Mitch frowned. Granted, one of the Monroes—Ella—had left town nearly two weeks ago.
If Mitch had his druthers, he’d be rid of another Monroe. Not Sophie and her young twin boys, who posed no threat. Not Shane and his endless ideas about how to make the town a thriving metropolis—completely at odds with Harlan’s wishes.
No. If Mitch had his druthers, it would be Laurel who left next, the petite woman with the vibrant red hair who sometimes looked as if someone had deflated her spirit. When Mitch saw the unguarded side of Laurel, something inside him softened.
Mitch set his jaw. Now wasn’t the time to be sympathetic.
Gabby showed too much interest in the redhead. Laurel might have arrived in Second Chance pale, pregnant and exhausted, but she had big-city, look-at-me style, like his ex-wife. And impressionable Gabby was enthralled, despite the fact that Laurel didn’t fit in the Idaho high country. Her high-heeled, black leather boots weren’t made for snow. Her paper-thin, black leather jacket wasn’t made for temperatures below fifty.
For heaven’s sake, she had an evening gown hanging in her bathroom!
Which Mitch only knew about because he had to clean said bathroom. Which, up until two weeks ago, Mitch could only reach by walking through the trail of clothes Laurel left on the floor, dropped—presumably—wherever she was when she undressed. Which—Mitch imagined, because he was divorced, not dead—was a process that wasn’t conducted when she was standing still. Shoes had littered the space required to swing the door open and pants, leggings, sweaters and T-shirts fanned five to ten feet from there. Unmentionables of every color—indelibly marked in his memory—had landed closest to the bathroom door and the glittery pink evening gown.
Mitch pressed at the ache in his temples. He’d spent too many nights pacing, worrying, wondering what he could have done differently with Harlan’s offer. “Granted, our deals with Harlan were a gamble to begin with.” The buyout and low lease were like a golden ticket, one with an expiration date. When he sold, Mitch had figured after Harlan died, he and Gabby would move elsewhere. But he hadn’t anticipated the town winning him over. “In Harlan’s defense, no one could’ve predicted Laurel would arrive pregnant and be put on bed rest.”
“Or that the other two would stay to support her.” Mack rolled her shoulders. “We’re lucky it’s only the three of them. It could have been all twelve.”
Harlan had assured them his grandchildren—who worked mostly high-profile jobs in the movie industry, finance, museums, oil, yacht building or luxury hotels—wouldn’t want to stay in their small town.
“Three little birdies to force out of their comfy little nests,” Roy pointed out. “And then things will return to normal, just like Harlan promised. You’ll see.” Mitch was having a hard time seeing anything other than disappearing rainbows.
“Return to normal? When Ella Monroe left, we lost Doc. Who will we lose with the next Monroe we get rid of? You, Roy?” Ivy stopped pacing behind the diner’s counter and crossed her arms over her gray hooded sweatshirt, covering up the neon-yellow letters that spelled out Best Mommy Ever. “The next nearest handyman is in Ketchum and the nearest medical clinic is an hour’s drive from here.” The worry in Ivy’s voice was hard to miss. It wasn’t that long ago that her oldest had dislocated his shoulder and her youngest had sprained both his ankles. They were younger than Mitch’s daughter and growing like clumsy weeds.
Laurel Monroe had probably never been a clumsy weed.
Something clattered in the diner’s kitchen.
“Ow-woooo.” Nick, Ivy’s youngest, ran out in his Star Wars pajamas, holding his finger toward Ivy. His brown hair was in need of a brushing or a trim and it bounced with each urgent step. “Mom, I shut my finger in the microwave and dropped my plate of nachos.”
Ivy picked him up and settled him on her hip. “Pumpkin, what have I told you about the microwave?”
Grinning, Roy elbowed Mitch and whispered, “What have you told him about eating nachos for breakfast?”
That comment earned the old man Ivy’s evil eye.
“Not to use it!” the kindergartner wailed, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. “And I did and now my finger is broken!”
“Let me see.” Ivy inspected Nick’s intact digit. “Look. It bends. No bone showing. No blood dripping. You know what that means?”
Nick drew in a shuddering breath. “I...have to...clean up my me-e-ess.” He tucked his head in the crook of Ivy’s neck and cried some more.
