by Melissa Tagg
© 2014 by Melissa Tagg
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6418-3
Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 Biblica. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
Scripture quotations are from The Message by Eugene H. Peterson, copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Author represented by MacGregor Literary, Inc.
To two of my favorite people in the world,
my grandpa and grandma,
Arnold and Jeane Flessner
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Books by Melissa Tagg
Back Ads
Back Cover
1
If the letter—the one that could change everything—didn’t arrive today, she’d stop hoping.
Autumn tucked a runaway strand of auburn hair behind her ear and crept across the Kingsley Inn’s rooftop on all fours, the dirty black slate tile smudging the knees of her jeans. Sun warmed the tile under her palms despite the late November chill and a lakeside breeze whispering over her face.
Tarping the roof’s leaky spot probably would’ve been a job better saved for someone less queasy about heights. But she’d had to lay off their handyman months ago, which left her playing amateur fix-it girl. She probably looked ridiculous crawling across the roof, but hey, she’d gotten the job done.
Except . . . Wait. Autumn scanned the edges of the roof. Where was her ladder?
Gone. And it didn’t take a genius to pinpoint the culprit. “I don’t have time for this, Harry.” Despite her muttered words, a smile tugged at her cheeks as she fished into her pocket for her phone. Twenty-eight wasn’t too old to still appreciate a good prank.
Phone pressed to her ear, she took in her rooftop view while waiting for Harry to pick up. Beyond a span of parking lot and lawn, browning grass faded to a pale ribbon of beach, where the turquoise waters of Lake Michigan tussled with the shore.
She was getting impatient for word about the potential career move of a lifetime, but pretty Whisper Shore wasn’t such a horrible place to linger.
If only she didn’t feel as if she’d been lingering her whole life.
“Thank you for calling the Kingsley Inn. My name is Harrison. How may I—”
“Can it, Harry.” Her focus snapped back to where her ladder should’ve been. “You can help me by returning my ladder.” Her tone flat-lined, but she had to hand it to the deskman. He’d one-upped her but good.
“Ladder? Whatever are you talking about, Miss Kingsley?”
Ooh, she could just picture him two floors below, leaning against the lobby’s mahogany check-in desk, all smug-like. Weasel. “Very funny. You should be on that show with the senior citizens who pull pranks.”
“Are you calling me old?”
He did have twelve years on her. “Well, if the sweater vest fits . . . ”
“And now you’re making fun of my wardrobe. I hope you’re prepared to sleep on that roof tonight.”
Phone balanced between her ear and shoulder, she started crawling again . . . and reached the edge of the sloping roof just as the sound of car tires crackling over gravel carried upward. Uh-oh. Had her bride and groom arrived early for their appointment?
She swallowed, chalky dread clenching her throat. She’d been steeling herself for this meeting all week long. Dylan Porter. Suddenly the idea of staying up on the roof was all sorts of appealing.
It’s been three years. This doesn’t have to be awkward.
Yeah, then why the Tilt-A-Whirl case of nerves? “Come on, Harry, let me down. Pretty please?”
“Nineteen years you’ve known me, and you still can’t get it right. Har-ri-son.”
On another day she’d have thrown out a few more Harrys just to hear the man whine and threaten to quit like always. Of course, he’d never actually go through with it. Harry had been a fixture at the inn since Autumn’s preteen years, landing in Whisper Shore when he’d decided to take a year off college. Sometime in the last decade and a half, he’d stopped talking about going back. His love for the inn nearly matched her own.
As, too, she suspected, did his fears about its future.
But the sound of a car door clinking shut kept her from teasing. Her fiancé awaited.
Scratch that. Ex-fiancé.
“All right. Harrison, Harrison, Harrison. Is that better?”
“Yes, Jan Brady, much better. Give me a sec, the other line is ringing.”
“But—”
The phone clicked before she could finish. She squinted against cascading sunlight, its brightness along with the front lawn’s massive cottonwood blocking her view of the parking lot’s newest car. If that was Dylan and his replacement bride arriving early, no way did she want to be caught on the rooftop—windblown and in clothes too dingy for the Goodwill pile.
Autumn sucked in a cold breath and inched over to where the porch roof jutted out from the first floor. The drop wasn’t so far. Maybe . . .
But the rattling of the metal ladder against the rain gutter conveniently interrupted that questionable plan.
“It’s about time, Harry.” Autumn dangled one foot over the edge, found her footing on the ladder rung, then the other. “Can you stall them while I change?” Moments later, her feet thudded to the ground and she turned.
Only it wasn’t Harry standing to the side, steadying the ladder while a lawyerly tan trench coat whipped in the wind behind him.
“H-hey, Dylan.” The greeting choked up her throat. Really, if ever there would’ve been a day to call in sick. “The ladder . . . you . . . thank you.”
