by Melissa Tagg
Whisper Shore had quaint in the bag.
Except, in the light of day it all seemed a little . . . tired. And what had Dad said about the dying tourist trade?
“You coming?” Dad was several steps ahead, the short walk to the city offices barely a two-block span. Blake tugged up the zipper of his jacket and picked up his pace to match his father’s, sandals he still hadn’t traded for shoes slapping against concrete.
“So do you want me to stick you on the front-desk rotation?”
“Not if it means cutting someone else’s hours.”
Dad shrugged. “Actually, we’ve been a man short ever since Casey’s wife had a baby. He’s going to be a stay-at-home dad, and—”
Dad broke off as they neared the teal blue historic building that housed the city offices, its brass sign swinging in the wind from a horizontal post overhead. A voice Blake recognized rose with each beat of the sign’s movement.
“Georgie, you can’t do it to us. We’re barely a month from the festival.” Blake would have known his on-again, off-again high-school girlfriend anywhere, even without her telltale Kawasaki parked at the curb. Hilary Gray—arms folded, lips pursed, and hair as black as the leather jacket zipped to her neck. “You can’t just leave us in the lurch like this.”
She faced off with another familiar face—Georgie Snyder, longtime director of the Chamber of Commerce. Known as much for her penchant for lawn decorations as her militant-like leadership of every community event since, like, the dawn of time.
What was Hils doing arguing with the Flamingo Lady?
“I have given this town my undivided attention for years.” Georgie shoved a stack of folders toward Hilary. “I’m not calling off my plans just so I can coordinate a festival nobody’s going to show up for anyway.”
Dad exhaled an “Uh-oh” before stepping up to the ladies. “What’s the trouble?”
Hilary turned to Blake’s father. “Oh good, you’re here. Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”
“You won’t change my mind.” Georgie pulled on the belt of her coat. “I’m eloping on Sunday and leaving town Monday. That’s all there is to it.” She spun on her heels and disappeared around a corner before Dad could say a word.
Blake let out a whistle. “The Flamingo Lady’s getting hitched?”
Hilary saw him then, eyebrows lifting and arms tightening around the folders Georgie had thrust at her. “So the rumors are true. Blaze Hunziker’s back.”
Her voice held little welcome. Even less pleasure. Ooo-kay.
Dad still stared down the sidewalk. “No wonder you called me to meet with you, Hilary.”
Wait, Hilary was the city council member Dad had come to meet? The girl who’d worn the label of rebel like a badge of honor in high school was now in local government?
“We’re out a festival coordinator, which basically means we’re out a festival, which absolutely means we can say good-bye to our final tourist boost of the year.” Hilary’s dark hair swung as she shook her head.
Blake chanced a comment. “Couldn’t you just . . . get someone else?”
Hilary drilled him with a glance. “The festival is less than a month away.”
Dad’s sigh matched the rustling wind. “And this on top of Victoria Kingsley once again . . . ” He took a breath and, at Blake’s questioning glance, shook his head. “Nope, she’s not my biggest problem now. The festival is. Hilary, I’ll make some calls. Son, we’ll talk later.”
Blake nodded, and Dad slipped into the city offices, leaving Blake to face Hilary’s stony silence . . . and wonder what the Kingsley family had done now. At least one thing hadn’t changed.
The overhead city office sign continued its rhythmic creaking as Hilary glared at him, stack of folders still pressed against her.
“C’mon, Hils. I just got home. At least throw me a welcome back.”
“Fine. Welcome back, Blaze.”
An old truck rumbled by, tires bumping over cobblestone and motor grumbling. “Sorta trying to shake the nickname.”
“Not gonna happen. Not here. So, why’d you come back? Couldn’t find another celebrity to take up with? What were you thinking, anyway?”
“Long story.” One he was starting to believe he’d never hear the end of.
“Not really. You faked a marriage with a TV star. Then she outted you when she fell in love with someone else.”
