with an update. I’m eight months pregnant and you’re my only social life.” Claire rang off, and Roark laughed as he tossed the mobile onto the bed.

  He stared in the mirror, listening to Amelia’s words today. Are you out of your mind?

  Probably, he’d said, but he wasn’t. He’d never been surer about anything than when Amelia had walked into the Java Cup wearing jeans and a trench coat, her auburn hair flowing out from under a green beret, and taking his breath away.

  Again.

  Not unlike their meeting in Old Town Square, two days after he’d first seen her on the Charles Bridge.

  He walked out into the main room, trying to choose a shirt, the memory of their first date sweet as it surfaced inside him.

  “You again?” he’d said, although he knew perfectly well she’d be there, had asked Claude for the itinerary and details of the class.

  He arrived with his satchel over his shoulder, camera around his neck, ready to take notes. To learn. To discover if Amelia had given any further thought to their meeting on the bridge.

  “Hi,” she said, wearing the same trench coat and boots as the first time they’d met, her hair caught in a cap, her smile lighting up the square. “Isn’t it magnificent?”

  Of course, she was probably referring to Týn Church, the famous gothic church located just off the square.

  He nodded, paying it no mind.

  Claude arrived without showing a hint of recognition—good man—and lectured for an hour in the grassy area in front of the fountain on f-stops and apertures. The entire class began to blur as Roark watched Amelia sit in the grass and take notes, twirling one long hair around her finger. They photographed the church then with different settings, and afterward, he invited her back to Charles Bridge because he knew of a café in the shadows. They walked through the cobbled streets, around gardens and monasteries, and he pointed out statues and ancient landmarks.

  “You seem to know this city well,” she said later, spinning a glass of cabernet. The evening sun setting on the river t
urned her hair dark, the color of autumn leaves.

  “Not well enough,” he said. “I went to school in Scotland, so only when I came on holiday.” True enough. He and Francesca had traveled here at least twice to visit her family—once for a concert, another time when he accompanied her on a photo shoot.

  “By the time I leave, I plan to know all the best hole-in-the-wall cafés in the city,” she said.

  He made that promise to himself too.

  “Where’s home?” he’d asked, and she’d leaned in, told him about a hamlet in the north woods of Minnesota—a home pitched at the edge of a lake, three brothers, two sisters, and a life that reached out and entwined him with its charm.

  A life that seemed reminiscent of one tucked deep in his memory.

  By the time their pork knuckles arrived with creamy garlic potatoes and crusty bread, he’d plunked himself into her life, seeing a future with her.

  He’d walked her home, longing to hold her hand, deciding that no, he should probably wait. Hope.

  And show up for the next class.

  Now Roark chose a blue shirt, pressed it on the bed, then threw on his leather jacket. He forwent the hat, the scarf, and set out for the half-block walk down the street early so he could pick their table. Perhaps order an appetizer.

  He found the restaurant—the one located next to the fish shop—nearly vacant. Not odd for a Monday night, and it meant he had his pick of tables; he chose one overlooking the harbor. A schooner, its sails still lashed to the masts, rolled with the waves, and on the dock, gulls wandered, waiting for scraps.

  He asked for a lit candle. Perused the wine list, then realized that in this country, Amelia couldn’t drink anything alcoholic.

  Instead he ordered lemonade and bruschetta.

  And at 7 p.m. precisely, his heart stopped in his chest when Amelia walked through the door.

  She wore a blue dress, those tall brown boots, a leather jacket, and a teal-and-blue scarf he remembered buying for her in Paris. Her beautiful auburn hair was pulled into a long, sweeping tail.

  He stood as she approached. “You came.” Oh, he didn’t mean for it to emerge quite so desperate, but there it was, his heart beating and raw right outside his chest. He tried to reel it back with “You look so lovely.”

  She caught her lip in her teeth. “Thank you.”

  He pulled out her chair. She sat, sighing, her eyes following him into the seat. “You know this isn’t necessary, right? I have already forgiven you.”