by Melissa Tagg
There it was. The dreaded truth.
Mara’s dejected gaze drifted to the window. A lone ray of sun had finally pushed through woolen clouds to settle over the quaint town square. Old-fashioned brass lampposts lined puddled walkways. This really was a cute little town, complete with a picturesque riverfront, antique shops, and tourist spots. Mara had read all the brochures in the display case in the Everwood lobby—the one for the Maple Valley Scenic Railroad, the apple orchard, the old mansion that’d been turned in to a library.
For a while there, she’d thought this could be . . . it. Her place. For good. Finally.
Mr. Clancy leaned forward. “If Lenora has abandoned the property—”
“She wouldn’t. She loves it.”
The argument was too familiar, conjuring feeble, youthful words from twenty years ago. “Dad wouldn’t just leave. He loves us.”
Then again, love wasn’t always enough.
But Lenora wasn’t Dad—never mind that Jonas Clancy’s look of doubt could’ve been Mom’s. Lenora had made plans for the Everwood—all kinds of plans for fixing it up, breathing new life into it. And in the weeks-turned-to-months Mara had spent helping run the B&B, Lenora’s vision for the old house had become Mara’s. She’d convinced herself Lenora needed her as much as she needed Lenora.
And yet, a memory trickled in—of Lenora talking about her years as a travel photographer, trekking the world with her husband. “We didn’t have kids, so we could do that—take off on a whim. One day we’d be in church or at a coffee shop or sitting in front of the TV at home and we’d look at each other and just know…it was time. We’d call one of our magazine contacts and a day or two later, we’d be on a plane.”
What if Lenora had gotten one of her whims?
No. No. “She’ll be back soon.”
Mr. Clancy flattened his palms on the tabletop. “I do hope so. For everyone’s sake. The Everwood is the only lodging in Maple Valley. We’re no Atlantic City, but we have enough fairs and festivals year round to draw visitors. I wish I could do more to help.”
He was a kind man. Understanding. Which might’ve made her feel a little better if not for those words knocking around in her brain. Thirty days.
Thirty days and she might find herself without an anchor all over again.
“Thank you, Mr. Clancy.” She stood, gathered her cup of lukewarm tea, umbrella, tote bag. “I appreciate your ti—”
The bakery door opened again, robbing her attention—a hiss of wind, jangling bells, and . . .
She dropped her cup.
A silhouette moved through the doorway. Broad shoulders, longish hair, swaggering gait.
Shock clawed its way from her lungs, scraping her throat and escaping in a gasp.
Garrett.
No. There was no way. No possible way . . .
A happy shriek—the newspaper editor’s—jarred Mara’s already tumbling nerves. “Lucas!”
The form zigzagged around tables, his features coming into focus as Jenessa bounded toward him, and Mara’s racing pulse refused to slow. Not Garrett. Look at his face. It’s not Garrett. Jenessa called him Lucas.
But the scare was enough. She moved so swiftly that the chair behind her tipped. She ignored the puddle of tea at her feet. Ignored Mr. Clancy—or maybe the police chief—calling her name.
Pricks of rain stung her face the moment she stepped outside. She gulped for air, for relief.
It didn’t come.
3
Mara awoke to a crash of thunder and the feel of something moving in the bed. Her pillow muffled her yelp, the sudden hammering of her heartbeat nearly drowning the squall outside.
Until the soft movement stole closer and an unwelcome paw batted her hair. Not Garrett.
She flipped onto her back. The cat that had chased away Mrs. Jenkins stared at her from fawn-colored eyes, his back stiffening when a flash of lightning stirred the room.
“Scared, are you? Serves you right for barging into my bedroom.”
A stormy gale thrust itself against the side of the house. It was the second time she’d awoken this night. The first had been to the sound of sheets of rain and the eerie keening of the old elm tree out front.
She’d spent the next hour hunting for a flashlight and buckets, searching out leaks all over the house. No small feat considering the Everwood’s rambling square footage—three floors counting the spacious attic. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, resigned to being awake while the storm continued. Might as well check her rain pails.
Although why she’d bothered with them, she really didn’t know. Thirty days.
Which was worse? The reality that in a month, she might be forced out of this place, find herself unmoored and on the move again, or the realization that Lenora hadn’t been making her mortgage payments since before she’d left.
Mara didn’t even want to consider what that might mean.
She collected her pink fleece robe from the foot of the bed, hard floor chilled underneath her bare feet, and pulled it over her striped flannel pajamas. That rascal of a feline brushed up against her leg. She scowled. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m not a cat person?”
She could’ve sworn he shrugged his bony shoulders before sidling past her and out the bedroom door.
At a shaking boom of thunder, Mara grabbed the flashlight from her nightstand and padded from the room. The electricity had gone off hours ago. Her thin beam of light cut through the darkness pervading the corridor, the storm’s fury threatening to reach inside. More thunder, pounding rain surely bruising the already beaten down slate roof, and somewhere a tree branch rapped against a window. Moving shadows splayed over pinstriped wallpaper.
Mara’s fingers tightened around the flashlight as she moved down the hallway. It’s just a spring rain, that’s all. Just a little thunderstorm. The shadows were just shadows—hers and the cat’s—and all the noise came from outside not inside.
