She nodded gravely in agreement. “I’m going to take a break from thinking. Breaks are okay with God, right?”
“Definitely.” Evan pushed up to his feet again. He dusted snow off his jeans. “And Sky?” he called after her retreating figure. “I think your gift is being smart, too.”
With only an hour left in the competition, Evan began collecting his tools and packing them back into his truck. He’d leave the square free of any debris besides snow.
Mrs. Clarkson stopped by and demanded he stand beside the goose so she could snap a few pictures. “This is really a lovely event. I’m going to petition the board to host an annual snow festival every year. How’d you build the snow up enough to carve it?”
“I covered the inside of the trash cans with car wax this morning so I could pack the snow in there and then add water. Then when you turn it over it comes out easily and stays together. Same as using forms to build a sand castle.”
“You are one talented young man.”
He plastered on a smile, but it felt disingenuous. He wasn’t anything special, just a guy who’d stayed up long after his bedtime watching videos on his phone to pick up some pointers. If he hadn’t...he’d be struggling. His gaze trailed to where Claire was pushing over another one of her snowmen. Her frustrated grunt echoed through the square. She was giving up—getting rid of all her work.
She needed help.
You could build people up.
Did it go against the rules for one candidate to help another?
* * *
Do. Not. Cry.
Claire sucked in frigid gulps of air, letting the cold jolt her lungs. All she had to show for four hours of work were three lopsided snowmen in different sizes. She’d pushed down a few more out of frustration and was considering the demise of the ones in front of her, too.
Returning to Goose Harbor had been a mistake. She’d never felt that more than in this moment. She didn’t belong here. Didn’t fit.
At least when she was in New York she could blend in a little better. No one thought much of a wealthy man’s daughter hobnobbing at studio openings or curating priceless art collections. Wealthy families were a dime a dozen in that world.
But in Goose Harbor she got a front page spread in the newspaper dedicated to her campaign because Dad owned the paper. She had a well-paid position within his company that meant she barely had to accomplish any real work in order to find a direct deposit waiting in her account. Yet she didn’t have a career. It was Dad’s money that had funded Alex’s adoption. She had a bunch of advanced degrees that looked great hanging on a wall, but had forfeited living in order to get them.
Her parents had drilled the importance of success into her head at an early age.
If you hang out with those kids they’ll bring you down, and you can’t afford to have people thinking less of you. Don’t join that club—it won’t help get you into a good college. Stop spending so much time painting, but spend it on things that matter, like your grade point average. Those people are trying to be your friend only to get at my money. They’re using you, sweetheart.
What if following their advice had cost her any chance at happiness?
By her parents’ standards Evan was unsuccessful. He wasn’t college educated and had no experience outside of their small town. But Evan was rich in the things that mattered. He had friends and people who cared about him; he was loved and valued. He’d built a business with his own two hands—literally—and had turned it into a profitable and satisfying career. Evan loved his work and the things he built. He had a home of his own. He’d made a place for himself in this community, and if he left, the whole town would feel his absence.
If Claire disappeared no one would notice.
She fisted her hands and glared at her snowmen. Maybe she should push them all over and forfeit the competition completely.
God, why did You let my life turn out this way? What did I do wrong? How come I never fit in? I’m thirty and I’m still so...lost. Why can’t I, just once, matter to someone—for me? Please, show me how to live. I need help. I don’t know how to do this on my own.
“Please tell me you’re not plotting any more snowman murders.” Evan’s voice. Of course.
She opened her eyes, not that she remembered closing them, and pressed her teeth together so hard her jaw hurt.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make it in time to perform hostage negotiations for that one.” He tapped the little snowman-shaped mound with the toe of his shoe.
Tired and sick of being out in the elements, she crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Did you come over here to gloat?”
“No, like I said, hostage negotiations.” He inched forward to place his body between her and her snowmen, then put his arms out to block her access to them. “Please, they don’t deserve such a brutal end.”
He was joking. Just trying to get her to laugh, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to be cheered up.
Just go away. “I’m really not in the mood.” She tore off her gloves and tossed them onto the table. “Clearly, you won. Congratulations. Sorry I don’t have confetti to throw in the air. Want a faceful of snow instead?”
“Claire-bear—”
“Do not use that name.” She whirled and rammed her pointer finger into the center of his chest. “You lost the right to call me that a long time ago.”
He frowned, kicked at the ground. “It slipped out.”
“Whatever. I’m done.” She snatched her gloves off the table and shoved them into her pockets. “There’s no point staying for the judging.” She had to get out of here before she broke down. It had come too close to that when she was praying. “If this is what this town wants in a mayor I’m obviously not who they’re going to pick, so—”
“Enough.” He caught her by the crook of her arm and pulled her close. “You’re not a coward. Stop giving up. Stop choosing defeat.”
“Believe me. I do not choose it.”
“You do.” There was a growl in his voice. “You’re doing it now and you’ve done it every time you’ve refused to let me explain about the past.”
