Anxiety sat immobile on Laurel’s chest like a semitruck stuck in LA traffic. Her sister was a joy, a talented actress and a delicate flower. Laurel had spent most of her life watching out for her. But...
Reality Check Number Three. Laurel was pregnant, and she hadn’t worked up the courage to tell her family or the famous actor responsible for her pregnancy.
Her news... It wasn’t likely to be well received.
Her news... It would make her the least popular Monroe with more than just Mitch Kincaid.
* * *
“WE’VE GOT TO get rid of the Monroes.” A short time after Laurel had overheard his conversation with Gabby, Mayor Mitch Kincaid presided over an emergency council meeting held in the Bent Nickel Diner. “Them staying... It’s not what Harlan wanted.”
Or what he’d promised them ten years ago.
Promises? Mitch’s father had scoffed at him from behind security glass. You might just as well ask for rainbows.
Honor a promise? His father hadn’t known how.
Looking back, Harlan’s promises sounded a lot like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.
“Harlan said by disowning his grandchildren and leaving them our town...” Ivy, who ran the Bent Nickel, paced behind the counter. “He said they’d agree with his stewardship and curate Second Chance remotely.”
“While they made their own fortunes elsewhere.” Mackenzie nodded. She ran the general store and garage.
“That’s what Harlan hoped,” Mitch reminded them. “Harlan banked on their hunger to make their mark in the world once he freed them from obligation to his fortune. But he didn’t bank on Shane.”
“He’s a fixer, all right.” Roy, the town handyman, pushed up the sleeves of his long johns until they disappeared beneath the cuffs of his blue coveralls. He blew out a breath. “And Shane Monroe ain’t leavin’ until he fixes this town.”
“How’s he going to boost our profits?” Ivy asked unhappily. “In winter, no less.”
Second Chance had a unique rhythm. Seven or eight months out of the year, they did a brisk business in town, or at least enough commerce to get by. And when the passes began closing in winter, things slowed down. Snowed in, Second Chance residents spent more time with family, more time gathering and gossiping at the Bent Nickel, operating fewer hours or closing down altogether.
“Let’s face it. Shane’s fixes will likely improve his bottom line,” Mitch added, not sounding any happier. “That is, if they aren’t interested in leasing to us anymore and decide to sell the town.” The coffee he’d been drinking felt like acid in his stomach. “But if it comes to selling, I’m sure they’ll give us the opportunity to buy back our homes and businesses.”
They stared at each other in silence, because none of them were convinced of that. The Monroes hadn’t made any promises or guarantees.
“Home never looks the same after you leave.” Those were the first words Harlan Monroe had spoken to Mitch. The millionaire had been standing next to a beat-up Ford pickup, gazing at the town’s main drag with an air of sadness. “I suppose I’ll need a room for a few nights, if you’ve got one available.”
Mitch had just bought the inn. He was adjusting to life outside the courtroom and his role as a small-town single dad. Harlan’s wife, Estelle, had just lost a long battle with cancer. Harlan was coming to terms with his own mortality and how to manage his legacy. A few nights’ stay turned into a few weeks’.
Surprisingly, the notoriously media-shy Harlan had been a talker, particularly candid when he was one-on-one. He shared his past, his road to wealth and his hopes for his grandchildren, who he considered too privileged. And he expected frankness in return.
“And that’s why I left Second Chance,” Harlan had concluded his tale as he and Mitch sipped whiskey on the inn’s back porch one night, serenaded by an owl in a nearby pine tree. “You know, I’ve never told my grandkids that story. I love ’em, but try holding a meaningful conversation with a dozen kids staring at cell phones.”
“You should tell stories like that to a biographer,” Mitch had said. “If you tell them at all.”
“Says the former lawyer with caution in his voice.” Harlan had chuckled, a deep rumbly sound that hinted at fluid in his lungs. And then he’d switched gears. “None of the businesses in town seem at capacity. Tell me about your bottom line.”
Mitch had.
