by Alison Kent
She’d grabbed the blue and orange she needed and, holding the bottles to her chest, had turned, sensing Cary’s curious gaze. His expression had set off the strangest flutters in her chest. Sure, she’d always thought he was cute, but he kept to himself and said little. Aside from his artistic talent, she knew next to nothing about him.
She gave him her best cheerleading smile. “Doing homework?”
He shook his head, then returned his attention to his sketchbook. His pencil scratched a series of lines on the page. “Just hanging out. Drawing.”
“So you’d rather hang out here drawing than go home?”
He shrugged, his focus on his work.
She tried again. “Where’s Miss Elliot?”
He shrugged once more, and it rattled her, the way he ignored her.
Not knowing why, she came closer. What was it about him? Why did she always look for him in the hallways, the cafeteria? “Is breaking rules your thing? You’re not supposed to stay after school without staff supervision, you know.”
“Same as you, I guess.” He lifted his gaze, an accusation. “Since you unlocked that supply cabinet yourself.”
She looked at the tempera paint, a flush heating her face. “No big deal. It’s for the game-day banners.”
Time pulsed between them—beat, beat—then he pushed his glasses up his nose and asked, “So you’d rather hang out here drawing than go home?”
He had to know she wasn’t here alone like he was. That the whole squad was working on the signs. But it was the way he said it, his tone and the fact that she couldn’t breathe that got to her. It didn’t make her mad; it frightened her.
Because she knew without either of them saying another word that the answer was yes. They’d stayed at school for the same reason: neither one of them wanted to go home.
Movement in her peripheral vision brought her back to the present. Cary was pointing, a smartwatch on his left arm, the rectangular black case falling against the bones of his hair-dusted wrist. His fingers were long, his hand broad. He wore no wedding band. What looked like ink stains or paint dotted two of his knuckles with spots of dark green.
“Up there,” he said. “Chances Avenue. The blue Victorian. Parking’s on the side.”
She remembered the house though it hadn’t been this color all those years ago. Seeing it had her wondering if she might be better served by opening her craft shop in a stand-alone structure instead of being one of several stores in a larger, shared space.
She could still buy the Mystic Movie House—lucky for her the previously pending sale had fallen through—and convert it as planned. Rent out the first floor suites for additional income while living above in the renovated loft. She’d have to see what specific market research Caroline Parker, her Realtor, could provide.
So much depended on the success of this venture. Dreaming of it, designing and imagining it had been a big part of saving her life. Just not as big as Cary.
She signaled, pulling into a spot at the far end which gave her a view of the woods beyond. A large greenhouse sat at the far end of the football-field-sized yard.
Cary tossed his bread on the dash and opened his door, coming around to hers. He appeared taller than in high school but that was most likely the years and the clothes and maybe even his hair, she mused, unable to decide if it was stylishly over-long and mussed or if he didn’t care what he looked like. Because what he looked like...
He left her breathless and tingling, and that made her laugh because she didn’t think she still had it in her to notice a man. Not one’s shoulders or biceps or the cut of his clothes or his lean-hipped swagger. Except it wasn’t just any man she was noticing.
It was Cary.
Cary who knew too much.
Chapter Two
“THANK YOU,” SHE SAID once he’d opened her door. She used the steering wheel to brace her bulk as she shifted. It was easier to have both feet on the ground before she stood—a life lesson she would’ve done well to learn earlier.
But before she could use the frame and the seat back to push up, Cary was there to help. “And thank you again.”
He didn’t respond except to nod, releasing her hand as they walked. She tucked her fists into her cardigan’s pockets and followed the sidewalk around to the front steps. Once inside, she took in the layout while Cary fished for his wallet. He dropped a twenty into a foot-tall piggy bank shaped like an owl.
“They used to have a cigar box,” he said with a shrug, tucking his wallet away.
Cilla only smiled and turned back to the open space. The first floor’s individual rooms still existed though only the walls separating them remained. Those where the doors once stood had been removed, making for a warren of small dining areas, each with its own color scheme. It was incredibly charming and cozy.
“Cary,” an older woman said warmly, approaching them with open arms and giving Cary a hug. Cilla took her to be the hostess. “Sit anywhere you’d like, and I’ll bring your iced tea.” She turned to give Cilla a welcoming smile. “And what would you like to drink?”
“Iced tea would be great, thank you,” Cilla said as Cary cleared his throat to make introductions.
“Dolly Pepper, this is Cilla Reddy, a friend of mine from way back.”
“It’s so nice to meet a friend of Cary’s,” Dolly said, taking Cilla’s hand between hers. They were solid, comforting, as was the light in her eyes when her gaze returned to Cary.
Cilla wondered what the other woman was thinking about them, wondered, too, if Cary truly considered her a friend. Thankfully, she was saved from further wondering by his butting in.
“What Dolly means is that it’s nice to see I actually have a friend.”
“Why, Cary Browning.” Dolly reached up and patted his scruffy cheek. “We’ll have none of that around here where everyone adores you. Now you two sit and I’ll get your drinks.”
