“He did?” Lori asked, sitting up straighter, her eyes wide. “You guys have actually talked about this?”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Allison said, waving a hand in the air. She’d be sure to take her own advice. “The subject came up in a conversation we were having about your dad having never remarried.”
“Oh.” Lori slumped. “Rats.”
Allison waved to Patrick Fogerty, owner of the Fixer-Upper, who stood at the front counter with his new fiancée, Gracie Wilson, ordering from Josh. Then Allison returned her attention to Lori. “He told me it was because of Teresa.”
Lori nodded. “And my mom,” Lori said flatly. “Sam hasn’t ever really forgotten her abandonment. And neither have I.”
Allison touched Lori’s hand. “I know.” She and Lori had talked about Doris Franklin’s desertion many times when they were growing up, and Allison had held Lori more than once as she’d sobbed after her mom had left one hot summer day when they were nine. “We both had crummy mothers.” Lori was the one person who had an idea about Allison’s neglectful parents.
“True.” Lori paused as she mopped up some milk Katy had spilled. “Still, maybe he’ll come around—”
“No, he won’t, and neither will I,” Allison said with velvet-coated steel in her voice. “He has his reasons, and so do I. There’s no chance we’ll ever get together. You have to quit hoping for that, Lor. It’s the only sensible thing to do.”
Lori opened her mouth to respond.
But Nicky squawked and said, “Don’t boss me, Ro-ro,” and Rosie gave an indignant squeal of her own, and then tried to steal some of Nicky’s doughnut, signaling to Allison that her and Lori’s window of calm had closed. The troops were restless and the grown-ups’ discussion was at an end.
With a significant look, Lori stood and went over to break up the skirmish between her niece and nephew. Allison sat for a moment, pondering. Allison had talked the talk about her and Sam. Now she needed to walk the walk and put Sam where he belonged.
Out of hope’s range. For good.
*
Allison stood in the aisle of the Hometown Grocery, pondering what kind of laundry detergent to buy. Not that she had a ton of choices here, but there were a few, at least. And given that she was on a budget, she liked to be sure she chose the best value.
Deciding on the bargain brand, she set the bottle in the cart and then turned to head to the dairy aisle. Only to come face-to-face with her mom.
“Mom,” she squeaked.
“Allison,” her mother said with a stiff nod. She had her gray-streaked dark hair scraped back into its usual tight bun, wore zero makeup and was dressed in jeans and a baggy T-shirt that Allison knew for a fact were from the late eighties. To say that Vera True was a minimalist was an understatement. In everything she did, including raising her kids.
“I’m surprised to see you here.” Her mom usually did her shopping on a weekend once a month at a large warehouse store in nearby Manhattan, and had stuck to that schedule down to the hour for as long as Allison could remember. Plus, Dad kept a strict budget that didn’t allow for a lot of convenience shopping at the smaller, more expensive Hometown Grocery.
“Well, I was sick with a cold last weekend and couldn’t make my usual trip to Manhattan, so I just decided to swing in and pick up a few things here.”
“Are you feeling better now?” Allison dutifully asked. Not much brought her mom down physically, so she must have really been feeling lousy if she’d strayed from her usual routine.
“Yes, I’m fine. Just a little stuffed up.”
“Oh. Good.” Allison hesitated, searching for common ground. “Um…Amy is coming to the writing workshops I’ve been holding at the store.”
Mom sniffed. If Allison didn’t know better, she would have thought the sniff was because of the cold. “Yes, I know. She hasn’t been around to do her chores.”
Ah. Of course. Each of the girls had an extensive chore list every week, and Mom was notoriously inflexible with deviations. “Well, it will help her grades, so maybe the chores will keep,” Allison said carefully.
“Perhaps,” Mom said, which was the code word she used when she disagreed but didn’t want to have a confrontation. Very passive-aggressive, as far as Allison was concerned, given her mom was well aware that Allison knew the code. “So how are things going with your little store?”
