by Melissa Tagg
Mom stopped at a table in the corner, peeling off leather gloves. “You might consider getting rid of that orange rug in the entryway. Thanksgiving is long since over.”
Autumn swallowed the sigh that climbed up her throat. “We plan to put up Christmas decorations later this week. I believe Betsy’s serving cinnamon rolls and fresh fruit today. I’ll grab us some.”
“You really should let your waitstaff do their job.”
Waitstaff? Didn’t Mom remember how much they’d had to whittle down their employee numbers in the past couple years?
“It’s no problem. Just give me a sec.”
The sweet scent of Betsy’s iced cinnamon rolls enveloped Autumn as soon as she stepped into the kitchen. Heaven. “Hey, Bets, can I steal a couple plates?”
Betsy stepped back from the glass-fronted refrigerator, fruit tray in hand. “Of course. Breakfast with Vicki, yeah? You going to tell her about Laurent?”
“You betcha.” The only question was whether to share the good news about LLI first and hope it cushioned the part about her move to France, or vice versa.
Autumn grabbed a pair of tongs from a drawer and placed cantaloupe slices on each plate. “Wish me luck.”
She pushed through the swinging door and returned to the table. “Here we are, Mom.”
Mom sighed as Autumn lowered the plates. “My mouth is watering. My waistline is protesting.”
“Listen to the former, ignore the latter.” Autumn sat. “I’ll pray.” They bowed their heads. “Dear God, thank you for this day, the sunshine, the food, and the chance to spend time with Mom.” And please, please help her not get mad about France. . . .
The ornate clock hanging on the wall stared Autumn down. She picked up her fork. Set it back down again. Just get it out.
Fine. France first. “Mom, remember in high school when I had that exchange student friend—Sabine from France.”
Mom closed her lips around a bite of Betsy’s roll, an “mmm” following her swallow. “Yes, of course I remember. You insisted we buy a bread maker. You wanted fresh bread every day.”
“Yes! Because Sabine always made it for her host family.” Autumn could still smell the yeasty smell in the air when she’d hung out with Sabine at her host house.
And she could still taste her own imagined carefree abandon, the dream something as simple as fresh bread had embedded in her. Sabine’s talk of France had enchanted her. She’d begun daydreaming about studying in France her junior year. Started picturing herself strolling down a French village street, sundress swishing around her legs, the cadence of a foreign language humming around her.
But then . . . then she’d overheard the word divorce falling from Dad’s lips. And worse, his sudden death.
So, no, she’d never gone. But the hunger had continued tunneling in her soul in the decade since—to see and feel and experience another life, in another place.
“What about Sabine?” Mom sipped her coffee.
“Well, she works at an upscale hotel in Paris now. There’s a job opening there.”
Mom’s coffee mug thumped against the table as she set it down, attention suddenly sharp. “And?”
“And I’ve been offered the position.”
Her words seemed to dangle in the air before thudding down. She waited one second, two, three for Mom to jump in. To congratulate her. Or chastise her. Something.
Nothing.
Why? Why was it always like this between them? Stilted and awkward.
“I have a plan for the inn. Took out a little loan to spruce it up. And I’ve left a couple messages for Ava. Remember how when we were younger, she was the one who always talked about running the inn someday?”
Finally, Mom spoke, her interruption severe. “Autumn, listen to me. Ava’s happy in Minnesota.”
“Yes, but I—”
“Much happier than she’d be here, surrounded by memories of the boy who broke her heart and his family who treated her like mud. I’ll never forgive them for that.”
Autumn pushed her plate away, Friday’s sand-boarding episode with Blake sailing through her memory. Those minutes, sitting in the sand, watching him remember. “Ryan died. They deserve our sympathy, Mom.”
“I can’t believe you’re defending them.”
“And I can’t believe . . .” What—that her mother was still angry at the entire Hunziker clan? It shouldn’t surprise her. The angst between their families was like a proud, unbreakable statue standing in the middle of town. She’d only been helping Blake with the festival for three or four days, and already she’d heard at least a dozen times—“A Hunziker and a Kingsley working together?”
