by Olivia Miles
“Safe and sound. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“But then I remembered that when I was about to unlock the front door this morning I got distracted by the ding of the oven, yet just now I noticed the door has been unlocked since I last checked.” She stared at him, not allowing so much as a blink. “Seems that someone was gone all night and decided to slip in while the rest of us were enjoying my prize-winning coffee cake. Blueberry streusel, mind you. Only the best for my guests.”
Henry locked her twinkling gaze and sunk his hand into his pocket, closed it around the key. “I stayed at my old house if you must know.”
Her earlier titillation was replaced with a small gasp. She brought a hand to her mouth to cover her surprise, but it was too late. Not that Henry blamed her; the house was uninhabitable. He should have told a better fib—that he’d camped out on Ivy’s couch, or spent time with a friend.
After all, that’s all he had done. So why not just say it? Why cover it up? Why make it out to be more than it was?
“Well… I…” Mrs. Griffin chewed her thumbnail, shaking her head with pinched brows as she studied the key now safely back in her hands. “Well, you must be starving.”
“I’m fine, but thank you.” He could still taste Jane’s rich coffee and homemade waffles with warm maple syrup. She might credit her sister, Anna, for being the chef in the family, but there was no denying that Jane knew her way around the kitchen. “I’m actually headed back to the house now.”
“How’s it coming along?” Mrs. Griffin seemed to wince.
Henry shrugged. The painters were tackling the wood rot and already the outside was looking more cheerful. The inside, though… it would take more than a fresh coat of paint to brighten that space. “With any luck we’ll have it on the market in a few weeks.”
“I’m glad you mentioned that. Things tend to pick up around here during the holidays. After all, there’s so much to see and do in these parts, and who doesn’t love a white Christmas?” When he didn’t react she huffed. “Should I assume you’ll be leaving before then?”
“Would it be possible to let you know in a week or two? Until more progress has been made on the house, I can’t be sure how long I’ll be here, and I’m on assignment—” Crap. The innkeeper’s eyes immediately sprang open, and her mouth formed a little o of surprise.
“An article? Dare I ask if the subject is our charming little town?”
Henry braced himself. “As a matter of fact, it is.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Griffin clasped her hands at her breast. “Oh! Well, isn’t this wonderful! My, there is just so much to share, so much to highlight, I imagine, what with the shops, the dining. The accommodations.” She held his stare, her smile pert.
“I’m sure the readers of the magazine will find much to love about Briar Creek,” Henry said flatly. Even if I don’t. “Well, I should get going.”
“Oh, well, enjoy your day, Mr. Birch! And, don’t worry about rushing your stay. You take all the time you need. The Main Street Bed and Breakfast is always happy to have you.”
Henry flicked his collar and exited the building, shaking his head when he passed the urns that flanked the double glass doors. It was the first place a burglar would look, but he suspected Mrs. Griffin’s motives in locking the inn at midnight sharp had more to do with her overflowing curiosity about her guests’ comings and goings than her concerns about safety. She was harmless, but nosy. Just like so many in this town.
The drive to the house was easier in the light of day, but he was still counting down the days until he never had to see it again. The winding roads were flanked by the forest, now vivid hues of orange, gold, and crimson, and without any traffic, he covered the short distance from town in a matter of minutes. He rounded a bend and turned onto their old country road, his heart beginning to pound when he saw Adam’s mother outside her house, raking leaves into piles.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He slanted a glance behind the shield of his sunglasses, taking in the chin-length blond hair, the face edged with laugh lines, and eased off the accelerator. Confusion wrinkled her expression as he turned into her driveway and pulled to a stop, and the joy in her face when he climbed out of the car filled him with guilt.
“Henry! My goodness, Henry!” Dropping the rake, she jogged across the yard to him, arms spread wide. He let her pull him in for a long, hard hug, and he closed his eyes, hating himself. Hating that his best friend’s mom had cared more for him than his own. Hating that he somehow felt he’d let her down just as much as his own mother. He’d turned his back on this town—on the rumors and talk and the glances and whispers. But he’d turned his back on the people who’d cared, too.