“Autumn Kingsley.” Dylan’s smile was as GQ-devastating as ever, and between the perfectly styled blond hair and his chiseled-as-a-statue’s jaw, it certainly wasn’t a surprise he’d found a new fiancée—only that it’d taken so long.
Look who’s talking. She hadn’t been on a date since Zach Dawson coaxed her into sharing his blanket at the Fourth of July picnic last summer, then proceeded to spill the entire contents of his paper plate
on her. She’d sat there watching fireworks that were supposed to signal freedom, thinking surely the potato salad in her lap was just one more sign she needed to stop wasting time waiting for her life to start in Whisper Shore.
Dylan coughed.
“Um, sorry I’m dressed like this.” She glanced at her tattered jeans. Easier than eye contact. “Figured I’d have enough time to change before you got here, but Harry thought it’d be funny to trap me on the roof.”
Dylan’s baritone chuckle poked at the tension hovering between them. “I thought you two would’ve run out of pranks by now.”
“Well, apparently my creativity is waning. I went old school this morning—salted his tea.”
“What were you doing on the roof anyway?”
Autumn plunged her hands into the pockets of her fleece jacket. It wouldn’t do to get into the Kingsley Inn’s current financial predicament. Dylan didn’t need to know that with tourist season over they now had more empty rooms than full—that Autumn had already dipped into her own measly savings once this fall to pay the mortgage. And next month was looking even more dire. The whole thing was embarrassing.
Owning and managing the family inn may never have been her dream job, but even so . . . who wanted to fail? It’s why booking this wedding reception was so important.
And why she held her breath every day when she checked the mailbox, yearning for the letter from the hotel in France. The one that could breathe life into the hope still lurking along under the surface, the hope that eventually life might hold something more. Travel. Excitement. Adventure.
“Autumn?”
“Sorry, yes?” She blinked, finally allowing herself to meet Dylan’s eyes.
Oh, how she used to gush over those jade irises. But her fascination with Whisper Shore’s most eligible bachelor had worn thin the longer they’d been together. The more he’d talked about settling down for the long haul, the more she’d ached for life outside the confines of her hometown.
Ironic, really. She was the one who longed to escape, but Dylan was the one who had gone off to Detroit, found himself a new life and a new bride, while Autumn was still . . . stuck.
“The roof. What were you doing up there?”
She shook her head, stray hair tickling her cheeks. “Just checking a to-do off the list. So, where’s your fiancée? Mariah, is it?” First things first. She couldn’t will the Paris hotel to hire her. But she could nail this reception reservation.
Only now Dylan was the one to look away. His focus landed on the inn.
And she couldn’t help following his gaze. The inn used to be the glory of the surrounding shore, its sprawling wraparound porch reminiscent of a Southern plantation. Lattice crawled up one side, and the flowerboxes now filled with fall mums under gangly windows added a homey feel.
But did Dylan notice the way the late-afternoon light highlighted a web of cracks in the three-story building’s pale yellow siding? Or how about the white shutters in desperate need of a good painting?
He looked back to Autumn. “Mariah . . . isn’t coming.”
Autumn nudged her chin into the high neck of her fleece. “Do we need to reschedule?”
“No. I already felt bad that we asked you to fit us in the day after Thanksgiving, and now . . . ”
Dylan shifted his weight, and a knot of worry tangled through Autumn. We need this. Even if that letter finally came and said what she hoped, she still had a responsibility to keep the inn running. “Dylan, it’s no problem to reschedule.”
“No. I only came out tell you we don’t need the appointment anymore.” His expression softened, even if his tone didn’t. “We won’t be holding our reception here.”
A testy gust of wind scraped over her cheeks, a dozen arguments jamming in her throat. Dylan had no way of knowing how much she’d counted on booking their reception. On the deposit that could’ve covered at least a couple repairs.
“Mariah wanted to get married in Whisper Shore since she doesn’t have any family in Detroit, and I couldn’t help bringing up this place. You have to understand, Autumn, I didn’t think you’d still be here. I assumed someone else would be running it by now. After all, you said . . .”
His voice trailed as her own words on the day she’d returned his ring came back to her in snippets.
“I have this dream . . .”
“If I don’t feed this restless piece of me now, I’ll regret it later. I know I will.”
“I’m sorry, Dylan.”
Though spoken years ago, the desire, her dreams, hadn’t lost their weight. Circumstances had simply delayed them.
“I know what I said.” A sigh dangled from her voice now. “But things changed, and—” her forced chuckle came out garbled and fake—“I’m still here.”
“And Mariah doesn’t like that. As soon as we got to town, well, you know how people talk here.”
Oh yeah, she knew. Gossip made its way from the town a mile down the shore to her lakeside inn with lightning speed.