“Thanks for the recap. So you’re on the city council?” Gnarled leaves skittered over the sidewalk and between their feet.
She nodded. “Second year of my first term.”
“Which means worrying about things like town festivals?”
“Not just me worrying—it’s the whole town. Have you seen how many storefronts are empty? The festival was supposed to give us an end-of-the-year income boost. Instead we’ve lost the coordinator and now we’re literally going to have to cancel Christmas. Meanwhile, I’ve got an AWOL husband and two boys at home who can’t figure out why Mom’s such a mess.”
“You’re married?” And a mom? Sheesh, everywhere he looked he was finding evidence of what he’d missed.
“Separated.”
“I’m . . . sorry.” So Blake wasn’t the only one whose life had veered off course. Whatever the shade of loss, the stain was just as permanent. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”
Quiet rippled through the square, through its empty gazebo and massive centerpiece of an evergreen. A frosty late-autumn chill still blanketed the morning, the sidewalk under his feet shiny.
Hilary faced him then, looking from Blake to the stack of folders in her hands back to Blake. Her slow grin took on an impish flair—finally a hint of the Hilary he remembered. “Maybe there is.”
Cold crawled up the sleeves of Autumn’s navy blue coat as she dropped a five-dollar bill on the high window counter of Pete’s Snack Shack. Only the twinkle of stringed bulbs around the little building and the glow of streetlamps lit the town square.
“Keep the change.”
Grinning down at her from his perch, Pete held out her ice cream cone. “Not a chance, kid.”
“Come on, Petey. You deserve it. You’d already turned over the Closed sign when I got here, and I know I’m the only one who orders ice cream in November. You keep a supply just for me.”
Autumn clutched the waffle cone with gloved hands. She fully intended to call Mom tonight. The news of her departure might be better delivered in person, but since Mom spent half her time traveling around the state these days, it was easier to catch her on her cell.
But Autumn needed reinforcement in the form of sugar to fuel her willpower. Something told her it wasn’t going to be a fun conversation.
She nudged the five across the counter. “The least I can do is tip you.”
“The least you can do is bring a few friends next time.” Pete winked, but she didn’t miss the hint of sincerity in his suggestion. Wind flickered through his gray-and-white mustache as the man spoke. “I could use the business.”
Couldn’t they all. A lingering smattering of withered leaves scraped across the sidewalk. “That bad?”
He rubbed his chin, ruddy cheeks evidence of how many years the snack shop proprietor had spent at this window—taking orders and drawing laughs. A town fixture if ever there was one. “Truth is, I’m thinking I might need to close up come winter.”
“Aww, Petey.”
“Don’t look so sad, kid. The supermarket does carry ice cream, you know.”
“It’s not the ice cream I’d miss most.” She’d grown fond of her Saturday night chats with the man. In many ways, he reminded her of her dad—always a story to tell, always the life of a party.
Except not always. Not in the end.
Like her breath fogging in a cloud of white, the image of Dad’s face rose. Not the way she liked to remember him, but the way he’d been in those last couple years, especially the last few weeks before he died. Laugh lines dipping into frequent frowns, sapphire blue eyes—same color
he’d passed on to her—more and more often darting and distant.
Time—almost fourteen years—had dulled the sting of Dad’s death, but not the effect of what she’d seen and overheard in those last days before the aneurysm that stole his life.
“The last thing I want to do is hurt our family, but I have to do this.”
“Nobody has to abandon his family.”
Silence.
Then, “Fine, go get the divorce papers drawn up. But don’t expect me to step into your shoes here when you leave. I won’t run this inn alone.”
Autumn blinked, shucking away the conversation she’d tried so many times to forget. If she could just pretend she’d never overheard, in her memories Dad could still be . . . Dad.
Instead of the man who’d once planned to walk away from his family. And Mom, the one who’d barely even fought him on it.
“Take the change, Autumn Kingsley.” Pete’s voice and the dollar bills he waved in front of her eyes crowded out the unpleasant memory.
