Like Never Before

by Melissa Tagg

  Charlie stirred in his arms, a tiny whimper feathering against his skin. He pressed a kiss to her head. He’d figure it out. He’d figure it all out. Because that’s what he did. What he’d been doing for two years now.

  “Listen, I should probably get back.”

  He blinked for what felt like the hundredth time and turned to Theo. “Of course. Need to take my car?”

  “Already called a cab.” Theo patted Charlie’s back. “Glad she’s okay.”

  But . . . she wasn’t okay, was she? Krista was right. Charlie would celebrate her fourth birthday this August, and she had yet to start really talking beyond a word or two here and there—no full sentences.

  A pediatrician had momentarily quelled Logan’s concerns last summer. Explained that without an older sibling to mimic, it might simply take her longer. “Bring her back in six months if she still isn’t talking. But I bet she’ll be jabbering your ear off in no time.”

  The beating sun heated him now. Six months. It’d been eight. And he hadn’t even called to schedule an appointment.

  “Oh, before I go . . . we should probably get back to Hadley ASAP.” Theo had his phone out as he moved toward the taxi that’d somehow wound its way through the crowded street. “You okay with me taking the lead?”

  Had it only been a couple of hours ago that he and Theo had gushed about the senator? Dreamt about futures that looked like something off The West Wing? “Sure, go for it.” His voice came out dull, croaky, as if he’d been the one to enter the smoke-filled building.

  But he hadn’t. Someone else had been watching his daughter before the fire. Someone else had rescued her during it.

  He was just the guy who clung helplessly to her in the aftermath.

  Just like so many evenings, when he arrived home hours after dark, only minutes before Charlie drifted off to sleep for the night. He’d rock her long after she nodded off, trying to convince himself this was working, this single parent thing.

  But it was getting harder and harder to believe his own assurances.

  A male voice speaking through a megaphone blasted in. “Attention, please.”

  Theo paused, leaning over the open taxi door. “Don’t do it to yourself, Walker.”

  Logan glanced at his friend. Was he that see-through?

  “Don’t beat yourself up for not being there earlier or think you’re a horrible dad. Anybody would admire the way you’ve raised Charlie since Emma . . .”

  The fireman’s voice droned in the background, letting the crowd know there’d been only structural damage to a couple apartments. Most residents could reenter the building in a few minutes. A couple units on the sixth floor, though—Logan’s floor—had suffered heavy smoke damage.

  “I’ll tell you what Roberta S. Hadley says after I talk to her, okay?”

  Logan grasped for the interest he knew he should be able to muster. Roberta S. Hadley. Presidential campaign. She wants us.

  Minutes later, he watched the taxi cut a path through the maze of vehicles and fire engines blocking the street. He felt the softness of Charlie’s palm on his cheek and looked down at her. She’d awakened, emerald eyes grinning at him, whatever fear had driven her into his bedroom closet now gone. Did she even remember being carried from the building?

  “How’s my Charlie?” He touched his forehead to hers, and she giggled. “Daddy’s home early. Sounds like we might need to camp out in a hotel for the night. Maybe one with a pool.”

  Her lips rounded into a surprised and happy O, and for an elastic moment that stretched with hope, he thought she might actually verbally reply. Come on, honey, let me hear your voice. But instead, she only clapped her hands, kissed his cheek.

  He’d take it. For now, he’d take it.

  Charlie wriggled then and tapped his back. She may not talk all that much, but she didn’t have any trouble communicating. He bent over to slide her around his body, piggyback style, and started for the apartment building.

  “Logan Walker?”

  He paused and turned, squinting against the evening sun, and saw the silhouette moving toward him. A mailman?

  “Yes?” Charlie’s feet bumped against his sides.

  “Got a piece of certified mail for you. You’ll need to sign.”

  Hard to do with Charlie on his back, but he managed. “Surprised you could find me in this mess of people.”

  “Someone pointed you out. Most of the rest of the building will have to wait for their mail ’til tomorrow. Fire truck’s blocking the mailboxes.”