“I tried to talk Mariah into at least coming out to see the place. But then she caught a glimpse of the Hunziker Hotel.”
Her jaw pinched as the unwelcome image of their main competitor’s pristine building arose. Small-town charm on the outside, sleek and modern amenities galore on the inside.
Autumn’s spirits slumped as the front door banged open and footsteps sounded on the whitewashed porch boards. Harry to the rescue, probably. A little late for that.
“Autumn, you’ll never guess who just reserved a room in December.” Harry’s voice tapered off as he came up beside her, his skinny basketball player frame towering over her. “Dylan,” he said, greeting stiff and maybe even a little protective. Sweet and brotherly, if unnecessary.
“Hi, Harry. Anyway, I’m really sorry, Autumn. Mariah knows what she wants. And . . . well . . .” He shrugged. “She was gung ho to check out the Hunziker Hotel tonight, but their staff is all busy with the welcome home party for the mayor’s son, and—”
This time she couldn’t hide her flinch. “Wait, what?”
Dylan buttoned his coat. “Some party at Mayor Hunziker’s house.”
“The mayor’s son?” Harry asked. “Who . . . ?”
Autumn folded her arms, fingers clenched, as a hundred memories of her sister’s pained eyes scraped through her mind. “Dylan’s talking about Blake, the younger son. You know, the one who’s been in all the headlines, with Miranda Woodruff.” Her answer fluttered like a lone leaf clinging to a naked tree.
As if she’d needed one more reason to leave Whisper Shore. Blake Hunziker had finally come home.
After more than half a decade playing adventurous nomad, was it pathetic that coming home felt like the bravest thing Blake Hunziker had ever done?
Blake turned his car onto Cedar Lane. The years away might’ve reshaped him, but it hadn’t changed this street. It was the same as ever. Bony trees casting craggy shadows in the early evening dim. Brick houses rising from expansive lawns, manicured hedges walling each property. The ashy scent of someone burning leaves.
“All right, Kevin. This is it. Last house on the right.”
The mutt in the passenger seat only tipped his head, his straggly brown-and-white hair flopping over his eyes.
“Dude, you need a haircut more than I do.” It’d be a miracle if his mother allowed the dog in the house. But Blake hadn’t been able to leave the mangy animal where he’d found him, stranded along the highway a good fifty miles from Whisper Shore—skinny and limping. He’d stopped by a couple vet’s offices along the way, leaving his contact information in case the owners turned up.
Which had been a pretty good procrastination effort if he did say so himself.
Blake parked in his parents’ driveway, exited, and rounded the vehicle. He jabbed one arm into the open trunk of his inherited cherry red Firebird—would it never stop feeling like Ryan’s car?—and pulled out his duffel bag, the one that had seen more airports than he could count. He slung it over his shoulder,
closed the trunk, and moved to the passenger door.
“Okay, Kev, you get to hang out here for a little while. Just until I see how this is going to go down.” He unrolled the window a bit to provide Kevin some air and turned, hesitant resolution thudding through him as he covered the distance to his parents’ front door, behind which he’d probably find his father’s steely eyes and his mother’s disappointed frown.
Because surely they’d seen the interviews when they returned from their international vacation. The tabloid covers. Headlines. TV Host’s Husband Exposed As a Fraud.
Yep, he may only have been back in the States himself for a few months, but it had been . . . an eventful few months.
A restless wind whooshed over his skin as he reached the door. The hair curling out from under his stocking cap tickled the back of his neck. Was it just him, or was the lion’s head doorknocker glaring at him? Like it, too, was angry at Blake for skipping town and taking so long to make his “triumphant” return.
Well, I’m here now, Aslan.
No roar in reply, only the sound of Blake’s knock puncturing the quiet. And his heart performing a Riverdance routine. He shifted as he waited, his duffel bag jostling against his thigh. Another knock. Another impatient shuffle of his sandal-clad feet.
Note to self: November. Cold. Shoes. Finally he shrugged, grasped the doorknob, and pushed his way in.
And then stopped two steps into the house, greeted only by the dark marble-floored entryway. What little sun lingered outside the front door did him no good. Someone had drawn the curtains.
Okay, pause. He had called to tell them he was arriving today, right? His mother had answered. Said they were home from their African safari. He hadn’t hallucinated that whole conversation, had he? Did they really care so little that he was finally coming home?
“Hello?” He croaked the word, and his bag thudded to the floor. “Helloooo.” Singsong this time, sounding like the kid he used to be and not the almost-thirty-year-old playing reluctant prodigal.
A creak. A whisper. And before Blake could make a move, the lights came to life and people, so many people, erupted into cheers, spilling into the entryway from the dining room to the right. His gaze hooked on the Welcome Home banner hanging from the base of the second-floor balcony.
