by Rachel Hauck
“I’m meeting her at the Burger Barn.” Cole reached for a napkin and flicked it toward his brother. “You have sauce on your chin.”
Chris snatched the napkin with swagger. “Are you kidding? Everyone in town goes to the Burger Barn on the weekend.”
“Technically, this is Sunday night. Not a weekend. And the Barn is on the edge of town, on the other side of that old wedding shop. Tucked away. Less likely to have foot traffic.”
“Oh, right, the church crowd goes right home after Sunday-night services. I forgot.”
“They’ll be cleared out by eight.”
“Reverend Smith closes the place down with rounds of root beer and a medley of ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ and ‘This Is My Story.’ ” Chris shoved the pizza box toward Cole. “Take a piece. You look like you need some sustenance.”
Cole eyed a small slice. Now that he was ready and waiting to go, his empty stomach played ravenous notes against his ribs. He’d been too busy to stop for lunch, working on Sunday to finish a remodel that was over schedule and over budget.
The holidays had put his crew behind, and he wanted to finish up lingering projects to get ready for new business. He had a lot of bids out, and he expected a full work queue by the middle of the month. He had to because Danner Construction was running out of jobs and out of money.
He bit into the pizza with a glance at his brother. “Does Mom know you’re here? She might have fixed dinner.”
“She’s working. She and Cap are both covering a shift for someone out sick.” Chris moved between Mom’s house and Cole’s like a flowing river. “I thought I’d hang here, watch football. You’re on for the bowl games tomorrow, right? I’ve got some guys coming over. Oh, hey, you remember Jason Saglimbeni? He’s back in town. We were thinking of getting up a jam session before I go back to DC. I haven’t played drums in over a year.”
“You guys go ahead.”
“Come on, Cole. Take that Stratocaster out of its glass tower and jam with us. You know that’s what Dad—”
“I don’t need you to tell me what Dad would want.” Cole checked the time. “’Cause I don’t really care what Dad would want.”
“You can’t hide from him forever.”
“Who says I’m hiding?”
“I do. When was the last time you played? Talked to Dad?”
“Hey, look at me.” Cole stretched his arms wide. “I’m going on a date nine months after my fiancée died. I think that’s accomplishment enough.”
Actually, she was his ex-fiancée, but no one really knew that. Except maybe Haley, Tammy’s best friend. The breakup and her diagnosis happened at the same time. And the whirlwind took over. Then death and grief. He didn’t have the emotional bank account for “jamming” or talking to his deadbeat dad.
Cole paused at the door leading out to the breezeway and garage. “Don’t leave your pizza box out. Clean up when you’re done.”
Into the cold evening, the air doused the heat of Chris’s random confrontation. Dad and music. He hadn’t jammed since Dad’s incarceration.
After his arrest, the FBI took years to bring their case to court. Meanwhile, Mom, Cole, Chris, and Cap grew hopeful. Maybe the charges of fraud wouldn’t stick.
But a new trouble brewed. Dad lost his construction company, so he took to drinking, wrinkling the family name with a new kind of shame.
Sitting astride his Harley 750, Cole fired up the engine, shifting his emotions away from the conversation with Chris. The past was the past. Dad’s reputation was not his.
Old things have passed away . . . all things become new.
Shifting into gear, snapping on his helmet, he breathed in the night, the air pregnant with snow. The Farmer’s Almanac predicted a lot of winter precipitation. If so, it would be bad for business, and Cole didn’t have the bank account for a long, lean winter.
One shift of the clutch and a little gas, he’d be out of here, off on a date.
Yet he didn’t have to go. He could cancel, go inside, watch bowl games with his brother, and order another pizza.
Wait, that’s exactly what he’d been doing the past year. Hiding. Retreating. This was a new year. Time to move forward, get on with life.
He eased out of the garage, closing the door behind him. He’d be warmer in his truck, but he felt the need for speed. For the cold to press through his leather jacket and jeans, to wake up his dull, sleeping self.