Allison gritted her teeth at the words little store. She’d heard that expression before, the last time she’d talked to her parents, just after she’d moved back and had driven out to the farm to say hi to her sisters. “Pretty well, actually,” she said with a lift of her chin. “I haven’t failed yet, as you thought I would.”
“Well, come and let me know how things are going in three years or so.” Mom pressed her lips into a thin line. “Running a business in the long term is nonstop work, and a lot harder than most people think.”
“I’m well aware, Mom. I watched you and Dad all those years, remember?”
“Yes, I guess you are aware.” Mom paused. “Maybe that’s why we’re so unsupportive.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we know what it’s like trying to make a business successful, how grueling it is. Maybe we wanted something different for you.”
Allison blinked. “Is that true? Because that’s not what you said when I told you I was moving back. You said, and I quote, ‘Well, don’t come running to us when you fail.’”
Mom blanched, her mouth working. But then she steadied her jaw and set it at a slight yet unmistakable angle. “Perhaps it’s true.”
Allison shook her head and rolled her eyes. Oh, how she hated that word perhaps. But that was the way her parents did things—throw an idea out and then snatch it back with something noncommittal. Something that wouldn’t require any kind of emotional pledge.
Well, she wasn’t going to change them now, and she wasn’t up for some roundabout conversation that would end the way it always did when her parents were involved—with them expressing their reservations rather than their support. She was through going in circles with them. “Okay, I get the picture. You’ve made your opinion clear.” Or not. Either way, Allison vowed to break free of letting their viewpoint matter.
“We just don’t want to see you go through the agony of watching what you’ve worked so hard for falter.”
“Did it ever occur to you that I might not fail?” Allison snorted. “After all, I’ve got the workaholic example to follow in you and Dad.”
Mom drew herself up. “We only did what was necessary to make the farm stay afloat,” she said, her voice rife with defensiveness.
“And what about your kids, Mom? What did you do to help us stay afloat?”
Her mouth pruned up. “We gave you everything you needed.”
“Except your love.”
“Love is taking care of others, keeping a roof over their heads and food in their bellies.”
This didn’t surprise Allison; both her mom and dad had been raised by farmers who were long on physical work and short on emotional connection. They modeled that lifestyle with seeming ease, never deviating, never faltering. Never seeing the other side. “No, love is more than that. Love is taking care of emotional needs as well as physical ones.”
Mom paused, her brow furrowed. “I don’t know how to do that.”
Something died a little more inside Allison. “I know you don’t.”
“You turned out pretty good,” her mother whispered.
It was as close to a compliment as Allison would ever get. “Thanks.”
Mom looked at her watch. “Oh, look at the time. I still have work to do at the office.”
Lack of time was a recurrent theme with her mom. “And I have work to do at my little store,” Allison added.
Mom inclined her head in what looked like grudging admiration. More code? “Well, then, we both best get going.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Allison replied. “Say hello to Dad for me, and Amanda
and Amy, too.”
“I will,” Mom said, turning.
“Maybe you should stop by the store,” Allison suggested. “I’ve done a lot with the space.”
“Maybe we will, if we can fit it in.” With those words she gave Allison a small smile and walked away, her back ramrod straight.
Something shriveled inside Allison. Time to fit a visit in? It wasn’t likely to happen. And she had to accept that and move on or she’d never be free from her parents.
But…was what her mom had said true? Had they warned her off from running her own business because they wanted a different life for her? Or had they been so harsh because they doubted her abilities? Was it possible she’d misjudged her parents all along?
She hated that she wondered even one tiny little bit.
Chapter Twelve
With a twin holding on to each of his hands, Sam headed from his SUV into the church, dodging raindrops. The day of the annual harvest festival had dawned rainy, but the wet weather hadn’t dampened the twins’ excitement about attending the festival. In fact, they’d talked about nothing else for the past few days. Sam couldn’t figure out if they were more excited about the actual festival or the prospect of seeing Allison. In his mind, Allison won by a nose. They adored her.