Ryan and Ava’s fling had only exacerbated the rivalry that had existed before they were born. Going back to when the Hunzikers built their hotel and started stealing the Kingsleys’ guests.
But shouldn’t there come a time when they all bucked up enough to put the past behind them? Move forward. “I heard something about a state grant, Mom. And that you are blocking it just because of Mayor Hunziker.”
“You heard wrong.”
“Shouldn’t you care more about the town than an old grudge? And what about the inn? Helping the town is helping us.”
“I can’t show favoritism, Autumn.” Mom’s fork clinked against her plate. “Besides, you accuse me only minutes after telling me you’re abandoning the inn.”
“Well, I’m not the first one to do so, am I?”
The brash statement escaped before she could stop it, its impact stilling them both.
“I didn’t abandon it,” Mom finally said, voice steady despite the tension rippling between them.
But maybe Autumn hadn’t meant Mom. Maybe she’d meant Dad. Or Ava. All three of them. And she had to wonder why she even worried so much about the inn when all the rest of them didn’t. Why am I am the last one holding on to something everyone else already let go of?
But no answer came in the seconds as she watched Mom spread her napkin over her plate, shake her head as if brushing away the crumbs of this conversation, and stand. “Do what you will, Autumn. But don’t count on your sister to step in and take up where you leave off. She’s got a new life now.”
And I’m still waiting to start mine.
The same old cry of desperation pushed through her. But there wasn’t any point in putting voice to it. It seemed there was no getting over the strain of Dad’s death, Ava’s flight. Worse, the secret they both knew but never talked about. Sometimes Autumn wondered if telling Mom she knew about the planned divorce would open up the lines of communication.
But for all she knew, it’d do the opposite. Wedge them even further apart.
“Mom, there was something else. Better news, actually. Does the name Dominic—”
She broke off at the sound of yells coming from the kitchen. And then, “Fire!” Betsy, frantic, hurried into the dining room. “It’s the cottage, Autumn.”
Where was Autumn?
The conference hall of the Whisper Shore town hall buzzed with impatient energy. Eleven people had shown up for tonight’s meeting—all local business owners and community members Blake and Autumn had recruited to help with the festival.
“We need everyone to feel invested in this,” Autumn had said Saturday as they worked together. “In the past, this was Georgie’s event. Now the rest of us need to own it. Plus, it’s only two and a half weeks away. We need all the help we can get.”
He’d teased her about the light in her eyes, the energy in her voice, when she’d pitched the idea. And yet, he’d loved the fact that she was finally as excited about the festival as he was.
So why was he worrying she wasn’t going to show up?
The scrapes of folding chairs mixed in with chatter and the gurgling of a large coffeepot in back. A woman dropped into the chair to Blake’s right, her elbow pressing into his side. Mrs. Hathaway, the longtime town librarian. She flung her scarf away from her face, its staticy fuzz scratching over Blake’s cheek.
�
�Sorry, Blaze.” Mrs. Hathaway plopped her purse atop the table.
He might be able to throw a festival together, but escaping his nickname was apparently not in the cards. “No problem, Mrs. Hathaway.”
Blake pulled a box of Tic Tacs from his pocket and clicked it open. He tossed back a mouthful. Nerves jostled his empty stomach. Where are you, Red?
And when had he slipped into this unlikely dependency on her? He could handle this meeting alone. Even if he did have that new-kid-in-school feeling poking at his insides.
He’d placed packets at each seat around the table—budget numbers, town-square layout, schedule of events, all clearly outlined.
Blake rubbed his hands together, the chill of the outdoors not entirely barred from the room. Brown-paneled walls gave the meeting room a closed-in feeling. Framed aerial photos of Whisper Shore lined three of the four walls. On the fourth, headshots of the town founders stared down the crowd.
“All right, everyone, thanks for taking time out of your evening to meet. Let’s get started.” Surely Autumn would show up any minute now.
Voices hushed, replaced by the squeaks of metal chairs as the committee members settled.