  Logan glanced at the manila envelope. Maple Valley address. A law firm?

  “Glad I could at least deliver this, though. Certified usually means important.” The mailman winked at Charlie and moved away.

  Afternoon warmth tinged with coastal humidity curled around Logan as he tore open the envelope and pulled out the packet of papers. Skimmed what looked like a cover letter crowded with legalese until his attention hooked on Freddie Fitzsimmons’s name—the old owner of his hometown paper, his one-time mentor.

  And the words last will and testament.

  “Want to tell me why we’re sitting out here in the cold? Is there a reason we couldn’t talk at your office?”

  Amelia winced at the impatience huddled in C.J. Cranford’s voice. The woman rubbed her hands together, breath forming clouds of white and heels tapping against the shoveled sidewalk underneath the park bench.

  “Just wait.” Amelia dipped her chin into her scarf. “You’ll see.”

  “Will I? Or will my eyeballs get frostbite first?”

  So maybe this hadn’t been the best plan ever—the short trek around the block toward downtown. Wasn’t it enough Amelia had already blown any chance at a good first impression with the woman who might be her new boss?

  But if C.J.’s presence in Maple Valley meant what it had to—that Freddie had indeed signed all the documents before he’d died, gone and sold the News—then there was only one thing to do: Convince Cranford the paper was worth salvaging.

  Forget the flood-damaged equipment. Forget the paltry advertising numbers. Forget all the reasons print publications in small towns were folding around the country. The News could be the exception.

  Because it wasn’t just any old newspaper. And Maple Valley wasn’t any old town. In about five minutes, C.J. would see for herself.

  The downtown fanned in front of them like a quiet audience—quaint storefronts brushed with the peachy-pink hues of an ambling dusk. The shadows of bony trees and globe-topped lampposts patterned the blanket of white covering the town square.

  C.J. glanced over. “You do know eventually we’re going to have to talk business?”

  “I thought that’s what we did back at the office.” After begging Owen to cover her scheduled photo, Amelia had given C.J. a quick tour of the News’s domain. She’d recited recent headlines and rattled off newspaper history—like the fact that this summer the News would celebrate its 100th year. An effort at damage control that may or may not have done any good. Because all C.J. had done after Amelia ran out of words was tilt her head and say, “Coffee?”

  “That wasn’t talking business,” C.J. said now. “That was a tour. A very . . . perky, tinsely one.”

  Because she’d overdone it, hadn’t she? Pumped too much cheer into her voice and brown-nosed it. “Sorry—”

  “You like your job. Nothing wrong with that.” C.J. crossed one leg over the other. The zigzag stripes of her tights were the one standout feature of her attire—black blazer over black pencil skirt. Black heels. Black purse.

  “I do like my job.”

  “Which is why you’ve been avoiding my calls.”

  Couldn’t argue that. Across the square, Mr. Baker locked the front door of his antique shop under a flapping awning. He turned, caught Amelia’s gaze, waved, and then hunched his way toward his station wagon. “I did mean to get back to you.” Eventually.

  The first light in the park flickered as Mr. Baker’s engine sputtered down Main. “Oh,
here we go. It’s about to happen.”

  “What’s about to happen?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Just a breath later, as if tapped by a magic wand, everything blinked to life at once, a glow of yellowy-white against the deepening sky—the globe lights atop the lampposts, the lanterns hanging from the band shell, strings of twinkle lights draped over wrinkled branches.

  “Wow.” C.J. released the word in an awed sigh.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” Wind-dusted snow sparkled against the light.

  “Magical.” C.J. uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Possibly worth the cold.”

  Satisfaction, warm and sweet, glided through Amelia.

  Until C.J. tilted her head. “I wonder how much it costs the city to keep it lit up like this.”

  The question landed with a thud. “The lights don’t stay on all night.”

  C.J. stood. “So where’s the coffee you promised?”

