Here to Stay (Where Love Begins Book #2)

by Melissa Tagg

  But he could remember those anywhere. Like sitting out on the porch roof of the Kingsley Inn, Autumn at his side. No, he didn’t need to sit in a cockpit to remember the good stuff.

  But speaking of the inn, that reminded him. After another heaved sigh, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Only took a couple rings for Hilary’s voice to sound on the other end.

  “Hey, Hils, question for you. Does your oldest brother still work at the bank?”

  6

  The rumble and hum of a puddle-jumper’s ascent whooshed overhead as Blake trekked from the Whisper Shore Municipal Airport office building toward Hangar 7. Wispy clouds hazed the sun and fiddled with the pattern of the airplane’s vapor trail.

  Blake used to dream about this—claiming a hangar spot and Cessna all his own—back in the days when he was taking flying lessons from Ike Delaney. Used to imagine himself flying the skies on secret missions for one government entity or another.

  Now only apprehension and a touch of nausea accompanied his walk to the hangar.

  Blake thudded to a halt in front of the metal building that stored his parents’ well-meaning gift—the plane he knew he’d never fly. He hadn’t been able to get Mom’s pleading expression from his head. So after a morning spent walking the entire downtown—talking to business owners, figuring out who planned to host a booth at the festival, convincing those who were reluctant to give the event a chance—he’d forced himself to make the drive out to the small airport.

  A gust of wind chugged past him now, rattling the hangar frame.

  “You going in or what?”

  Delaney. Blake turned to see the pilot covering the distance to the hangar. “I didn’t see your truck at the office.”

  “Took an early lunch. Just pulled into the lot when I saw you lugging out here.” Delaney stopped in front of Blake, the camo jacket he’d worn as long as Blake had known him buttoned halfway up. The burly man had the girth of a wrestler, but the gentleness of a teddy bear. “Didn’t get to hug you at the party last week, Blaze. Or was that two weeks ago now? Took you long enough to get out here.”

  Blake stepped into the older man’s offered embrace. “I’ve missed you, Ike.” Missed their talks. The pilot had somehow become Blake’s go-to mentor during his angst-filled teen years, when he’d sullenly considered himself a second-class Hunziker compared to his perfect football-star brother.

  How idiotic he’d been. So much he’d taken for granted.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you weren’t too overjoyed about the Cessna when your father made the presentation.” Delaney stepped around him and gave the hangar door a hefty pull, sliding it open.

  “I haven’t flown since . . .” Should it really still be so hard to produce the words this many years after the accident? He stepped into the hangar, blinking as he adjusted to the dark. The oily smell of gasoline mixed with metal and dust, at once familiar and jarring. He used to think of it as the scent of adventure.

  “Doesn’t mean you can’t pick it back up.” Delaney slapped on the lights as his words bounced against the metal walls. “If you want to.”

  And there it sat. The sport-utility Cessna 206 with the 310-horse turbocharged power plant. Blake could rattle off the specs like his own birth date. With a high-wing design, black nose, and white body, it was a thing of beauty.

  “It’s perfect,” Blake murmured. It had the body of a bird and the words The Blaze printed in red script near the tail.

  “Got the keys?”

  Blake shook his head. “Gave ’em back to Dad.” There wasn’t a chance he was going to sit in that cockpit. Not a chance he’d curl his fingers around the controls or prop his feet on the steering pedals. No, he’d only come to appease Mom.

  “What’d you do that for?”

  “Told you. I don’t fly anymore.” Except . . . except maybe for the first time since Ryan’s accident, a prick of desire needled him now. Barely enough to sting, but it was there.

  Delaney clapped a palm on Blake’s shoulder. “Nope, you said you haven’t flown since your brother’s death. Not the same thing as saying you don’t fly anymore.”

  “You can’t understand, Ike.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  Blake’s voice hit a low note. “I watched my brother fall to his death in a skydiving accident.” Had he ever said it out loud? “You know what that feels like?”

  “I know what it’s like to hurt, son.” Delaney’s gaze seared through him.