“First of all—”
The meeting room door pushed open, and William Baylor entered. “Sorry, I’m late.” He offered the gruff apology, then dropped into the last open chair.
Oh, man. Why had Autumn invited him?
“Uh, thanks for joining us, Mr. Baylor.” He supposed it made sense, the man being the town’s parks and rec manager. They’d need his help with wiring the park for sound and decorations. Didn’t mean it was going to be easy working with him.
Baylor only grunted in acknowledgment, eyes on the packet in front of him.
“Okay, well, I can’t tell you all how much I appreciate your willingness to help with the festival. This is very last minute, but we’re working hard to make sure it’s the best event this town has ever hosted.”
This is where he would’ve waited for Autumn to jump in, impress them all with the finesse of someone used to running her own business.
“My co-coordinator and I made several lists. I’m not sure where Autumn is, actually, but . . .” Did he sound as unpolished as he felt? Why couldn’t he have the confidence he’d had on top of that dune, convincing Autumn to brave the ride down? “Anyway, if we keep on schedule with everything on these lists, we’ll have no problem pulling this festival together in time. Thankfully Georgie got the ball rolling weeks ago. We can talk about assignments and all that later, but first . . . ”
He paused at the site of Mindy Turner’s raised hand. As the president of the ladies league, she was the perfect person to head up decorations for the festival. “I’m sorry, Blaze, but before we dig in, I just have to ask, what’s Randi Woodruff like?”
“Um, what?”
She flipped her dark curls over her shoulder. “I know I’m not the only one wondering. Probably half of us agreed to join this committee solely out of curiosity.”
“That’s not really—”
“Can she really build houses?” Bert from the hardware store tapped his coffee mug against the tabletop.
Blake had to work not to roll his eyes. “She can really build houses, Bert. And Mindy, she’s a very nice person. Let’s move on.”
“How’d it feel losing her to the reporter?” Mindy again.
Maybe the ladies league wasn’t so vital to the festival. “I didn’t lose her to the reporter. I never had her. It was strictly professional, beginning to end.”
“Because it’s so professional to fake a marriage.”
William Baylor. Of course.
“Look, folks, we’re here to talk about the festival. Autumn and I had a brainstorm the other night, and we’re pumped to let you in on it.” He rushed into the new topic before additional questions could pop up. “I know every year, businesses that commit to booths at the festival put down a deposit. That money, in the past, has been used to hire someone to serve as the festival emcee, right?”
“Ahh, Channel 16 meteorologist Lillith Dunwoody,” Bert piped in. “What a beauty.”
“He’s twice her age, silly man,” Mrs. Hathaway quipped beside Blake.
“She gets her forecast right at least fifty percent of the time, to boot,” Bert added.
“Well, anyway,” Blake continued, “we have a proposal. Instead of spending the money on an emcee, what if we take that money and use it to spruce up the square. Repaint the gazebo if the weather holds, replace our out-of-date Christmas decorations. We’d have to work fast, but if everybody pitches in, we could do it. What do you think?”
He waited for a smattering of approval. Instead, only the sound of the wind flapping against the building. The groan of the coffeepot. An uncomfortable cough from across the table. Why didn’t anyone say anything?
Finally Mrs. Hathaway gave his hand a motherly pat. “Blaze, giving the square a facelift is a nice idea. But the fact of the matter is, we’re not the town beautification committee. You asked us to help with the festival. And in the past, Lillith Dunwoody has been a real draw.”
His knuckles rapped against the table as he turned his hands palms up. “Well, did anyone consider asking her to donate her time? This is her hometown after all.”
“Now, how would that look after seven years of paying her?” She may not have meant to sound condescending, but Mrs. Hathaway’s tone was enough to dry up Blake’s confidence.
He closed his eyes, pressed his lips together. And when he spoke again, his words were measured. “I am sure that Lillith Dunwoody has done a wonderful job. And I am sure, like you said, she is a real draw for folks in this community. But she’s a far cry from a celebrity who’s going to lure tourists from farther away than a thirty-mile radius.”