Down the street, past golden windows where families gathered, past the festive flicker of a few remaining red, blue, and green Christmas lights, Cole turned right on River Road, heading for town and First Avenue.
He eased off the gas as he drove past the old wedding shop, a three-story brick construction sitting alone under a sentry of shading elms. The large front windows were dark, a pair of sad eyes watching the world go by.
He’d always liked the charm of the place, appreciated the shop’s role in Heart’s Bend’s history. Both of his grandmothers and a great aunt bought their wedding dresses from Miss Cora.
But the shop’s days were numbered.
“Sorry,” he whispered against his helmet. “But you had a good run, no?”
A wind gust happened by and the no-good For Sale sign, barely visible under the amber street light, swung from its white post.
The city had tried to sell it to a business-minded person who might finally turn the space into a viable part of the downtown commerce, but so far only Akron Developers ponied up any money. But they wanted the land. Not the building. They needed a parking lot for their new lofts and outdoor shopping mall.
Demolishing 143 First Avenue was one of the jobs Cole had bid on for the winter.
It was time. The old shop had stood empty more than not in the past thirty-five years. Whatever it once stood for—brides flooding in to purchase their trousseaus from noted Heart’s Bend citizen Miss Cora—had long been forgotten.
Tammy had some emotional attachment to the shop. Something about playing there with Haley as kids. How the two of them decided, at age ten, they were going to reopen the old wedding shop someday. Return it to its former bridal glory.
But Cole had doubts. Tammy talked about law school and Haley was off with the air force, fighting a war. And frankly, he couldn’t see that girl running a wedding shop for nothing.
He’d been beaten up twice in his life. Once in first grade by Jeremy Wayne for calling him a cheater. And once in fifth grade by Haley Morgan—the more humiliating of the two—for telling her she looked pretty.
Cole gunned the gas, moving on. The time for reminiscing had passed.
When he pulled up to the Burger Barn, he saw a woman waiting on the front bench, her slender legs peeking out from the hem of a pink, fur-trimmed coat. She stood as he rolled up.
Cole cut the engine and removed his helmet, smoothing his hair in place. “Betsy?”
“Mariah told me you were hot, but I didn’t know you rode a Harley.”
“Mariah likes to exaggerate.” But he’d take the props.
Joining Betsy at the bench, Cole could see her face in the restaurant’s light. She was beautiful with her raven hair and full lips. A subtle, wild fragrance bounced in the air around her.
“No, I think she was right this time.” She beamed and slipped her arm through his. “Maybe you could take me for a ride later?”
“Yeah, maybe.” Bold, this one. “You hungry?”
“Starving.”
Her breath brushed over his cheek and she squeezed his arm. Yeah, she was starving all right, but for what?
Cole stepped to the front door, holding it open for his lovely, if not racy, date. This was good, right? A change of pace. A woman very different from his last. This was so much better than staying at home with sweaty-socks Chris.
He ordered a table for two at the hostess stand, then eased back, giving his nerves a rest.
Betsy may not be the one for him, but here she was, in the moment, wrapped in a beautiful pink package. The first moment of Cole’s new tomorrow
s started here and now.
CORA
She stood eye to eye with him. A riverboat captain. But not her riverboat captain. Not Rufus St. Claire.
“Hello?” he said, a spark of amusement in his eyes.
Constable O’Shannon stepped up. “Captain Riske, may I introduce Miss Cora Scott. She runs the dress shop at the end of the avenue there.”
“Wedding shop,” she said, her eyes still locked with the captain’s—who seemed rather delighted at her discomfort. “I operate a wedding shop.”
“Well, you have dresses too, don’tcha?” O’Shannon insisted on being right. After all, he was the law around town.
“We do, yes, for after the wedding. For the honeymoon.” Her skin blushed with embarrassment. “The bride’s trousseau, you see.”
“Honeymoon?” Riske’s voice teased her and her embarrassment. “I like the sound of that word.” The captain leaned a bit too close, bringing with him the spice aroma of beef jerky.
