“Expected what?” Meredith demanded. “That we would have turned things around in this town in the course of a few short months. Between Avery’s marketing and the work that Carrie has put in to make the holiday events special, we’re still going to have the best holiday celebration this town has ever seen. Which will mean sales for you.”
“Back in the day we didn’t have to work so hard. People flocked to this town just because...” Stuart shrugged, as if realizing he’d gone too far. “Anyway, I’m going home. We should post something to the town’s Facebook page that everyone needs to bring flashlights tomorrow night in case the power goes out.”
“No one is posting about flashlights,” Avery said then turned to Mary Ellen. “Would you check in with Malcolm and see if there’s a time frame on getting things back to normal?”
“Sure thing.”
“Ruined,” Carrie whispered when she was alone with her sisters. “What if I ruined everything with my stupid need to go overboard?”
“Nothing you do is stupid,” Avery assured her.
“The same can’t be said for Stuart. That guy is inbred for sure.”
“Maybe he was right.” Despite the cool temperature as night fell, a bead of sweat trickled down Carrie’s back, and her stomach ached from her embarrassment at the scene she’d caused. “I’m creating a lot of work for myself and everyone else with no guarantee it will pay off.”
“It’s going to pay off.” Avery gave her a quick hug. “I talked to Miriam at The Magnolia Inn. She’s at full occupancy this weekend and almost half of her guests are visitors returning to spend a second weekend in town. According to her, the local bed-and-breakfasts are experiencing the same thing. That never happens this time of year.”
“I can’t remember the last weekend of no vacancy in Magnolia.” Malcolm gave her an approving nod as he approached. “You’ve done good here and we appreciate it.”
“I’m sorry about the power.”
At that moment the lights flicked back on, and Carrie breathed a sigh of relief. Relief tinged with a smidge of disappointment. Power had been restored to the buildings she could see from where they stood, but the town square remained dark.
“We had to unplug,” the mayor explained. “At least until someone from the utility company can figure out how to light the whole thing without other disturbances. They’re sending a crew out first thing tomorrow morning.”
“We’ll find a way to turn on at least some of the lights,” Avery promised. “I’m sure Gray will think of a solution.”
“He’s a firefighter,” Carrie reminded her sister, “not an electrician.”
Avery’s expression took on that dreamy look Carrie had come to expect when Gray was the topic of conversation. “He can do anything.”
“Her own personal superhero,” Meredith added, deadpan.
“I’ll call Gray in the morning,” Malcolm promised. “Any ideas are good ones at this point. Right now the three of you should head home. It’s all hands on deck first thing tomorrow.”
“We’ll make sure the weekend is great no matter what.” Avery gave Carrie another hug and even Meredith joined in. Carrie knew things must be bad if her normally flippant sister was offering solace.
“Want to grab dinner?” Meredith asked. “I’ve got to get back to check on Shae and the animals, but if we got something quick...”
“I told Violet I’d help with her costume for the Christmas pageant,” Avery said.
Carrie stared at her sophisticated, former city-girl sister. “You can sew?”
“No, but I bought a glue gun.” Avery grinned. “You can make anything with a glue gun.”
“Just don’t glue your fingertips together,” Meredith warned. “My dad did that once when he was trying to fix my favorite piggy bank after Theo broke into it.”
Carrie felt her chest pinch at the sadness in Meredith’s voice. Discovering their connection and the secrets Niall had left behind affected each of them in a different way. She knew Meredith had struggled with her new identity and what that meant for the father she’d grown up with and who’d raised her on his own for so many years.
“How is your dad?” she asked gently, feeling Avery go still next to her. Meredith rarely opened up to either of them.
“Still staying with Erik down in Wilmington,” she said casually. “He might be back for Christmas.”
Avery tsked under her breath. “Will you go there for the holiday if not?”
“Hard to find animal sitters at that time. We’ll see.” Meredith made a show of checking her watch. “If we’re not getting dinner, I’m going to grab some carryout and head home. I’ll see you both bright and early tomorrow.”
Carrie said goodbye to Avery, as well, and headed across the darkened town square on her own. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go—any of it.
The warring emotions of guilt and resentment crept along her spine like dueling spiders making her skin itch with discomfort.
She’d planned to test the lights on her own before tonight to ensure everything worked the way they should. How many other details had she overlooked? Between the time she spent with Dylan and the hours in front of a canvas, she hadn’t given nearly as much to the festival as she’d planned.
Now it felt like the whole thing was in jeopardy. But the piece of her that had spent the past decade catering to her father’s every whim and need rose up inside her like some kind of stubborn weed. What would happen if she really changed her mind about dedicating all of her energy toward the town?
Avery and Meredith worked hard, too, but they were doing it to help make sure the properties they’d inherited would be worth something. They didn’t seem to have the same driving compulsion to right the wrongs of their father in the same way Carrie did.