  Amelia swiped at her disappointment as they retreated the same way they’d come, their footprints from before already smudged out of sight. Silly, probably, thinking a few minutes and some pretty lights might change a businesswoman’s mind.

  But then, that was the problem with Amelia. Always hoping in the wrong things. Almost three years post-divorce and apparently the lesson still hadn’t sunk in: Some minds don’t change. Some fights you don’t win.

  Yeah, well, C.J. wasn’t Jeremy.

  And Amelia wasn’t the same Amelia she’d been back in Des Moines: broken, emptied, drained of any fight.

  The riverfront came into view as they rounded the block. Sheets of ice bobbed in the tumbling waterway that split the town in half. The river had flooded early last fall—damaging not only the News office, but the bridal store next door and the coffee shop they were about to enter. Amelia had been out here, sandbagging with the rest of the town in the hours before the flood had its way. That same summer they’d been pounded by a tornado.

  But there’d been happy times in the last year, too. Seth Walker had turned an old, abandoned bank building into the coolest restaurant around. An ex–NFL quarterback had moved to town and opened up a nonprofit. The community had pulled together to keep its historic railroad running.

  And in the midst of all the big things, everyday life moved in a rhythm not all that different than the river’s—fast and whooshing some days, slow and serene others. But always, it moved.

  “You’re upset.” C.J.’s heels clipped against the sidewalk as they neared the coffee shop.

  “Not upset, just . . . frustrated. It’s not only paper and ink we’re talking about. It’s people’s jobs. We’re a family in that office. Kat’s a single mom trying to put two sons through college. Owen’s saving up for grad school.”

  “Amelia—”

  “If you close the office, their jobs will go away.” Along with her dream of running the paper herself, finally cementing her place here in Maple Valley. If she’d had the money, she’d have bought the News herself the second Freddie mentioned selling. “I’m just asking you to consider—”

  “What in the world?” C.J. halted in front of the coffee shop, focus hooked on its stretching windows, a clamor of rising voices, along with the brisk aroma of Coffee Coffee’s brew, eking outside.

  Amelia glanced at the crowd inside. “Not unusual for Coffee Coffee to have mobs reminiscent of Depression-era bank runs. We’ve sorta got a town-wide caffeine dependency.” She cupped her hands to the window and peered through. “But this looks way more organized than usual.” Yes, there was Mayor Milton Briggs up near the order counter, waving his hands from his perch atop a chair.

  Great. Just when she needed this town to make a good impression . . .

  “Whatever’s happening, the only important question is, can we still get coffee?”

  “Oh, we’ll get you your coffee.” This one thing she could get right. She pushed through the entrance, the jingle of bells above the doorway mingling with the commotion inside.

  “Now, I know it’s confusing.” Mayor Milt, with his salt-and-pepper beard and usual cardigan, stood on a chair up front, exaggerated exasperation in his voice. “But since the mother insists she doesn’t like the traditional pink and blue, you’ll see the ribbons are green and yellow. Green for a boy, yellow for a girl.”

  All around the eclectic coffee shop, townspeople sat at tables of varying heights and lounged in leather furniture. Behind the mayor, an espresso-hued counter fronted the back wall, with its chalkboard menu and mosaic backsplash.

  “What is this?” C.J. leaned toward her. “A community-wide baby shower?”

  “I don’t think so.” She would’ve heard about that kind of thing. This smacked of exactly the kind of impromptu town meeting Mayor Milt loved to throw.

  “So pick whatever gender you think the baby will be. Wear the ribbon any time you come in to Coffee Coffee until next week to show your support for Megan.”

  Megan. Of course.

  The pang started in Amelia’s heart and landed in her stomach.

  “Double shot espresso.”

  Amelia blinked. Right, coffee. “Got it. I’ll be back.”

  She arced around the throng and made for the counter, scooted behind it and—not seeing any employees in sight—went for the espresso machine. She had the cup half filled, the machine’s whir nearly drowned out by the crowd, before the voice cut in behind her.

  “What’re you doing back here, Bentley?”