It’ll be over soon and—
A thump sounded.
Mara froze. That came from inside. First floor. Too heavy to be the cat.
She flung open the door that led to the closed-off attic stairway, clambered up its steps, heart thudding. She burst into the attic, the light of her flashlight frantically roving the space as she listened for more noise from below . . .
Nothing. Only the racket outside and the moaning of the house as it stood its ground.
A nervous giggle slipped past her lips. So she’d spooked. An entirely reasonable reaction considering—the darkness, the storm, the leftover fear from this morning when she’d made a fool of herself in the bakery.
Something swished against her robe. She didn’t even have to look. “Just can’t stay away, can you?”
The cat bounced onto a box, one of dozens scattered across the attic.
“Or maybe you’re just a scaredy-cat looking to the only human around for protection. Hate to tell you, but you picked the wrong girl.”
She’d thought she was being brave this morning—venturing into town, pleading the Everwood’s case. But if those minutes in the bakery had proven anything, it’s that she was still the jumpy girl who’d arrived on the Everwood’s doorstep last summer.
She moved around the attic, checking her buckets, employing a spare to empty a few that were already half full. Trickling water joined the sound of her soft footsteps. The cat followed her from corner to corner, climbing over boxes, covered furniture, who knew what else. According to Lenora, all of this, like the cat, had come part and parcel with the house when she’d purchased it. Lenora had spent quite a lot of time up here sorting through boxes. How many nights had Mara lain in bed, listening to her padding around overhead?
What were you searching for, Lenora?
Why hadn’t Mara ever thought to ask Lenora more about her own life? She knew about Lenora’s photography and that she was a widow as of a couple years ago.
She knew too that the older woman had actually spent some of her childhood in this h
ouse. Lenora’s parents had run the Everwood for a time decades ago. Lenora said she’d always looked back fondly on those years. After her husband had died, she’d come back to visit the place only to end up buying it.
Another whim.
Mara had never thought to question the feasibility of it all. She’d just assumed that if Lenora had plans to fix up the place, then she also had the finances and long-term strategy to make them happen. Clearly that wasn’t the case.
The cat’s slanting eyes glowed through the darkness and the truth hovered in the quiet. “She’s not coming back, is she?”
The thought had wriggled in off and on over the past five weeks, but every time she’d swatted it away. Now, though, she couldn’t hold it at bay any longer.
Lenora hadn’t been paying her mortgage. She hadn’t moved forward with any renovations after the kitchen. And though it was strange that she would’ve left without packing all her belongings and giving Mara some kind of notice, it was in keeping with the nomadic lifestyle she and her husband had once lived.
Lenora wasn’t coming back. It was time for Mara to accept it. With a sigh, she hauled her nearly full bucket to the stairs, careful not to let the rainwater slosh over the edge.
Back on the second floor, she treaded over the worn narrow rug that stretched to the top of the open staircase leading to the first floor. Her steps slowed as a chill wound its way up to her. A draft? Coming from downstairs?
And another thump.
Except, no, that wasn’t a thump. More of a slap . . .
She gulped, the bucket’s weight like an anchor, her toes curling in the cold. She inched down one step, then another. The flashlight under her arm had ceased to be useful, dangling as it was toward the floor, her precarious grip on it waning. “Cat?” she whispered. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I could use some company about now.”
Slap.
Halfway down the steps, she craned her neck to peer past the check-in desk, and a relieved breath whooshed past her lips. It was only the front door, thrust open by the wind, apparently. Had she forgotten to lock it? She never forgot. Maybe she’d been distracted by the storm.
She crept down a few more steps. She’d survived her second scare of the night. Soon she’d be back in bed and—
A moan. Not the wind but a real moan. A man’s moan.
And then she saw it, the clump at the bottom of the stairs. The moan was coming from the clump and the clump was beginning to move and—
Mara reacted before she could stop herself, both arms lifting her bucket, her flashlight dropping free. The man had barely risen to a crouch when the shower of water splashed over him.
His gasp gave way to a deep-throated groan as rainwater puddled around him. Mara’s flashlight plunked step-by-step to the floor, and by the time it rolled to a stop in front of him, the hulk of a man was standing to his feet with only a slight sway, his white shirt clinging to his skin and clashing with the dark.
Mara couldn’t make herself move as he slowly lifted his head, water slicking down his cheeks.
“Was that . . . entirely . . . necessary?” He rasped the words, fatigue clinging to his tone, showing in the way he gripped the banister with one hand.
“I . . . you . . .”
He flicked wet hair out of his eyes with a shake of his head. “You gonna chuck that empty bucket at me too?”
“If I have to.” Her own words surprised her, and a flash of lightning lit the man’s profile just long enough for her to catch the faintest dash of amusement in his tired eyes. It vanished as quickly as the storm’s crackling light.
Thunder boomed and the front door thwacked against the wall. “This place have a cellar?”
“A cellar?”
“A basement. We need to take cover.” He picked up her flashlight, shined it around the entryway.
“It’s just a thunderstorm.”
“You’re the only one here?”