The room Cary led her to was decorated in the colors of spring: soft greens and softer yellows and white with touches of delft blue. The placemats and napkins were beautifully woven in a matching palette. Turning over one corner, Cilla saw a Patchwork Moon label and sighed. Contentment twined around her heart and left her smiling.
She was doing the right thing. She knew it.
After the first of the year, she’d make an appointment to visit MeadowsLand. Their yarns were her favorite and would be the cornerstone of her shop. She had other vendors to contact as well but the MeadowsLand name was as much a part of Hope Springs as Butters Bakery and Cat Tales. And one day, she hoped, Reddy’s Threads.
Even if she bought the theater, finding a place to live during the renovation would be a challenge. At least a place that would keep her nearby while the work was done. There were so many things she wished she could’ve settled before the baby arrived. But her ex’s ultimatum last night—had it only been last night?—had accelerated her timetable; she had no choice but to scramble to survive.
“C’mon,” Cary was saying, interrupting her musings on the business this café must do to afford Luna Meadows’s handcrafted linen work. “Buffet’s this way.”
Cilla walked with him down what she thought would once have been a hallway bisecting the first floor to a room bustling with diners oohing and aahing over the smells.
Cheese, onions, chicken, garlic, and tomatillo sauce were layered between corn tortillas in dishes of stacked enchiladas. There were thick slices of meatloaf glazed with broiled barbecue sauce, fluffy mashed potatoes with chives, and hot rolls the size of softballs along with shell-shaped butter pats and bottles of local honey.
And Cary hadn’t been kidding about the brownies. Plates and plates of the oven-warm squares sat next to an old-fashioned freezer with huge tubs of vanilla and butter pecan ice cream. Back at their table, she went for dessert first, polishing off half a brownie before switching to her entrée.
“It’s a good thing this place wasn’t here ten years ago,” she said, reaching for her iced tea. “I would’ve eaten he
re every day and weighed more than I do now.”
Cary started to speak then stopped, frowning as he buttered his roll.
“What?” she asked, cutting into her enchiladas.
“Pretty sure talking to a woman about her weight isn’t done.”
“I brought it up,” Cilla said with a laugh. “But you’re very gallant.”
“That’s a new one,” he said with a snort. “Gallant.”
Her face heated as memories flooded back... tripping over a stepladder in the senior hallway, her purse flying, the contents spilling out. Cary standing in the crowd. Cary picking up her razor blade. Cary taking the blame.
She tightened her fingers around her fork. “I’ve always thought you were.”
“I can’t imagine why,” he said, then tore off a bulb from the cloverleaf roll and popped it into his mouth.
She waited for him to say more, to explain why he was dodging. Because that’s what he was doing. And she got it. She really did. But it was way past time they gave this particular dirty laundry some air.
“You know exactly why,” she said, setting her fork on the edge of her plate and reaching for her napkin. Once she’d blotted the edge of her mouth, she added, “I ruined your life.”
He dropped his roll to his plate and sat back, shaking his head. “Cilla—”
“No. Don’t.” She pressed on, her voice low and thick and choking. “I got a week of detention because I had oh-so-dangerous knitting needles in my purse. But you got expelled. And it wasn’t even your razor blade. You didn’t get to graduate with your class because of your gallantry. So don’t tell me you can’t imagine why I would think that.”
For days after the incident, she’d waited for him to get in touch and ask her what she was doing with a razor blade. Days which had given her time to come up with a dozen explanations, all lies because the truth had been too painful to share. Who was she kidding? It had been too painful to live. It was too painful even now.
She didn’t want to remember. To think about the pieces of her life she’d tried to cut away. She hadn’t wanted anyone to know the truth. Especially Cary.
Her heart pounded as she waited for him to respond. He stared at her for several moments, seconds that ticked away as around them diners laughed and chattered, forks and knives clattered against china plates, footsteps echoed and squeaked on the hardwood floor, chair legs scraped when scooted up, scraped when scooted back.
The spell was broken by a girl of no more than six or seven who ran up to their table.
“Hi, Mr. Cary! Will you sign my new Tabby Danger book? Daddy took me to Cat Tales to get it this morning but says I can’t read it until I clean my room.”
“Sure thing, Addy,” Cary said, waving at a large tattooed man wearing biker boots and a leather jacket. He was imposing, yet the smile on his mouth and in his eyes said his daughter wore him wrapped around her little finger.
After wiping his hands on his napkin, Cary reached for the fine tip Sharpie he carried in the breast pocket of his blue oxford shirt and signed his name across Tabby’s fedora, making the tail of the Browning g into a circle he gave pointed ears, a triangular nose, and whiskers.
Addy laughed. “That’s not how you make a g, Mr. Cary! You need to go back to school!”
Behind his glasses, Cary’s eyes sparkled. “I’ll get Miss Harvey to teach me next time I read to her class.”
“Did you know Miss Harvey is my mommy now?”
“I did,” he said, completely relaxed and not the least bit awkward. The same way he’d been with Dolly. “I’ll bet she’s a good one.”
“She’s the best mommy in the whole wide world!” Addy squealed, jumping up and down and clutching her comic book to her chest. “Thank you, Mr. Cary!”