Cora took a giant step back. “I’m terribly sorry to have disturbed you.” She wanted to run but feared stumbling over her trembling legs.
“A pretty woman is never a disturbance.” Captain Riske was a flirt.
Cora knew better than to yield. She’d never inspired the word pretty from a man. Except for Rufus, who called her his “beautiful coral.”
“Is there something you need?” The captain’s amusement bordered on mocking.
“Of course not,” she said. Except to be away. Her pulse throbbed in her ears as she spun around, her heels crunching over the concrete sidewalk, her disappointment loud in her ears.
Rufus had not come.
Cora pressed toward the shop, through the rising pockets of sunlight, forcing down her tears, willing her heart to go numb. Why had he not come? What was the delay?
He said he’d see her in the spring. And she believed him.
Ever since he’d declared his love for her and asked her to wait for him, Cora had set her heart like a flint to do as he asked, to be true to him, courting no other man. No matter how long it took for him to marry her.
No man had ever whispered words of love before. Besides Daddy. And even he didn’t say them often.
The shop was only two blocks away, but the distance felt like miles. Would she ever reach the front steps? Her safe haven?
The incessant sound of her heels against the gritty sidewalk filled her head, irritating her thoughts. Yet the crunch-crunch was the only way to escape the constable, the captain, and her embarrassment. The only way to escape her disappointment.
Sweat beaded along her neck, under the wisps of her dark waves. She quickened her steps, yet the shop seemed no closer.
Cora clutched her skirt and kicked into a run, her muscles yielding to her demand. Faster. Faster. Past the shops. Bumping around the morning pedestrians and their blurred faces, their disembodied voices.
“Cora, where you going in such a hurry?”
“Cora, honey? Are you all right?”
She tripped over Mr. Griggs’s broom as he swept the walk in front of his haberdashery and nearly toppled to the concrete. She caught herself in time and pressed on, her pulse resounding, her lungs burning.
About to cross Blossom Street for the back of the shop, Cora darted from the curb without looking and smashed into something firm and gripping, corralling her about the waist.
“Let me go . . .” She swung her elbows high and wide, trying to wrench free.
“Cora, it’s me, Birch. Simmer down. Shoot, girl, where’s the fire?”
She exhaled, releasing her tension, and peered into the bright glint of Birch Good’s sky-blue eyes. His ruby lips curved into a smile above his square, dimpled chin.
“Birch, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.” Cora pushed out of his arms. This time he gently let her go. “I-I’m late, you see, for the shop. I-I had to get the morning pastries.”
He glanced at her empty hands. She made no pretense, no attempt, to hide them. “What happened back there?” He motioned toward the park.
“I-I don’t know, really.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead, averting her gaze, trying to work up a jolly laugh. But her voice remained weak and quavering. “A case of mistaken identity.”
She glanced back to where the captain stood, but he was gone. Had she not panicked like a scared child she might have asked him if he’d seen her Rufus on the river. Was he well? Was he on his way?
“Look at you. You’re trembling.” Birch’s hands slipped down her arms, pulling her to him. “Shh, it’s going to be all right.” His strong arms wrapped her against him.
Cora propped her cheek against his checkered shirt, inhaling the familiar fragrance of lye soap and hay. “How badly did I embarrass myself just now?”
“I don’t know. Was anyone looking?” Birch Good, farmer and friend, was as solid as the Tennessee limestone.
She raised her head with a soft laugh. “Apparently you were.”
“Only because you ’bout ran me over.”
“Mercy me, I didn’t even see you,” Cora said, patting his full, farmer-built chest, then smoothing away the wild ends of her hair flitting over her eyes. “I can get so focused.” Her adrenaline ebbed, taking the shaking with it.
“Who was it, Cora? Who did you think was over there?”
“Maybe another time, Birch. I really must get going. We have customers from Birmingham this morning.” She tried to hold his gaze, but her eyes drifted toward the park once more.
Birch followed her sight line. “The riverboat captain?”