“How do you know—”
He pointed the flashlight at her gaping robe. “Don’t think you’d be wearing those old-man pajamas around if you thought you were going to have company.”
“Old-man paj—”
“But seriously, is anybody else here? If so, we need to wake them up and get down to the basement. If there’s no basement, we at least need to get away from the front portion of the house.”
“It’s just a thunderstorm. It’ll pass.” She descended the rest of the stairs and slipped past the towering man, intent on closing the front door.
“I’m telling you, that wind is no joke. Could be a tornado on the way. And you’ve got a tree out front that looks like it could—”
The holler of the wind cut him off, blowing the bucket from her hands and billowing her robe. And a dreadful crack split the air. That’s not lightning.
It was her sole coherent thought before the single crack splintered into a thousand whining blows. She heard the shattering of glass and something crashing—
And the man’s yell from behind as strong arms lifted her from her feet.
How Marshall had gone from passed out on the front lawn of a dilapidated B&B to stalking down its hallway with a flailing woman in his arms, he honestly didn’t know. Everything was a muddled blur.
He’d been driving—one highway to another. He vaguely remembered crossing into Iowa. At some point, he’d felt his daily headache morphing into a migraine. Daylight had unraveled into dark. He’d pulled onto a side road and . . . oh yeah, he’d stopped at a gas station in some dinky town to ask about lodging.
That’s how he’d ended up at the B&B. Was it the migraine that’d knocked him out before he’d made it inside? Or some kind of medication withdrawal?
All he knew was he’d woken up soaking wet to the incessant creaking of that tree that leaned way too close to the house. He was coherent enough to know danger when he saw it. But he’d been so dizzy when he rose to his feet that by the time he burst into the house, he’d passed out all over again. Pathetic.
“Put me down!”
He had one arm around the woman’s back and the other under the crook of her bent knees. Her bare toes bounced as he thudded through the house. “I just saved you from being walloped by a tree crashing through your front door. You could show a little more appreciation.”
He got a mouthful of her hair as she whipped her head to look over his shoulder. Did she realize how tightly her arms gripped his neck? Dang woman was going to strangle him.
“Where’s the basement door?”
“Put me down and I’ll tell you.”
“And have you run back up front to survey the damage? I don’t think so.”
“But—”
Thunder shook the house. “Lady, this is no great treat for me either. I’ve been on the road since noon. I’ve got a headache like you wouldn’t believe.” Why hadn’t he saved just one bottle of painkillers from Beth’s raid? “I’m tired. I’m wet. All I want is a bed—”
“Door’s right there.”
“—and instead I’m hauling a stubborn woman . . . what?”
“I said the basement door is right there.”
Her breath was warm on his face and the fleece of her robe tickled his skin. And for one fragile, foolish moment, his hazy brain let down its defenses. Like a fog, the memory curled in—of carrying Penny just like this. Of her arms knotted around his neck as he stepped over the threshold into their first—and as it turned out—only Milwaukee home. He could almost smell that coconut lotion she always used to wear.
“The door?”
He closed his eyes, warding off the memory, and when he opened them again, it wasn’t Penny’s face only inches from his. And it wasn’t coconut he smelled, but something subtle and soft. Like apples or—
“Are you okay?” The bundle in his arms had stilled even as the storm raged.
He managed a gruff nod before lowering her to her feet then reached for the doorknob and yanked. Too hard. He heard a screw hit the floor and the woman’s sharp intake.
“Did you just rip that door off its hinges?”
“Only the bottom hinge. Must’ve already been loose.” He shuffled down one step and waited for his sight to adjust to a new layer of darkness. At least he still had the woman’s flashlight. He’d tucked it into a belt loop before hoisting her from her feet. He pulled it loose now.
“What’s your name?”
He flicked on the flashlight. “Marshall. Yours?” Stairs creaked behind him as she followed.
“Mara. You’re not a serial killer or anything, are you?”
“If I was, wouldn’t I have let that tree do its job instead of rescuing you?”
“No, because serial killers have routines. There’s always a method to their madness. You wouldn’t have let the tree take me out because it would’ve ruined your master plan to kill me yourself.”
Well, wasn’t she a morbid one.
He reached the bottom of the steps. Damp dust and the musty scent of mothballs clogged the air. He lifted the flashlight to survey their surroundings—sagging shelving, a few paint cans, empty crates, filmy cobwebs in every corner. Charming.
“These aren’t old-man pajamas, by the way.”
He swung the light back to the woman—Mara. It landed on her bare feet first, traveled the length of those striped pajamas, and settled on her face. Freckles and blue-green eyes. Red hair skimmed her shoulders and—
Wait. He darted the flashlight to her head once more. That wasn’t just red hair.
“Your forehead.” He stepped closer.
She backed away. “What about it?”
Another step forward for him. Another step backward for her. “You’re bleeding.”
Puzzlement clouded her eyes as she lifted one hand to where a tangle of hair slanted over her forehead. “Guess you didn’t save me from that walloping after all.”
It was all he could do not to flinch when she brushed her hair away.
“It’s that bad?”
“It’s a head wound. They always seem a lot worse than they are. They bleed a lot.”