Digging her elbow into his ribs until he winced, she yanked away from him. “How dare you—”
He sidestepped, blocking her retreat so she almost slammed into his chest. He took hold of her shoulders. “The Claire I knew and loved had the fire to match her hair. That Claire would never give up this easily. She was this remarkable woman who would use the amazing talents she’d been blessed with and would wow everyone.” He released her, turning to the side. His hand landed in his hair and he tugged on the ends. “I miss her so much.”
Oh, she wanted to toss back an angry barb. Wanted to fuel the fight so she wouldn’t have to deal with the truth of what he had said. Get under his skin as much as he’d quickly been able to get under hers.
Coward.
Only moments ago she’d asked God to help her. What if Evan’s words were an answer to her prayer? It would be easier, less terrifying, to shrug him off and tell him to mind his own business. To throw in his face that he’d abandoned her and therefore she couldn’t trust him and he had no right to miss her. But if she truly wanted to learn to live, that would take change and risks and honesty.
“I don’t know what to do.” Her voice was hoarse.
“Claire.” He scrubbed his hand over his jaw, then up his neck. “What do you love?”
You.
Her stomach tightened as an anxious feeling rolled through it.
That couldn’t be right. She didn’t—couldn’t—love Evan Daniels. Not still. Not now.
Yet the way he was looking at her, believed in her, was rooting for her to win even though he was the one she would beat... She loved him. The man at her side was everything she’d fallen for in high school, only amplified.
“Do wh
at you love, Claire. Find that, and do it. I just want you to be happy.”
He’d said something similar last night when he’d asked if she still painted. The world was richer when you did.
She looked up and her gaze landed on The Craft Shack, a tiny store filled with art supplies squeezed between two restaurants on the square. It forever smelled like a mix of tacos and Italian beef inside.
“Evan.” She latched on to his arm, jiggled it. “Evan!” More jiggling. She pointed toward the store with her other hand. “You’re a genius!”
“You’ve got forty minutes.” He propelled her in the direction of The Craft Shack. “Go.” He pushed on her back gently. “Move.”
She tore through the square and across the brick road at a full-out sprint. The bells hanging at the entrance of the craft store performed a samba when she exploded through the door. With frozen fingers she pawed through her pockets until she located one of her credit cards. “Paint.” She dropped the card onto the counter. “I need tons of paint. Quick. And these.” She scooped brushes and cups and other supplies into her arms.
Minutes later she was squatting on the ground, painting murals all over the snowmen she hadn’t pushed over when she was considering giving up. A crowd gathered behind her, whispering excitedly. Evan caught her eye and sent her a thumbs-up.
“Mr. Daniels!” Mr. Banks waved his arms as if he was landing a plane. The man wore a bright green, head-to-toe snowsuit, as if he was out skiing.
Evan crossed his eyes for Claire’s benefit and then acknowledged Mr. Banks, so that the man would stop flapping his arms.
“Your goose is cooked.” Mr. Banks puffed out a breath. “The head fell off.” He pointed across the square.
Evan grimaced. “It appears I have some hostage negotiations of my own to deal with.”
Chapter Eight
A shrill electronic beep let Evan know that someone had entered his store. He’d hooked up the sensor after one too many customers sneaked up on him while he was working. Evan maneuvered his protective glasses to the top of his head and clapped his hands twice to clear away any remaining sawdust.
The store was divided into two sections: one was for finished items, and the other side was set up as a workshop. There was no point in him sitting at a counter all day when he could be building.
Goose Harbor Furniture, the shop he owned, was on a small path just off the square. He shared the building with his soon-to-be sister-in-law’s business. Needless to say, now that Brice had a very pretty reason to come into town, Evan saw his brother more than usual. So he wasn’t too surprised when Brice barreled in.
Evan unhooked his heavy tool belt and laid it on the counter. “If you’re coming to remind me about your rehearsal dinner again, I know. Thursday—tomorrow night. Agostini’s.” He tapped his forehead. “I remember.” He left the work space to join his brother in the showroom area of the shop.
Brice was pacing back and forth in front of a dining set. Prewedding nerves?
“I’ll be at the wedding on Friday night, too.” Evan stretched, his spine letting out a series of pops. “Even though I have a 5k to run the next morning.”
Sign-ups were going well for the Valentine’s Day Shuffle that Evan and Claire had spent the last week and a half planning. The whole process had been easier than he’d anticipated. A few meetings with board members and the police department had gotten the running course approved, while Mr. Banks’s latest email blast, a post on the town website and an article in the paper served as marketing. People had flocked to town hall during business hours to register for the run, the bake sale and the eating contest. The ladies at church had swooped in and plucked the details of the bake sale right out of their hands. And Claire and Evan had gladly relinquished planning it. Part of leadership was knowing when to delegate, after all.
Brice stopped pacing, tugged off his baseball hat and crushed it in his hands. “Do you have internet connection in here?”
He jutted his thumb toward the wall he shared with Kendall. “I steal it from your fiancée.”