“I want to invest in Second Chance,” Harlan had told Mitch weeks later, his small satchel in hand. “I want it to live on, like my business legacy, but I don’t want John Q Public to know.” He’d explained his plan to buy up real estate in Second Chance and lease it back to residents. He’d shared his idea about guarding his legacy—the nondisclosure agreements with those who accepted his offer, agreements that would expire one year from his death, a date coinciding with the release of his authorized biography.
“Look.” Mack tossed her dark braid over one shoulder, bringing Mitch back to the present when her hair almost hit him. “Shane means well. He uses Mitch’s snowmobile to deliver my grocery orders to folks without charge. My pocketbook isn’t complaining about them staying longer, but...”
“They need to build lives for themselves elsewhere,” Ivy said, her pacing stomping on Mitch’s last nerve. “And forget about changing anything in Second Chance. We like our quiet winters. It’s what’s made this town like a family.” She choked on the word and clutched her throat.
“Calm down,” Roy said. “We’d all feel better if they skedaddled. But we ain’t doin’ so bad. One Monroe left already.”
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.
“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.
CHAPTER TWO
TWO BOYS TUMBLED into Laurel’s room with the enthusiasm only oversugared four-year-olds could bring.
They came at just the right time. Laurel had been practicing speeches on how to tell her family she was pregnant, each worse than the last. It didn’t help that she kept getting distracted by the image of Mitch making bacon.
“Aunt Laurel!” the boys cried. She’d earned the title of aunt even though they were technically second cousins.
Laurel sat up on her bed, heartened by their enthusiasm.
“We’re cannonballs.” Andrew crouched and rolled across the carpet toward her.
His identical brother—Alexander, the twin with the cowlick at his crown—rolled on the other side of the bed.
“Look what I brought you and Baby—fresh fruit!” Cousin Sophie, mother of the minion twins, held up a small bunch of bananas and a large yellow apple. “Mackenzie at the general store got a shipment yesterday before the pass closed. Wow, she’s a good salesperson. We barely got out of there without buying two more sleds. Did you call your parents? Or he who you refuse to name?”
That was Sophie, master of the conversational whip-around. The “he” in question was the father of Lau
rel’s baby, a man whose identity she was keeping secret as long as possible.
Secrets made her head ache. Laurel rubbed her temples, remembering the night they’d met...
“Ash...” Wyatt Halford had believed he was on a date with Laurel’s sister, Ashley. “I’m having a good time, but I have to admit. I’m surprised that you’re so...so...” Wyatt had struggled for words and it had been endearing. His gaze lingered on Laurel’s. His smile was completely natural. He hadn’t glanced around the restaurant to locate the nearest camera or cell phone aimed his way. He’d been unlike any actor Laurel had been sent on a date with posing as Ashley.
Having grown up as a Monroe, Laurel wasn’t impressed by beauty or wealth or celebrity. She didn’t need what they had. Her job on these first dates was to discourage a second one. But Wyatt Halford...
“You’re so...so down-to-earth,” Wyatt had said artlessly, flashing Laurel a smile that curled her toes. “Maybe it’s because I hadn’t realized you’d know the history of the action film genre.” His claim to fame. “Or because I’ve never heard you laugh wholeheartedly. Or simply because you’re wearing blue tonight.”
“Teal,” Laurel had whispered, won over. As kids, Mom had always put Ashley in pink and Laurel in a shade of blue or green.
On the night of her date with Wyatt, Laurel had argued with her mother about taking Ashley’s place. She’d wanted to stay home and work on the pink evening gown pinned to the dressmaker’s form in her bedroom. Eventually, Mom had won, as Laurel knew she would. In defiance, Laurel had worn a teal A-line dress, not black or Ashley’s signature pink. And this man—this handsome, charming actor beloved by millions—had looked at Laurel and seen something other than the bright, shiny penny that was Ashley Monroe.
A simple dinner date had turned into a not-so-simple morning after, something Laurel had carefully neglected to mention to Ashley and her mother. And now nothing was simple.
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