She paused as she caught sight of Dylan near the entrance to his building. He’d disappeared after the town went dark, and she’d figured he’d headed home to celebrate the fact that her plan seemed to be falling apart just when it counted the most.
His back was to her and she could see the cell phone against his ear. She thought about backtracking through the park and taking the long way home around the far side of downtown.
But that would just prolong the inevitable gloating. Why not pull up her big-girl panties and deal with it while her mood was already in the toilet?
She wasn’t sure whether he heard the heels of her boots clicking on the sidewalk or simply sensed her approach. Either way, he turned and held up a finger then pointed to the phone at his ear.
“Just get down here with the generator first thing tomorrow,” he said, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “I don’t care about the overtime, Cody. Make it happen.”
He ended the call and shoved the phone into the pocket of his dark jeans. Once again Dylan proved he could look good in any situation. He wore a nondescript gray sweater and his worn leather jacket. Somehow, he managed to appear like he’d just stepped off the pages of a magazine spread featuring men of alpha style.
Carrie bit down on the inside of her cheek, hoping the pain would keep her focused on what she needed to say to him and not how he made her feel. Yet, she couldn’t help but remember how he’d come to her defense with the committee members earlier. “Do you want to start with the ‘I told you so’?” she asked, proud that her voice didn’t waver. “Or should I go first?”
His thick brows drew together as he stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
She hitched a thumb at the town square behind her. “The mess I’ve made of the light ceremony. I went too big, too far, too bright. Just like you probably knew I would.”
“It’s not a mess. We just need a backup power source. I’m having my company’s master electrician drive down with a portable generator tomorrow. I’ve already contacted the local utility company, so they know it’s on the way. We’re meeting here first thing
in the morning and it will be ready by the time the ceremony is scheduled to start. Magnolia is going to be the brightest town on the eastern seaboard for your Merry Magnolia Festival.”
Carrie felt her mouth drop open. She could barely contain her shock. Dylan told her the plan like it was nothing. As if they were really on the same team.
“I don’t understand,” she said when she regained enough control to speak. “Why? Why would you go out of your way to make it work instead of using the issue against me?”
He moved closer, cupped her cheeks in his large hands. “I’m not the bad guy,” he said simply. “I gave my word that I’d help with the festival and that’s what I’m going to do. It’s important to you, which makes it important to me. We might have different ideas for the future of the town, but we can deal with that later.”
Her mind whirled. Not only was he not the bad guy. At this moment Dylan Scott was her personal hero. She didn’t say that, knowing it would make him uncomfortable. Instead, she leaned forward and kissed him.
“Thank you.”
He smiled against her mouth. “If you let it slip that I’m not the villain everyone wants me to be, I’ll deny it.”
“I don’t understand.” She pulled back and looked into his eyes, trying to figure out why he wouldn’t admit that he cared about things.
“I’ve gotten used to people around here having low expectations of me.” He flashed a self-deprecating grin. “I kind of like it that way.”
“You don’t mean that,” she argued. “Especially because I know you love the bakery’s sticky buns. Wouldn’t it be nice if Mary Ellen let you in the front door? That way you wouldn’t have to bribe people to smuggle baked goods out to you.”
“How do you know I pay for pastries?”
“I know a lot of things.”
“Not everything,” he said, and the low timbre of his voice made sparks dance along her skin.
She wanted to know more. At this moment she wanted Dylan to open up and admit that his feelings for the town and for her had changed.
His willingness to pitch in when she needed him the most made her believe in her vision for her home in a deeper way than she had before. Magnolia was a place of community, not some generic wealthy vacation destination. Dylan might not want to concede yet, but she knew he saw how special it was here. Otherwise he wouldn’t work to help.
“You look good covered in paint smudges,” he told her.
“I feel bad that I lost track of time,” she admitted, tucking her arm into the crook of his elbow as they walked down the quiet street.
“You can’t take care of other people if you aren’t taking care of yourself.”
Carrie laughed. “Are you a closet Oprah Winfrey fan?”
“Not exactly,” he said, giving her a playful nudge. “Sam and I went to a therapist together for about six months after the accident. I did a couple of solo sessions at her suggestion, and that was one of the main pearls of wisdom she dropped.”
“Dylan,” she breathed, feeling like a jerk for making light of his advice.
“Trust me, the lesson didn’t exactly stick. But I think it applies as much to you as it did to me.”
“You’re right.”
“Say that again,” he urged, amusement lacing his tone. “I like the sound of it.”
She laughed again, amazed at how easy it was to relax and let down her guard with this man who should raise her hackles instead. They came to the corner where her Volvo was parked.
“I walked,” he told her, “so I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
He seemed as reluctant to leave her as she was to let him go. Neither of them spoke about the way last night had ended. She didn’t want to go there, not after he’d just stepped up to help save her vision for the festival. Most of her life was complicated, but at the moment her feelings for Dylan were the most straightforward thing she could imagine.