“Do you have time?” Her clear blue eyes were hopeful as she looked up at him.
He nodded. He’d find any excuse to put off returning to his childhood home, but this visit was more than a distraction. It was time to face his past. His whole past.
“Come inside. I’ll make some coffee.” Linking her arm through his, she led him up the path and into the warm, sunlit house. He wiped his feet on the mat in the hall. A radiator hissed and then clanked in the distance. Just ahead was the old grandfather clock that chimed on the hour, and there, to the left, was the winding staircase Henry had slipped and fallen down once, bruising his knee.
She took his coat and hung it on the coatrack next to her own. “Now, isn’t this a treat.” She smiled, and patted his hand, squeezing it close. “I don’t suppose you’re hungry? I have some chocolate chip cookies. I always keep them on hand. They’re Sophie’s favorite,” she added.
It was odd to think that she was Sophie’s grandmother, that the little girl he’d started to know had been a part of Patty’s world for years. She was like Jane in many ways—caring, nurturing, and family oriented. He wondered what she thought about her son’s divorce.
The kitchen was bright, if a bit cramped, with shelves of cookbooks above the desk where Patty used to sit and pay the bills or chat on the phone.
Henry slid into his old spot at the table. “I’m sorry it’s been so long.”
Patty just shook her head as she filled the teakettle and set it back on the burner. “You’re busy!”
“Yes, but… I should have written. Or called.” Like Jane, Adam’s mother sent a Christmas card every year to his apartment in San Francisco. She sent a birthday card, too, always handwritten with a chatty note, always with an open invitation to visit soon, careful not to pressure. He’d saved them all in a drawer in his kitchen, but he’d never reread them.
Now, he realized he should have written back. But somehow, after he’d left Briar Creek, it was easier to pretend he’d never been there at all, to avoid the reminders, to start fresh. Easier to keep running, keep looking forward. Wake up in a new place, any place, that wasn’t in this town.
“You’re here now.” She smiled as she set a plate of cookies on the center of the table. “So tell me, what have you been up to?”
“Oh…” Henry shrugged, and started telling her about some of his latest trips, making sure to include parts she might enjoy, like the tulips in Holland or the gelato in Italy.
“I wasn’t sure if you would come back this summer,” Patty finally hedged. “I’m sorry about your mother. I know she had her problems. I always hoped she would find a way to work through them.”
Henry set his jaw. He took a bite of his cookie, tasting nothing. The last letter from Patty was the only one he’d never opened. He could tell from the creamy envelope that it was a condolence card, no doubt meant to offer sympathy. He didn’t deserve sympathy. He didn’t deserve to grieve, either. His mother had drunk herself to death. And he’d given up on her. “I tried to help her.” The cookie lodged somewhere in his throat.
Patty nodded. “I know you did. Ivy, too. We all tried.”
Henry nodded. His mother’s drinking was no secret, despite his efforts to make it one. Patty had always been careful not to share the gossip she heard, instead c
hoosing to pretend nothing was amiss. How many times had she dropped him off, tried to engage with his mother, befriend her, even. The times things were really out of hand, she gently stepped in, offering to take Henry and Ivy for the night. “Two kids and no help?” she’d say in that friendly way of hers. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Adam and I got together last week,” Henry volunteered. He hadn’t intended to mention this, but it beat continuing down memory lane.
Patty carefully set her cup on its saucer. “Oh? He didn’t tell me. So much has been going on lately.” She smiled weakly.
Henry drew a breath. “I heard about his new plans.”
Patty took a moment. “It’s been a very strange year, and a difficult one for me. Jane was… well, Jane was like the daughter I never had.”
“Do you still see her?”
Patty was quick to shake her head. “I love Jane, but Adam is my son. I suppose that’s the sad reality of these situations. When one part of a family isn’t working, the rest suffer, too.”
Henry bit back on his teeth. He understood more than she knew.