As Cilla looked on, Addy turned and ran back to her father. He swung her up as if she weighed nothing and carried her out the front door. Once on the porch, he set her on her feet and she took off down the steps.
The door closed behind them, leaving Cilla to struggle with the picture of her child’s fatherless future. Her anger at her ex rose to strangle her, but it was her anger at herself for not seeing the truth of what he was that she found herself unable to shake.
She looked back to catch Cary smiling. “Is this what you do? This comic?”
He gave a quick nod. “The Adventures of Tabby Danger. I draw it, color it, write it. Do short animated sketches for Tabby’s YouTube channel.”
She let that sink in, realizing he’d stayed true to who he’d always been. “You’re a celebrity.”
“Hardly.”
“Addy thinks so.”
“She doesn’t know any better.”
“And you were great with her.”
“She’s a kid. There’s nothing to it.”
Cilla wished she had his confidence. Believing there was nothing to it would make the years ahead a joy to look forward to. As it was... She breathed deeply, trying to dislodge the weight of uncertainty pressing down. All she could do was live in the present. She couldn’t worry about what was to come. And she refused to live in the past—which was why she let their earlier conversation go.
Another deep breath refocused her. “It’s amazing to think of all the people who’ve passed through this house over the years.”
“There have definitely been a lot,” Cary replied, getting back to his food. “Kaylie Keller—this is her place—she was one of the Wises’ foster kids.”
“Oh, wow. That’s very cool.”
“Right?” He nodded and went on. “Dolly’s her stepmom. Kaylie came back and bought the house. Her husband owns a construction company, he and his brother. Kaylie’s dad, that’s Mitch, Dolly’s husband, does a lot of the cooking but Kaylie bakes the brownies.”
Cilla tried to organize the dump of information. “I thought you said the Wises fostered her.”
“They did. But she found her dad. It’s a long story.”
That had her smiling. “I’ve missed this. The everyone knowing everything about everybody.”
Cary huffed. “Comes with the territory.”
“Does it bother you?” she asked. “I remember you being... shy.”
“I’m not so sure shy’s the right word.” He added a self-deprecating laugh. “More like awkward. Unfortunate.”
Cilla laughed. “How were you unfortunate?”
“Let me count the ways,” he said, reaching for his tea.
They fell silent after that, Cilla leaving the rest of her entrée and finishing off her dessert while Cary cleaned his plate. She refused to chastise herself for the less than healthy choice; her eating habits throughout her pregnancy had been stellar. This was an aberration, an emotional splurge, but the time had come to move on.
Sighing, she said, “I guess we should go. I need to find a place to stay.”
“For the night?” Cary asked as he dropped his napkin onto his plate.
Cilla nodded. “I’ll get a hotel for now and find something permanent soon.” No reason to admit that for all the plans she’d made, her actual return had been spur-of-the-moment. “I’ll get settled then call Caroline Parker—”
“I have a room. You’re welcome to it for as long as you need.” He blurted out the words, giving her no time to respond before he quickly added, “Several rooms actually. An entire second floor the size of a small apartment. Everything there but a kitchen.”
“I guess you have one of those downstairs?” It seemed the best reply to make; otherwise, she was going to say yes. Without asking why he’d made the offer. Without examining why she’d jumped to accept.
“I’m sorry. That was... unfortunate,” he said wryly, and she laughed again.
It surprised her, how many times today she’d found herself doing that. Though it had only been since running into Cary, hadn’t it? “Were you this funny in school and I was too self-involved to notice?”
“Were you self-involved?” he asked as he pushed back his chair and helped her with hers.
She
shrugged. “Maybe no more than any teenager trying to find herself.”
“And have you?”
“I’ll have to let you know,” she said, though she was pretty sure she finally had.
Chapter Three
HUH. SO TODAY TURNED out to be the day he lost his mind. Not after burying his father when he’d decided to stay in the town he’d always hated. And not the day he picked up Cilla’s razor blade from the floor and stood holding it like a moron and martyring himself.
But today. The day he’d asked Cilla Reddy to move in with him.
The day she’d agreed.
Yeah. He needed to get that straight. She wasn’t moving in with him. She was moving into his house because he had the room and there weren’t many places in Hope Springs that did.
People either lived here all their lives, building on and remodeling as changes in their situations dictated, or they left with no expectations of ever coming back.
He’d never expected to come back, yet he had. Kaylie Keller had. He knew, too, of others who’d been called to the Hill Country for one reason or another. Usually personal.
Like Angelo Caffey who’d returned to marry Luna Meadows. Or Addy’s father Callum Drake whose story Cary had never heard. And though people in town knew who Cary was now, he kept to himself the same way he had the years he’d lived here.
It was comfortable, what he was used to. And focusing on work was easier without the clutter of external distractions.
He had no idea how he was going to keep to himself or stick to his schedule and deadlines with Cilla under his roof.
He wasn’t a fool. She wasn’t interested in him today any more than she’d ever been. It was almost a stretch to say they’d even been friends. Acquaintances, sure, but that covered everyone who’d had a hand in shaping who he’d become.
So when had he started inviting people he barely knew to live in his house?
Cilla, Cary. Not people. Big, big difference.
Yeah. He had several things he was going to have to keep straight.