She wouldn’t ruin this, too.
“Do you want a ride home?”
“Sure. Sam’s at a movie so he won’t be back for another hour or so.”
An hour. Imagine all the things that could happen in one hour. Carrie’s body hummed with the possibility of it. They climbed into the station wagon and she pulled away from the curb.
“Would you like to see what I’m working on?” she asked, her awareness immediately replaced by nervous energy. She had an opportunity for sexy time and instead had offered to show him something that revealed every hidden shred of her vulnerability.
“More than anything,” he answered before she had a chance to take it back.
She swallowed down the anxiety rising up in her throat.
“Great,” she whispered. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DYLAN COULD FEEL anxiety radiating from Carrie as she led him through the front door of the bungalow a few blocks from his house.
He didn’t understand it. She knew he believed in her talent, possibly more than she did. He also understood her willingness to share this portion of herself was a gift, one he wouldn’t take for granted.
She flipped on the light, revealing a charming space filled with neutral-toned furnishings interspersed with colorful pillows, rugs and accents that lent the room an eclectic yet inviting feel. The homey living room connected to a small but functional kitchen with white cabinets, stainless-steel appliances and a small maple dining room set on one side.
“This place looks like you,” he told her with a smile.
“I used to rent Gray’s carriage house, but it felt a little too cozy once he and Avery got together. This house works for what I need just as well, although I dream of owning a place of my own one day.”
“What’s going on with your dad’s house?”
She shrugged as she placed her purse and keys on the table behind the sofa. “We’ve got to get through probate before we can sell it. I’m not sure who would buy the place at this point. It’s kind of oversize for Magnolia. Maybe a family new to town or someone who’d want to convert it to a bed-and-breakfast.”
“I still can’t believe none of you want it.” Living in that big house overlooking the rest of the neighborhood had seemed part and parcel to who Carrie was. Her father’s princess. Dylan knew the old antebellum structure had been as much a prison as a castle, but he still associated it with her.
“Not at all,” she answered without hesitation. “It’s strange but after we cleaned it out, I wanted nothing more to do with that house. In fact, I haven’t been over there in almost a month. Avery says we can deal with it once the estate is settled, but I’m not sure how involved I’ll be. It represents a time in my life that I’d prefer not to revisit.”
“Then don’t ever go back,” he told her, understanding the need to leave the past in the past. He never went near the part of town where he’d lived as a kid. There was nothing for him there but bad memories.
He turned as a cacophony of tiny meows and cries sounded from the back of the house.
“My fosters,” Carrie explained, her eyes darting to the hallway and then to him. “I need to check on them for a minute. You can wait here or else I’m using the spare bedroom—second door on the right—as my studio.”
“Okay,” he said as she walked away. He wasn’t sure which she wanted him to do but curiosity left him unable to resist heading down the hall.
He passed her bedroom and tried not to notice the intimacy of the sliver of bed he could see from the partially open door. Instead, he opened the door she’d indicated as her studio space. The room smelled of turpentine and acrylic paint, a mix of scents he’d always associated with Carrie.
She might have stopped painting for years, but she’d never quit being an artist. It was a part of her, much like her identity as Niall’s daughter.
His breath caught in his throat as he flipped on the light, and he heard her s
oft footsteps approach behind him as he walked into the room.
“You’ve been busy,” he said, taking in the rows of a half dozen canvases. “Do you sleep?”
“Not a lot,” she answered, her voice tight with anticipation.
“They’re stunning.”
“You don’t have to say that,” she told him, almost defensively.
“It’s true. The style is different than what you used to do.”
“I don’t even know what to call it. Something between intense impressionism and fluid realism. It’s certainly a change from the paintings I do at the store. This is just what comes out when I let myself feel. Back in high school I was so concerned with getting all the technical bits right. I thought I needed to be deliberate and methodical because that’s how my father taught me to paint. Now it’s like the brush has a mind of its own. I get totally engrossed and lose track of the time. I love the unpredictability of it, which kind of feels like a joke given how much the chaos of the past few months has been a burden to me.”
“You feel it,” Dylan said, drawn forward by the emotion he could see in the work. The color and bold brush strokes, along with the unique compositions of the pieces. “They’re sensual,” he murmured then chuckled at the incredulous look she gave him.
“My sisters said the same thing, but I don’t paint like that on purpose. I’m not trying to be provocative.”
“Doesn’t change that they are. It’s not a criticism, Carrie. These paintings express who you are. I can’t believe how many canvases you have with how busy the rest of your life has been lately.”
She moved to stand next to him, ran a finger along the edge of one canvas. “It’s like a dam broke inside me. All those years of not painting. I told myself I didn’t miss it, that I was happy taking care of my dad. But...”
“You weren’t happy,” he said, hating himself for leaving her with Niall. Maybe if she would have gone with Dylan, things could have been different for them.
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