“I just want them to all be happy. And Sophie. Poor thing.” She trailed off, shaking her head.
Henry opened his mouth to say something, then paused. It wasn’t his business, and she was right. In the end, loyalty fell with one side or the other. Whose side was he going to take? Jane’s, or the person who had brought him into this home, shared it with him, given him the closest thing to a real mother he ever had.
“Have you seen Jane since you’ve been back?”
Henry nodded. “A few times. I ran into her at the bookstore. I stopped in for coffee and there she was.”
“The new café.” Patty brightened. “I’ve heard it’s lovely. I haven’t been in, of course.”
They shared a glance, saying nothing more.
He stayed for half an hour, chatting about his job and her involvement in the gardening club. “Promise to visit me before you go,” Patty said, her eyes growing misty. “Come for dinner, like old times. I’ll make you that chicken stew you always loved so much. Extra carrots.”
“I’d like that,” Henry said, feeling his gut tighten on the words. He’d like it a lot. Too much, really. And he knew one person who wouldn’t like it all.
Birthday bouquets were Ivy’s favorite. Get-well flowers were uninspiring, anniversary bouquets consisted of entirely too many roses, and funeral arrangements were obviously depressing as heck. Wedding flowers, however, were the absolute worst! She could spot a bride-to-be from the moment the bell above her door jingled. It was something in their eyes—something wide and darting and frenetic in intensity. She’d take three calming breaths, plaster a smile on her face, and serenely smile as they showed her their ideas, careful not to take even the slightest offense when they shot down most of hers. She reminded herself to have patience; after all, someday her turn would (hopefully) come, too, and then she’d feel the pressure of creating the perfect event, obsessing over the smallest details, right down to the napkin rings. Of course, Ivy already knew exactly what kind of flowers she’d have for her wedding, but not everyone was as confident when it came to their vision… She’d do well to remind herself of this when the bride-to-be became a little too demanding, or questioned her ability or taste, or called to make sure, yet again, that everything would in fact be delivered on time. She told herself not to take offense; they were simply nervous wrecks and it was her job to soothe them, take one task off their plate, talk them off the ledge, and help create the wedding of their dreams.
But sometimes, when she had three arrangements to finish and a phone that wouldn’t stop ringing, she really struggled to remember any of this.
Across the counter, Grace let out a small sigh, jutted her lip, and squinted in thought, then flicked to the next page in a bridal magazine Ivy kept on hand. For the love of… Ivy took another deep breath to steady herself.
“Why don’t I give you some time to think about this while I—”
“No!” Grace looked up in alarm. “I need your opinion. You know best.”
Ivy felt that, all things fair, she probably did know best, but she’d learned early on that the easiest way to take the blame from an unsatisfied bride was to voice too strong an opinion. “It’s your wedding, Grace. You have to be happy with your flowers at the end of the day. Only you can decide what will make you happy.”
Grace stared at her. “Is that the spiel you give to all your brides?”
Ivy laughed. “Yes.”
“See, I know you too well.” Grace smiled and opened a new magazine.
That she did, Ivy thought, but there were a few things about her that Grace didn’t know. Things she’d rather keep to herself.
Ivy eyed Grace and started to gather her courage. Her heart was beginning to pound and her palms were growing sweaty, which meant that really, this little crush on Luke’s cousin had lingered far, far too long. Like, more than a decade too long. She should just ask if Brett had a plus one and get on with her life. If he had a date, then she could prepare herself instead of experiencing a shock. And if he didn’t… A ripple of butterflies zipped through her stomach.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She closed it firmly, smoothed her palms over her starched cotton apron, and tried again. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask—”
The door behind Grace jingled, and Jane popped her head into the shop. The smile on her face faltered when she saw Grace. “Hey. I didn’t expect to see you here. Who’s watching Main Street Books?”
“Anna’s replenishing the pastries, so she told me she could cover for half an hour. She said it was a nice break from the restaurant.”
“Uh-oh. She and Mark aren’t having problems, are they?” Mark’s reputation as a ladies’ man was still embedded in the town. Reputations were hard to shake around here, Ivy thought, frowning.