The kids had begged to go to Story Time this week, and he hadn’t been able to say no. And if there was anything that highlighted Allison’s wonderful personality, it was seeing her in action with the kids. Every kind smile, every patient glance, every understanding touch she gave the kids made him notice her even more.
So, here they were at the harvest festival, with its plethora of fun booths, ranging from Allison’s creative-writing workshop’s literacy booth to food booths to craft booths brimming with handmade stuff that boggled his uncrafty mind, as well as a booth sponsored by each of the SOS Main Street businesses.
The basement of the church had been set up as it usually was for the annual festival, with booths ringing the perimeter of the low-ceilinged space. In the center, beneath some exposed pipes, was a bobbing-for-apples station, as well as a popcorn-stringing station and a pumpkin-carving station. The place smelled of cinnamon, apples and hay from the bales that had been set up in random spots for those who needed to sit.
The whole town showed up for the festival, which this year was serving as a fund-raiser for the SOS Committee’s endeavors. People milled around, talking and having fun and taking part in some good old-fashioned small-town socializing.
He saw Melissa Sweeney and her fiancé, Brian Montclair, manning a cupcake-decorating table, and Josh Smith had set up a small booth in one corner from which he was serving small cups of fragrant coffee. Sam would be sure and stop by all the booths before they left.
“Daddy, where is Miss Allison’s booth?” Rosie asked.
Nicky tugged on Sam’s hand. “Yeah, Daddy. We wanna go to her booth first.”
Clearly, Miss Allison was the main event. He scoped the place out—one of the advantages of being taller than just about everybody else—and spied the literacy booth in the far left corner, sporting the colorful banner Viv had made. “Her booth is over there.” He pointed left. “Let’s go and say hi.”
They wended their way through the throng, stopping briefly at the Everything booth to buy some of the hamburger sliders they were selling.
“How’s the team shaping up?” Elwood Dill asked, handing each of the kids and Sam a small burger served in a paper holder. He sported a long, graying beard, and under a bright yellow apron he wore a tie-dyed T-shirt.
“Fine, fine, thanks for asking,” Sam said around bites of burger. He never tired of discussing the team he loved to coach. He doubted any other town would be so supportive of his boys. “Rory Liston is shaping up to be a great center.”
“He’s a tall kid but needs some weight,” Elwood said.
“I agree. He’s been working in the weight room, so that should help.” Sam patted his stomach. “I’ve been joining him when I can.”
Elwood grunted. “Yeah, like you need it.”
Velma swung her long gray hair over her shoulder as she chimed in, “We hope we don’t lose you, Coach.”
“Me, too, Velma.” He gestured around. “But if this turnout is any indication, the SOS Committee’s effort won’t be in vain.”
The kids finished their sliders and started fidgeting, so he bade goodbye to the Dills and headed over to the literacy booth, which Allison had combined with the Happy Endings booth.
Rory and Scott and a few other teens from the creative-writing class were expertly manning the booth.
“Yo, Coach,” Rory said with a broad wave.
Sam gave him a thumbs-up and an approving nod.
Then Sam saw Allison standing guard in the background. She wore a snug pair of black jeans and a blue-green sweater that he could see even at a distance matched her eyes. She had her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, and a few tendrils of hair had escaped to frame her face becomingly.
She spotted Sam and her face stilled, and then she smiled a welcoming smile—a slow rise of both sides of her mouth—that knocked him out at the knees. But he covered up his reaction by brandishing a casual wave. Hopefully he looked normal, not…smitten.
Oh, man. That’s what he was. Smitten. Not good.
Before he could think about that idea for much more than a second, the twins spotted her and ran over to greet her. Sam followed and watched as Allison hunkered down and hugged them in turn, lavishing attention on each of them, expertly treating them as individuals rather than as a twin unit as some people did.
She rose from hugging Nicky and looked at Sam. “Hey, you. Glad you could make it.”