“And I suppose you know all about celebrities.” Baylor’s blurted words stilled the room. He stood, rounding his chair and propping both hands on its back. “I can’t be the only one here who’s wondering why I’m listening to the plan of a boy who spends one week in town and decides he knows what all we’re doing wrong. As if he’s never made one misstep—or a hundred.”
Gasps popped like hot corn kernels across the room, then fell at once as a weighty tension shrouded the space. So many faces staring at him, a mix of disapproval and embarrassment hovering like a sticky mist.
The silence pulled rubber-band taut, and suddenly he was sitting in the front of First Church again, Ryan’s coffin just feet away, feeling the disapproval of those in attendance who’d heard the details of Ryan’s death, hearing the whispers. “Blake was flying the plane.”
He grasped for control, an intelligent response, anything. “I don’t think you all understand. My dad is working on getting some state tourism board members to the festival. There’s grant money on the table. If we impress them—”
“Everybody knows we don’t have a chance at a grant,” William Baylor interrupted. “We haven’t been taken seriously in years, not compared to Ann Arbor or Mackinac.”
It was all Blake could do not to bang his forehead against the table.
“Besides, Victoria Kingsley would rather fund a popcorn stand in Poughkeepsie than do anything that might make your father look good.”
They all stared at him when William finally finished. Waiting for a reply. One he didn’t have.
“Autumn, are you still awake?”
Mom’s voice muffled past Autumn’s closed bedroom door. Autumn tapped her toothbrush against the side of the sink in her bathroom. “Yes, Mom.”
She sidestepped the pile of soot-stained clothes at her feet, where she’d traded them in for flannel PJs. The white lights over the mirror highlighted the mascara smudged under her eyes, the result of a too-long day coming to a too-distant end.
Faulty wiring had caused the fire in her cottage’s kitchen. Thankfully, Lucy had called 9-1-1 as soon as she saw the smoke wafting from the vent. The damage was minimal, contained mostly to the kitchen. But with the smell of smoke heavy and the el
ectrician unable to immediately fix the wiring, she and Lucy had relocated to Mom’s.
Autumn crossed her childhood bedroom now and opened her door.
Mom leaned against the doorframe, hair pulled away from her face and sharp cheekbones cleared of makeup. Autumn steeled herself for the lecture sure to come as she bunched her hair into a ponytail behind her head and stretched a band.
“Autumn, I . . . wanted to apologize.”
The hair band snapped, and her hair spilled over her shoulders. Say again?
“For this morning. At the inn. The things I said.” Discomfort sifted over Mom’s face.
“Well . . . thanks. I mean . . . apology accepted.”
Mom nodded and turned.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Even if Ava won’t come back, I’m still going to try to figure everything out. There’s this man coming—Dominic Laurent, from Laurent Lodging International. He must’ve seen that ad I took out in a few magazines last summer. I think this could be a great thing.”
She couldn’t translate the shift in expression in Mom’s eyes. She’d expected at least a glimmer of relief. After all, she was still looking out for the best interest of the inn. That’s what Mom had been concerned about, right?
Mom tightened the robe of her belt. “It’s been a long day. I’m going to go check on Lucy and then turn in.”
She turned, and Autumn released the sigh building in her. Why is it they had so much trouble talking? Just being a mother and daughter. It had started long before Ava ever left, before anything happened with Ryan or the Hunzikers . . .
It’s because we’ve both been pretending for years.
The thought chugged through her, heavy and poignant and . . . true.
Ever since Dad died, Mom had pretended things had been perfect between them, that divorce had never been on the table. But mother and daughter still bore the hurt of it. Separately. Because neither chose to talk.
“Are you all settled in, Lucy?” The sound of Mom’s voice drifted down the hallway followed by the muted tones of Lucy’s answer.
The click of Mom’s bedroom door cut into the quiet. Autumn closed her own door and returned to the little bathroom connected to her room. She grabbed a washcloth from the cupboard over the toilet and ran it under warm water.