“God, no.” Grace rolled her eyes. “Those two can barely keep their hands off each other, even though they’re together morning, noon, and night.”
“Making up for lost time, I suppose.” Ivy smiled.
“Speaking of lost time, how’s your brother?” Grace set the magazine to the side to give Ivy and Jane her full attention.
“Good, I suppose. He’s taking over the bulk of the work on the house so we can finally get it listed. I don’t know what I’d do without him, honestly.” Wasn’t that the truth? Aside from that one little hiccup when she’d announced her plans to open the shop, Henry had been her rock for as long as she could remember. Even though he’d been away these past few years, the bond was still strong, and she focused on that on the days she missed him or wished he was close. Like when their mother died. Henry needed to spread his wings. He needed to go out into the world and put distance between him and this town. She understood. She just wished he understood why she chose to stay. “I keep hoping that he’ll decide to stay now that…” She didn’t finish the thought, but the look on the Madison sisters’ faces told her they understood.
“Well,” she said brightly. “Jane, I owe you a big thank-you. Henry told me you helped him out the other day in the shop. I didn’t even want to think what was going on in this place with him in charge.”
Jane laughed. “It was my pleasure. I really enjoyed the work.”
“Well, Henry was singing your praises, so you must have worked some magic.” Ivy grinned, noticing the way a pink flush spread up Jane’s cheeks. Interesting. She’d always hoped her brother would have had the nerve to make a move on Jane, and she’d so much as said so years ago, but he’d dismissed the idea with a scowl, reminding her that Adam was his best friend, the Browns were like family, and Jane was too young for him. All very good points back then. But now… “So what brings you into the shop today?”
Jane opened her eyes in surprise and glanced at her sister. “Oh. Um. I was just passing by and thought I’d say hello.” She shrugged, but Ivy wasn’t buying it. Jane didn’t seem to have much to say, so she’d hardly stopped in for
a chat.
“How are the wedding flowers coming along? Have you made up your mind yet?” Jane asked Grace, and she was rewarded with a nudge of Grace’s elbow.
“It’s a big decision,” Ivy said diplomatically, and Grace snorted.
“There you go again. You tell all your brides that, don’t you?” She laughed. “I’m not like the rest of them, though, right? I mean, it is a big decision.”
Ivy shared a secret smile with Jane. “Take all the time you need. However, I really do need to finish these arrangements. They’re due out in an hour and I’ll be lucky to get them finished in time. Sundays are usually quiet, but I’m about ready to take the phone off the hook!”
“Do you need help?” Jane asked.
Ivy waved her off. “You’ve been a big enough help. I’ll manage. It’s just tricky sometimes.” The phone rang again and Ivy tossed up her hands. “I just need ten good minutes to finish this bouquet.”
“Here. Let me.” Jane stepped behind the counter and answered the phone, jotting down notes so Ivy could handle it later. When she hung up, Ivy grinned over her shoulder.
“I should hire you,” she laughed, reaching for a handful of baby’s breath.
Jane opened her mouth, a hint of a smile teasing the corners of her lips, until Ivy continued, “That’s my promise for the new year. As soon as I get that house sold and some bills squared away, I’m going to hire a delivery person and a part-time assistant.” She loved making the deliveries herself—seeing the surprise that lit up someone’s face when they realized someone had sent them a gift—but Henry was right, and something had to go. She was working too hard, and she struggled to manage her diet. Who had time to eat a balanced meal when most days her lunch was a granola bar at four? She couldn’t risk landing in the hospital again.
“The holidays must be a busy time, though,” Jane said.
Ivy shrugged. “They are, but I’ll just have to get through them. Until that house is sold, I don’t have a choice.”
Jane fell silent and walked back around the counter. If Ivy didn’t know better, she might think Grace’s little sister was actually blinking back tears. She stuck another stem in the vase. Impossible. Jane didn’t cry, at least not in public. She was stoic and strong. And she didn’t reveal too much of herself.