“Okay, but only because I intend to come back next week with friends, just like you asked.”
“If I’m still open, I’ll be appreciative.”
Pete waved her off and slid his window closed, leaving her to her cone and a nearly deserted downtown. Her Jetta rested at the curb, but instead of slipping into the car, she opted for the gazebo. Might do to clear her head a bit. Enjoy the ice cream and the peace of a sleepy Whisper Shore. Maybe read a chapter or two from one of the books weighing down her purse.
After all, fall never held on this long into November. Tonight might be cool, but there was no snowy blizzard or sheets of ice forcing her inside. She should enjoy it while she could.
The crackle of wind through bare branches and the beat of a jogger’s footsteps through fallen leaves sounding from somewhere nearby were the only soundtracks to her walk through the square. Intent on reaching the gazebo, she angled around the evergreen that served as the town Christmas tree every year and—
“Whoa, lady!”
The smack came hard and fast. And . . . hard. Her cheek hit into a wall of a chest, and the impact flung her backward, sending her cone plopping to the grass, along with her purse. Her feet tangled beneath her, caught in . . . something. A dog’s leash?
The only thing that stopped her from going down was the grip that shot out to catch her. Hands latched onto her arms, fingers warm and tight through the sleeve of her coat.
“Gotcha,” the jogger said as he caught his breath. A pair of paws bounded at her side. It was a dog. “Down, Kevin. Leave her alone.”
Blood, she could taste it. “My nose.” She lifted her hands to cover her face.
“Dude, you’re bleeding.”
“Dude, that’s very Sherlock Holmes of you.” Finally she looked up. Swallowed a gasp as her eyes met his. Though the evening’s dim light veiled his features, she’d have known him anywhere. The pang traveled from her nose to her heart.
Blake Hunziker . . . looking so much like his brother, it was uncanny—from the dark hair tamed by a rolled-up handkerchief to his height and broad shoulders.
If he weren’t a Hunziker, she’d have called him handsome, even in his track pants and running shoes, with a day’s stubble shadowing his face. Ridiculously long lashes rimmed his dark eyes.
He dropped his hands from her arms. While she stared, he swiped the handkerchief from his head, shook it, and held it out. “Here. For your nose.”
Her gaze passed from his offering to his forehead back to the handkerchief. “But you’re, uh . . . sweaty.”
“You really think my sweat is grosser than your blood?”
Good point. She accepted the handkerchief and held it to her nose. Hands on his hips, Blake only watched.
“I think you broke it,” she said, voice muffled by the cloth, which, amazingly, smelled less like perspiration and more like shampoo. The dog—skinny but looking freshly groomed—sat obediently by his side now.
“Here, let me see. I’m sure it’s not broken.” He bent his legs and tipped his head down until she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. He lifted his hand. “We didn’t hit that hard.”
“Wanna bet?” Autumn inched away, but his hand still connected with her face, fingers tracing from one side of her nose to the other. “I feel like I slammed into a brick wall.” But the man had a soft touch. She’d give him that.
“Then I guess my workouts are paying off.” He smirked. “Kidding.”
She’d have laughed if she weren’t so irritated. If he didn’t look so “I’ve just run across town and I’m barely winded.” If she didn’t have blood on her face and ice cream on her favorite coat.
With two fingers he gently prodded the bridge of her nose once more. “Not broken.” He tapped the tip of her nose and stepped back, a telltale crunch signaling the demise of her cone.
“Oh man. My cone, too.” And now his dog was licking the thing up. So much for a peaceful walk.
So much for avoiding Blake Hunziker.
“So. Autumn Kingsley.”
She lifted his handkerchief back to her nose. “I take back the Sherlock reference. You’re too slow on the draw.”
“Call me Watson, then.” His smile, flanked by annoying dimples, probably should’ve prompted her own. But how could he be so laid-back after all that had happened between their families? If the longtime business rivalry wasn’t enough, then there was the blame, the blowup before his brother’s funeral. Their own angry words the day she’d confronted him about Ryan.