  It was a pointless conversation. Delaney hadn’t been there, didn’t know the whole story. Blake’s conscience still got a kick out of stabbing his dreams. By day he could usually ward off the flashbacks with enough effort. At night, he was powerless.

  And in the mornings when the dreams faded away, they always left the same thing in their wake—accusation, his familiar bedfellow.

  He’d convinced Ryan the jump was just what he needed to clear his head after the loss of his football career—an injury his senior year in college—and his girlfriend, too. Ryan had listened, jumped, died. Simple—and devastating—as that.

  Except it wasn’t quite that cut and dried. There’d been questions after the accident. Drugs—not the prescription kind—identified in his brother’s system. Hard to know whether it had been the drugs or a possible defect in the chute that caused the accident. And then there was the question no one voiced, but certainly everyone entertained: Was it an accident . . . or a choice?

  After all, Ryan had lost so much. What if he’d finally just given up . . . and opted not to deploy his own parachute?

  They’d never know. Blake forced his fists to loosen and his fingers to stretch. But what did the whys and hows matter now anyway? Ryan had died a death orchestrated by Blake’s recklessness. Nothing could change that.

  Blake swallowed the familiar lump clogging his throat.

  After a moment of strained silence, Delaney folded his arms and leaned against the hangar wall. “Why’d you come home?”

  Blake ran one hand along the underbelly of the plane. “Tired of playing nomad. Got this feeling in my gut it was time.” This was safer—light conversation, catching up.

  “And now that you’re here?”

  Blake shrugged. “I’m coordinating the festival. You heard that, right?” In the past two days he’d lined up musicians and entertainment. Ordered strings of lights and decorations. Started piecing together a schedule. He was beginning to think he might actually have a knack for organizing events.

  Or maybe it just felt good to be entrusted with something important.

  And so far, he’d managed without Autumn’s help. He’d called the inn a couple times since Wednesday morning’s incident with the Dylan dude. But Harry answered every time and insisted she was busy. Couldn’t help feeling badly that their little deal hadn’t worked out. He might be managing the festival just fine, but Autumn seemed to really need the help around her inn.

  “Somehow never took you as the party planner type.” Delaney pulled off his baseball cap, scratched his scalp, and then replaced the hat.

  “Maybe not, but it’s something to do. Dad’s hoping it will impress the state tourism board if he can get some board members up here. Said there might be grant dollars in it if we do.” Apparently he had invited the board members behind Victoria Kingsley’s back. The family feud lived on.

  Blake faced the front of the plane now. Like a live being, it stared him down through Lexar-glass eyes over a pointed nose.

  Could he take to the skies once more?

  “I’ve got another set of keys in the office,” Delaney offered. “I can be back in five.”

  Maybe he could do it. Bleach the past from his mind, and in its place, the white of the clouds and the thrill of the flight.

  He considered the thought for all of a minute before shaking his head. It wasn’t fear that racked his nerves . . . but certainty. He didn’t belong in the skies anymore.

  Which begged the question—where did he belong? Once th
e festival ended, would there be a place for Blake in Whisper Shore anymore? Sure, there was the promise of the city job. But did a job equal purpose? Belonging?

  Delaney leaned against the side of the plane, studying Blake. “You seem more pensive than I remember. I mean, you were always the dreamer-type, even as a kid. Always thought there was a sort of visionary in you. But feels like . . . like your spark might’ve gone out some.”

  Some? “I don’t want to be a dreamer, Ike. I want goals—like what Ryan had. While I was off planning my next big adventure, he was always solid, focused—football, then someday, the family biz.”

  Ike propped one hand against the body of the plane. “What you don’t realize, son, is that being a dreamer is a gift. Being able to see something as it could be before it is . . . Not everybody can do that.”

  “If it’s so great, why can’t I do that with my life? See what it could be. Or should be.”

  Ike grinned. “You don’t have to figure out everything you’re meant to do today. You’re all of, what, thirty years old?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Plenty of time. Pray about things. If God likes an idea, He’ll see it through. If He doesn’t, He’ll let you know. That’s for sure.”