  Amelia finished filling the cup before turning toward the droll voice. Megan, the coffee shop’s young owner—jet-black hair and charcoal-like eyeliner, as surly as she was resilient. Meg had been forced to close for nearly a month after the flood last year.

  But that hadn’t been the biggest of the young owner’s challenges.

  Amelia glanced at Meg’s protruding stomach under her purple apron and felt the knobby ache grappling through her—familiar, dense with memories.

  What should have been one of the happiest days of her life taking a sudden and harsh turn.

  Dani’s decision to back out of the adoption.

  Mary’s wails in the hospital nursery.

  And the chafing realization that Amelia wouldn’t be the one to soothe her. Not now. Not ever.

  Should it still sting so much this many years later?

  “Well?” Meg’s fists were on her waist. And oh, she reminded Amelia of Dani in that moment.

  Amelia swallowed. “I’m making sure you get at least one paying customer out of this chaos, that’s what.”

  The girl, who couldn’t be older than twenty-one or twenty-two, lifted one pierced eyebrow. “Can you believe this town? I tell one person I’m finding out the gender next week, and before I know it, they’ve turned it into a full-blown event. Maple Valley will use literally anything as an excuse to celebrate.” She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Even a single girl’s unplanned pregnancy.”

  Amelia had to work not to flinch. “I thought you didn’t work on Thursdays.”

  “Keeping tabs on my schedule?”

  “Uh, no, not keeping tabs.” But maybe, truthfully, avoiding. Was it so wrong to know her weak spots? To do her best to keep the whispers of her past entombed where they belonged?

  Focus. C.J. Cranford. The News. The jobs you need to save. Things she might be able to change.

  Versus things she couldn’t. No matter how hard she tried.

  Megan kneaded the small of her back just below her apron’s knot. “Hired a new girl last week and turns out, she’s about as dependable as an untrained puppy.”

  “Too bad. I gotta run, but here’s hoping you survive the next week.” She handed Megan a five. “Keep the change.”

  She didn’t run from the counter, but she might as well have for all the polish of her escape. Meg probably wondered what her deal was. They used to be friends—or friend-ish, at least. Amelia had even worked a few shifts at the coffee shop just to pad her income. Meg had asked her back when she’d reopened af
ter the flood.

  But by then Amelia had heard the news about Megan’s surprise pregnancy.

  And she just couldn’t.

  She found C.J. where she’d left her—now wearing a green-and-yellow ribbon.

  “Twins,” C.J. said as she accepted the cup from Amelia. “That’s my vote.”

  “Don’t say that too loud or Megan might chuck a sugar shaker at you.”

  “Will I get in trouble for voting even though I’m not an official Maple Valley citizen?”

  “Are you kidding? The mayor—everyone, really—would love the thought of sucking in an outsider.”

  Amelia followed C.J. to a counter crammed with coffee supplies. C.J. set down her cup and reached for the sugar. “Listen, I need to get back, and we haven’t even touched on why I’m here yet. You clearly think I want to talk about the closing of the News.” She popped the lid off her cup. “You’re wrong.”

  “I am?”

  “Freddie never finalized the sale. I don’t know who your new owner is, but it’s not Cranford Communications.” She mixed her coffee with a stir stick.

  “I shouldn’t be smiling right now, should I?”

  “Don’t get too excited. Our board is already prepping a package for the new owner, whoever he or she is. We’ll likely acquire the News by the end of the summer. The new owner would be crazy not to sell. It’s not a financially solvent business, you have to know that.”

  “Finances can change. We can work on upping our subscriptions, maybe put together some new ad packages—”

  “Like I said, I’m not here to talk about that.”

  The ruckus of the disorganized town meeting still rose around them.

  “It’s gonna be a girl. I can tell by her stomach.”

  “A boy. No doubt.”

  “It’s a crapshoot, and you all know it.”

  Amelia swallowed, too many distant moments trying to swarm in. Jeremy. The hospital nursery. The social worker’s gauzy voice. “I’m sorry, this happens more often than we’d like.”