“He has a problem, Blake. Ava is convinced—”
“You want to talk about problems? Ava’s the problem.”
“I recognized you the second we hit, Kingsley,” he said now. All casual, no hint of the past heckling him like it did her. “We did go to school together for twelve years, after all.”
“Ten. You were two grades ahead of me.”
“Fine.” His expression turned quizzical. “Why were you eating ice cream when it’s forty degrees out?”
She blinked. “Why are you wearing a T-shirt?” One that stretched taut over threaded muscles she wished she didn’t notice. No wonder that TV star had picked him for her fake husband.
“Because if I’m cold, I’ll run faster,” he said wryly, then reached down to pick up her bag. “Man, what do you have in here? Cement?”
“Books, if you must know.” Because while he might have the luxury of traveling the world on his family’s dime, some people had to live their adventures in the pages of a novel. Not anymore, though. It was so, so almost her turn.
“Well, what’s the haps? How are things at the inn?”
He really wanted to do this now, play catch-up while her nose bruised and his dog slurped up her ice cream? “Things are fine.” She reached for her bag and slung it over her shoulder, refusing to wince at the weight of it.
“Nice job on the ambiguity.”
“Wow, the man knows big words.”
Blake’s half-grin floated between amusement and curiosity. “Since I’m sure you’re about to ask, I’m fine, too. Just peachy. Running . . . clears my head.”
Something, maybe his slight pause or the flicker of uncertainty he probably thought he hid under a teasing exterior, pointed her to the realization then: He remembered just as much as she did.
But he was trying to look past the past, wasn’t he? Six years doesn’t erase what happened, Blake. And yet . . .
She grasped for a softer tone. “Ice cream clears my head. And books.”
He glanced down to where his dog was finishing off the last of her cone. “Can I buy you another?”
“No, thanks.” She lowered the handkerchief once more and tested her nose with a wrinkle. “So . . .”
“So.”
“Welcome home. I heard there was a party.” See, she could do friendly, too.
“Oh yeah, it was a wild one.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Though I think half the people in attendance actually thought it was a party to welcome hom
e my parents from their vacation, not me.”
“Can’t believe I wasn’t invited.” As soon as she said the joking words, her lips pressed. She’d meant the comment lightly.
But the sudden swell of tension, the tick in Blake’s jaw, her own hard swallow told her they’d both had the same thought.
Of course she wasn’t invited.
Because Kingsleys and Hunzikers didn’t mix. The one time they’d tried—her sister, his brother—it’d ended in hurt and a shock deep enough to impact the whole town.
Blake’s dog jerked on his leash, paving the way for his sudden and stilted, “Well, have a good night.”
Her forced nod.
His retreat.
And that’s that.
Autumn let out a deep exhale as she watched Blake’s walk turn into a run, his dog keeping pace as he crossed the square. She looked down to his handkerchief still in her hand, stuffed it in her coat pocket, and sidestepped the remainder of the sticky mess on the grass.
3
The beat of the basketball against the gym floor matched the drumming of Blake’s heart.
And here he’d expected to easily school Tim Jakes in their half-court one-on-one match. But the small-town cop, his old best friend, had kept up his game in the years since they played last. Blake had run into Tim last week, the same day Hilary had waltzed him into the city offices and offered him up as Whisper Shore’s saving grace.
What a joke.
With one hand, Blake swiped at the sweat across his forehead, while the other dribbled the ball.
“I’m going to call shot clock if you don’t move soon, Hunziker.”
Tim’s razzing drew a smirk. “What, scared?” With the kind of footwork their old coach would’ve loved, he swept past Tim and landed a jump shot. “46–43.” Fifty ended the game. A couple layups and he would claim victory, then guzzle a gallon of water while his calves screamed at him.
Along with his brain. Because sooner or later he’d have to give Hilary, not to mention Dad and the rest of the city council, an answer as to whether he’d take on the Christmas festival in Georgie Snyder’s stead.