  Ike made it sound so easy. “And in the meantime?”

  “You do whatever God puts in front of you. Best way to live life. You don’t have to see every open door on the way to your end goal—just the one staring you in the face.”

  “If you mean the Cessna, I—”

  “I mean whatever it is.”

  Hope House usually rang with laughter and cheer, but today only silence echoed against the beige interior walls of the home. Autumn forced herself to swallow the disappointment threatening to show itself on her face. Lucy would need her smiles.

  Blake walked beside her, cocoa eyes scanning their surroundings as they walked into the living room. After the forty-five-minute drive from the inn down to Traverse City, she was still trying to figure out how he’d ended up with her.

  One minute she’d been racing around the inn, completing chore after chore—every day brought them closer to Dominic Laurent’s arrival, and every day she felt further behind—the next she was sitting in Philip’s truck with Blake at the wheel. Apparently two of Betsy’s kids were sick and Philip was working.

  “So why’s this place closing again?” Blake took a second look around. Couches and comfy chairs filled the space, accompanied by calming watercolor paintings on the walls.

  “Government funding. Or lack thereof.” They checked in at a small staff office and then settled onto the red couch where Autumn usually led her reading group. “It was nice of you to come help move Lucy. Though I still don’t get why Betsy didn’t call me. I was planning to come with her anyway. Probably could’ve done this myself.”

  Blake’s doubtful look told her he hadn’t missed her frantic state when he’d found her at the inn. She swallowed another shot of humiliation, same flavor as the other day when she’d admitted her financial predicament.

  “She knew you’d need a truck to transport Lucy’s stuff. Philip’s truck is manual.”

  “I can drive stick.”

  “Not from what I hear.”

  She crossed her arms. “One teensy-tiny intersection incident.”

  “Betsy said you held up traffic for ten minutes, Red. And that Philip told her never to let you drive their truck again.”

  “Betsy’s got a big mouth.”

  It looked like it was taking every ounce of self-control in Blake not to laugh. Cheeky man. And how was it that he could make a pair of worn jeans, black Henley, and navy puff vest look so . . . good? And seriously, sandals? On a day that wasn’t supposed to get warmer than forty degrees?

  Or maybe the better question was why she couldn’t stop noticing every little detail about the man. Like how his dark hair brushed the tips of his ears. Or how his presence had dominated the small cab of Philip’s truck on the drive, practically stealing the oxygen from the space.

  “So aren’t there grants they could apply for?” he asked now. At least he was kindly changing the subject.

  “I guess the funding stream must’ve run dry.” Leaving Lucy and the other Hope House residents out in the cold.

  Through her volunteering, she’d come to know all the inhabitants of the house. Five of the eight occupants had Down syndrome. The three others had varying developmental challenges. All of them had wriggled their way into her heart.

  Fletcher with his impeccable manners, who never let her open a door herself.

  Jillian, who always crocheted while Autumn read. She’d given Autumn a rainbow-colored scarf on her last birthday.

  Brandon, the youngest of the group at eighteen. Autumn happened to be there the day his parents brought him to Hope House. She’d seen the fear on their faces—a fear Brandon hadn’t shared. He’d spotted the reading group right away and bounded over. When he saw the book they were reading—The Magician’s Nephew—he’d clapped his hands and exclaimed that he’d already read it. Twice. But could he still read it with them?

  And as he’d settled, as Lucy offered to share her copy with him, Autumn had seen his parents’ anxiety shift to comfort.

  “They’re like a family here.” The sound of pop music filtered through the ceiling from the second floor. Probably Jessie’s. At thirty-five, she’d never outgrown her love of ’90s boy bands. “It kills me to think of how hard it’s going to be on all of them as they separate.”

  “Maybe they can all get together once in a while.”

  “Ooh, I could have them all out to the inn. And maybe somehow keep up our reading group online.”

  But as soon as the words left her lips, a reminder of her own massive life change came zooming in. Even if all the Hope House residents were staying in the area . . . she wasn’t.