“Nothing would make me miss seeing Rory and Scott touting literacy in a skit,” he said. “Usually it’s all about basketball.”
“Well, today it’s all about reading and writing, and they’re doing a fantastic job. The first performance went great,” she said, nodding in the boys’ direction. “You should be really proud.”
“I am,” he said. “You’ve done an amazing job with them.” That was her way, being fantastic. Was there anything she couldn’t accomplish?
Her cheeks colored. “It’s been my pleasure.”
Rosie piped in, “Daddy, I see amnimals!”
“Where?” Nicky said, going up on tiptoe, his head craned.
“Over there.” Rosie pointed and danced in place. “Can we go see them?”
“That’s the Fluff & Stuff booth,” Allison said. “It’s a popular one.”
“Let’s go take a look,” Sam replied.
Nicky took Allison’s hand. “You go with us, Miss Allison.”
Rosie grabbed Allison’s other hand. “Yeah. You can hold an amnimal with me.”
Allison gave Sam a hesitant look. “Do you mind?”
He couldn’t say that he did. “Not at all,” he said. “Lead the way.”
She headed toward the Fluff & Stuff booth, holding Rosie’s and Nicky’s hands, and Sam followed, admiring how she looked tending to his kids, as if she’d been born to nurture them.
He thought back to what he’d figured out. He was smitten with Allison. No question. Who wouldn’t be? She was an extraordinary person in every way, and she showered his kids with love and attention that always had them glowing. In his book, that would always be a good thing. He’d hold on to that thought no matter what.
He was determined to make today all about the kids. If he kept that in mind, he couldn’t go wrong.
On his way to the Fluff & Stuff booth, he spotted Whitney Leigh, who was furiously writing in a small notebook as she took in what was going on around her; she was clearly there in her official capacity as a reporter for the Bygones Gazette. He’d met her when she’d come to the school to interview him about the new math curriculum he’d implemented in September, so he felt obligated to say hello. “Good afternoon, Ms. Leigh.”
She nodded brusquely. “Hello, Sam,” she said in her no-nonsense way. She was a real go-gette
r and seemed set on making a journalistic name for herself in Bygones. She looked the part of serious reporter with her glasses and her blond hair pulled back in a neat-as-a-pin bun.
“Have you made any progress figuring out who the anonymous benefactor is?” Sam asked. It was common knowledge around town that she was intent on solving that mystery.
“Not yet.” She shoved the pencil into her bun. “But I’m determined to get the real story.”
“I guess the reporter side of you really needs to know.”
“Yes, of course,” she replied, nodding. “I’ve always felt the benefactor might have ulterior motives.”
“Yes, I know.” Back in July, Sam had heard the Gazette’s position that the benefactor, through the matching-grant mechanism, now owned half of downtown. According to her, that was real cause for concern for Bygones. Many townsfolk agreed with her.
She narrowed her eyes. “Do you know who it is?”
He held up his hands. “No sirree.”
“Well,” she said, jerking down the tailored black jacket she wore, “if you find out, be sure and let me know. I want that scoop.”
He said he would, and then she yanked the pencil out of her bun and left him with a terse, “Thank you.”
When he arrived at the Fluff & Stuff booth, Allison knelt between Nicky and Rosie as they each held out their hands for Chase Rollins to hand them guinea pigs. Chase, who had a full head of black hair, was about thirty, Sam figured. He wasn’t married and didn’t have kids of his own, but he was a nice enough guy, if a bit quiet, in Sam’s opinion.
Just as Chase was about to put the furry creature in Rosie’s hands, she snatched them back. “I’m scared, Miss Allison.” She turned and buried her head on Allison’s shoulder.
Allison put her arms around Rosie, held her close and whispered in her ear.
Rosie nodded without looking up.
Allison looked at Chase. “Rosie would like me to hold the guinea pig, and she’ll pet it that way, if that’s okay.”
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