Cora chose not to confirm or deny. “This is a special customer too. Her mama grew up in Heart’s Bend, bought her dress from Aunt Jane twenty-five years ago. It’s exciting to outfit the daughters of our former brides.” Cora turned for the shop, checking the traffic before stepping off the curb.
“Rufus St. Claire?” Birch fell in step with her. “You thought you saw him, didn’t you?”
Cora faced him right there in the middle of the street. “Well, if you know so much, why are you asking? What are you doing in town at this hour, anyway? Don’t you have a farm to run?”
She’d known Birch from eons ago—their fathers were school chums—and it really irked her how familiar he was with her. And how comfortable she felt with him.
“I had some business with the bank. Thought I’d treat myself to breakfast at the diner. Old bachelor farmer gets tired of his own cooking.” Birch moved with her, across the street and toward the shop.
“Then why don’t you get married?” Birch, five years her senior, farmed his family’s vast lands, and he could have any number of women as his bride.
“You applying for the job?”
“Aren’t you humorous? I believe there’s a line of women every Sunday after church just waiting to invite you to supper.”
“Well, I got my eye on a girl. Only trouble is, she ain’t looking back.”
“Then find one who’s looking.”
His words burned, carving out truth she suspected for a long time. But she was hopelessly in love with a man who lived on the river. The predicament was both exhilarating and terrifying. Either way, she would not let go. She’d made up her mind. Given her word.
Marching up the back steps, Cora reached for the door. “It’s good to see you, Birch.”
“Who do you recommend for a fella who might be looking?”
“For Pete’s sake, Birch, you can figure that out for yourself.”
“You thought you saw Rufus St. Claire, didn’t you?”
She started inside, but Birch gently gripped her wrist. “I don’t see how it’s your business.”
“Am I wrong?”
Cora regarded him for a moment, reading his eyes, his expression. “You disapprove?”
She wished the question back. Because if he did, it would bother her. She didn’t like Birch’s disapproval. It was enough she had Mama’s.
Birch had been there for the family during the ’14 bank panic when Daddy disappeared for a w
hile. Helped out her brother, Ernest Jr., with things around the house.
Then in ’18 he came home from the war when EJ didn’t. Came around the house almost every evening to see how Cora, Mama, and Daddy were doing.
“I don’t like that he hurts you.”
“He’s not hurting me.”
“Then why the blinding run? The dark expression? The panic?”
The slam of car doors popped the air and Cora peeked inside the shop. Mama was waving her in. “Birch, I’ve got to go. My customers have arrived.”
“What about your pastries?”
“We’ll have to do without. Odelia brought in her cinnamon rolls.”
“Those rocks?” He made a face and Cora pressed her hand to her lips to hide her laugh. “Surely you can’t offer your special customers, all the way up from Birmingham, Odelia’s cinnamon buns.”
“She is so proud of them.”
“Maybe so, but ole Dr. Walsh is out of town fishing, so if they break a tooth—”
Through the open windows Cora heard the Victrola and Mama’s sweet, “Welcome to The Wedding Shop. Welcome.”
“What would your aunt Jane say?” Birch whispered.
“She’d say just serve tea and coffee and forget the pastries.”
“No, about you pining for that no-good riverboat captain.”
“She’d have said, ‘Follow your heart, Cora Beth.’ ” Her old aunt regretted choosing work over love and marriage. She died an old maid. Cora refused to follow her fate. “She would want me to be happy.”
“I’m sure she would. But with a man who was true.” Birch backed away. “I’ll pick up your order. I assume it’s at Haven’s.”
“Cora!” Mama appeared at the door. “Why are you dawdling? They’re here. Morning, Birch.”
He tipped his cap. “Mrs. Scott.”
“Darling, where are the pastries?” Mama gestured at Cora’s arms, her eyes wide and wild. “Mrs. Dunlap is about to spend a small fortune on her daughter’s trousseau, and the least we can do is offer her a cup of tea and a petit four. Otherwise, Odelia will offer her buns, and we don’t need an emergency trip to the dentist. I think the doc’s out fishing.”