Ivy kissed his thatch of wild hair, put him down and sent him back to the kitchen. “Thank heavens there are no customers around to witness that.”
The Bent Nickel was the town gathering place, a time capsule with its checkerboard linoleum floors, green pleather and chrome counter stools, not to mention the yellowed pictures on the walls showing the town back in its heyday—cavalry units, trappers, miners, ranchers. The snow had been thick last night. It would take residents longer than usual to make their way into the diner for their morning news.
“No customers? Thank heavens there ain’t no health inspectors around.” Roy bowed his shoulders and sniggered, earning another glare from Ivy.
“We should get back on point.” Mitch drained the last of his coffee, thinking of Laurel at home in Hollywood. He could picture her in slim-fitting blue jeans and a tank top, carrying coffee from some posh and popular place, red hair swinging across her shoulders with each high-heeled step.
Get back on point? Take your own advice, Kincaid.
“It’s not like we can evict them.” Roy rubbed a hand over his breastbone. “They own the place.”
“Heartburn, Roy?” Ivy asked in a distracted voice, attention on the kitchen. “How much coffee have you had this morning?”
His pointy chin went up. “I’m allowed three cups.”
“According to Doc?” Mack asked with a sly look Mitch’s way. She enjoyed teasing the old man. “Or something you read?”
Roy’s chin stayed up, but he didn’t answer.
“What if the Monroes don’t want to pay the doctor stipend anymore?” Ivy’s eyes slanted with worry, her gaze still on her son.
“They’re contractually obligated to provide us with a doctor through the end of the year,” Mitch reassured her, not that he felt reassured. “We just have to find a physician willing to come.” Mitch had posted an ad for a doctor the day Noah left. “Let’s not panic.”
“Not yet anyway,” Ivy grumbled, pushing her straight brown hair back from her face. “No one but Odette has wanted to see a doctor since Noah left.”
“We’ll find a doctor,” Mitch pitched his voice to reassure the way Harlan used to on his quarterly visits. Their wealthy benefactor always seemed to provide Second Chance with what they needed, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. “But the fact remains—the Monroes aren’t leaving and they don’t strike me as the kind of people who want to live in log cabins and outdated homes at a remote fork in the road.”
Because that was just it. Second Chance wasn’t anybody’s destination. It was located where two narrow ribbons of highway intersected at the base of the Sawtooth Mountains. Drivers passed through on their way to Boise to the west, Challis to the north or Ketchum to the south.
Roy scrunched his face into a deeper cascade of wrinkles. “You think the Monroes want to turn this place into the next Challis?”
Ivy hugged herself tighter. “Or Hailey.”
“Or Ketchum,” Mack said glumly.
Those were some of the Idaho towns the rich and famous had bought property in to “get away from it all.” The influx of wealthy residents had driven up real estate prices and given rise to restaurants with appetizers like black cherries wrapped in maple-drizzled bacon. Not that there was anything wrong with that type of food in Manhattan or Hollywood. But Second Chance was more of a loaded-nachos or twice-baked-potatoes kind of town.
&
nbsp; “I could lose the diner.” Ivy gripped the worn countertop with both hands, looking older than her thirtyish years. “I feel so stupid.”
“Don’t be. We all bought into Harlan’s dream,” Mitch said. He’d welcomed the infusion of cash. He’d bought a new heating unit for the inn, socked away the rest into a college fund for Gabby and then tucked his worries about making ends meet along with it.
“Second Chance is one of the few remaining towns in the state made up mostly of hundred-year-old cabins.” Roy interrupted Mitch’s wayward thoughts. “If we can’t honor Harlan’s wishes and run his family out of town, there ought to be something we can do to protect it legal-like. I won’t let them tear down my place. I was born here, and I plan to die here.”
Mitch opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Instead, an idea formed. A rough idea not yet ready to be put forth to the town council.
“You’re onto something.” Roy nudged him. “I can tell.”
He was. “Maybe we do have something else up our sleeve.” A final card to play if Shane couldn’t be dissuaded from “fixing” Second Chance.
Copyright © 2019 by Melinda Wooten
ISBN-13: 9781488039751
Baby Makes Four
Copyright © 2019 by Cynthia Thomason
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Baby Makes Four Page 24