  For once, the thought of leaving Whisper Shore pinched instead of hugged.

  Lucy rounded the corner from the stairway then, ponytail bouncing behind her, CD in her hand. “Hiya. Jessie gave me a CD of Backstreet Boys. I told her I only listen to music on my iPod, but then I said—” Lucy broke off for a moment at the sight of Blake standing with Autumn, but only for a moment. “I said maybe Autumn has a CD player because she’s older than me.”

  The case manager, Angela, chuckled as she passed by. “Feel free to head up to her room. Everything’s mostly packed.”

  Autumn pulled Lucy into a tight hug. “Have you said all your good-byes?”

  Lucy’s lips turned down. “Yes. Fletcher cried.”

  Probably because the man had had a crush on Lucy from the day he moved in. It just wasn’t right—such a wonderful nonprofit closing its doors. What she wouldn’t give to throw a couple million dollars Hope House’s way, play benefactress instead of simple volunteer.

  Why was money always such a hassle?

  “Anyway, do you?”

  She blinked, attention returning to Lucy, who waited for an answer to a question Autumn must have forgotten. “Do I what?”

  Lucy’s giggles sprinkled over Autumn’s morose thoughts of moments ago. “Have a CD player, silly.”

  “I do indeed. Come on, let’s go get your stuff. Do you remember Blake? You met him yesterday.”

  Lucy nodded uncertainly. “Your boyfriend?”

  Autumn choked, her gum lodging in her throat.

  At her sputtering, Blake raised his eyebrows in a tease. “All right there, Red?”

  She swallowed, gum knocking its way to her stomach. Coughed and then, “Blake is my friend, Lucy.”

  Lucy nodded a second time, reluctance gone. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  As they followed her up a staircase, Blake’s voice drifted over her shoulder. “Thought I might have to do the Heimlich there for a sec, Red.”

  The skirt she wore over her leggings and boots swished over her knees. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? One more heroic act to hold over my head.”

  “I don’t know why her question flustered you so
much. That’s all.”

  The guy was exasperating.

  The guy was funny.

  She’d have reached back to give him a punch, but that would mean touching him, and the walled stairway felt like close enough quarters as it was. Dylan’s teasing never did this to me.

  Probably best not to camp out on that thought too long.

  At the top of the stairs, a wallpapered corridor was lined with doorways, and the sound of movement came from the openings. Something of a hush clung to the air. Moving day—not something to be celebrated in this instance.

  They were halfway to Lucy’s room when Lucy stopped, concern sketching across her face at the muffled noise coming from the room in front of her. The door was halfway closed, revealing a handwritten name badge on the door that read Fletcher.

  Lucy turned to Autumn. “He sounds sad.”

  Frustration edged the groans and quick spurts of words coming from the room. “Can’t do it . . . not right . . . hate this.”

  After glancing around and not seeing any staff or case managers, Autumn stepped forward to nudge open the door. “Hey, Fletch. Everything okay in here?”

  He stood in the center of the room, a long striped bed sheet knotted in his arms. “Miss Kingsley!”

  No mistaking the red circles around his eyes or the way his lower lip quivered even as he smiled.

  “Hard day, huh.” Her words felt so inadequate for the pain Fletcher must feel. As for the sheet, had he been trying to fold it?

  “Hey, buddy, can I help you with that?”

  Autumn turned, surprised at Blake’s voice cutting in as he edged around her.

  At first, Fletcher drew back, hesitation spelled out in rounded eyes and clamped lips. Blake was a stranger and his size seemed to dwarf Fletcher.

  But then Blake glanced around the room, a slow smile spreading over his cheeks as his gaze targeted a poster on the wall. “Oh man, you’re a Ninja Turtles fan, too? I used to watch that every single Saturday.”

  And just like that, Fletcher uncurled. “I watch it on DVD.”

  “No way, really? I’m Blake, by the way.” He held out his hand, and Fletcher quickly dropped the sheet to stick his palm in Blake’s.