“Evan...” Brice growled.
“What? Her password was way too easy.” It rhymed with trice and had their wedding date. Not exactly rocket science. “We’re going to be family. Think of me as the crazy uncle who borrows a piece of silverware every time you host a party until you have none left.”
Brice worked his jaw back and forth. “We have an uncle like that.”
“Uncle Ernie.” Evan bobbed his head. “Weird guy. I’m still not a hundred percent sure if he’s related to us by blood or if he’s just one of Dad’s old gambling buddies.”
Brice tilted his head. “Whatever happened to him?”
Evan thought for a moment and then snapped his fingers. “Didn’t he marry a retired shot-putter? She came with him once. Her biceps were bigger than my head. It was amazing.” Evan held up his hands to demonstrate the size. “She was from some country that started with an A. Algeria? I think that’s probably wrong.”
“Living the life,” Brice deadpanned.
“With our silverware.”
Ah. There. Finally. He’d wheedled a grin out of his brother.
It faded just as quickly.
Brice produced a crumpled piece of paper from his wallet and laid it on the counter. He pointed to a long internet address written in his uneven script. “Pull up this website.”
Evan typed it into his laptop and a popular blog site loaded. The page displayed a header showing Lake Michigan with some boats on it. Clearly a shot taken from their pier.
Evan read the title. Goose Tales. “Since when do you read gossip blogs?”
“You’ve heard of Goose Tales?”
The blog had been steadily updated for the past two years. Whoever ran it would post about someone who was selling subpar fruit at the farmers’ market or announce the closing of a business before the news was official. Evan had a hard time taking an anonymous writer seriously, no matter how salacious their stories became.
“Everyone in Goose Harbor who doesn’t live under a rock knows about it. Rumors, Brice. That’s all this blog is. Someone with too much time on their hands who makes a bigger deal about issues or straight-up invents them.” He wouldn’t be surprised if the author was Mr. Banks or someone along those lines.
Evan scanned the latest story and spotted photos of him and Claire together at the snow sculpture contest. A couple were fairly good shots. He might save them to his computer.
“For the last week they’ve been detailing you and Claire.” Brice delivered the statement as if it was groundbreaking information. Kendall had done wonders to lighten his brother’s overall attitude, but a lot of Brice’s characteristic grumpy-bear personality would always be there. That was a good thing though because Evan liked his brother that way.
“We’re running for office. That seems like a given.”
Brice elbowed him out of the way so he could squint at the screen. “Supposedly they have proof that the two of you are in cahoots over the election.”
“Which you know isn’t true. Side note.” Evan held up a hand to pause the conversation. “Who uses the word cahoots?”
Brice scrolled to older posts, which displayed screenshots of some of the photos Jason had captured of them for use on the town’s webpage. “A lot of these pictures make it look like what’s written here is true. You two look like a couple.”
“How about next time I see Claire, I’ll scowl at her the entire time. That would make a better photo, right?”
Brice ignored his egging. “Tonight’s the math challenge.”
“Ugh.” The problem-solving portion of the competition. “Don’t remind me.”
Evan glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes until he was supposed to show up in the high school gym so he could sit at a table and take a math quiz while his neighbor
s watched.
“You build things for a living. That makes you inherently good at math.”
“Good at some math,” Evan clarified. “The practical kind. Not the kind that goes ‘Jane is on a train going twice as fast as Timmy’s train, but only three times as fast as Lenny’s. If Lenny has two oranges and Jane has five, but throws one out the window, what color shirt is Timmy wearing?’”
“It’s called a word problem.”
“If those are on the test, I’m going to sketch pictures of sharks instead. Maybe they’ll up my creativity points from Sunday.”
His brother closed the laptop and removed the drawer from the cash register. “So you’re going to hand this win to Claire, too?”
“I didn’t hand her the last challenge.” Evan took the cash drawer and put it in the safe. He went to lock up the front door. They were already past closing time. “My goose crumbled seconds before the judges showed. These challenges are all about entertainment, anyway. I’m not that concerned about winning them.”
“What about the actual position?” Brice leaned against the counter and folded his arms over his chest. His brother was built like a house, wide and strong. If Evan didn’t know that Brice was really an easy pushover, he’d make an intimidating image. “Are you still concerned with winning that?”
Evan sighed. The only reason he was in the election at all was because Brice had told him to do it. He’d do anything for his brother. After the childhood they’d had together, he owed it to Brice. In the past Evan had given up everything for him. Not that Brice knew that, nor would he ever if it was up to Evan.
But he could at least come clean about the race. “Honest answer?”
“Of course.”
He took a deep breath and let his words spill out in a rush. “I never cared about winning it. I’m running because you told me to.”
“You want what’s best for this town. You care about it. She doesn’t.”
“How do you know she doesn’t care?”
“Sesser—”
“She’s not her father. When are you going to get that through your head? She’s not out to be his minion.”
The Single Mom's Second Chance Page 10