by Melissa Tagg
In other words, better luck next time.
Unfortunately, he had that meeting at the bank tomorrow. There wouldn’t be a next time—not on this trip, anyway. And apparently the same held true for Ava.
“Thank you for checking.” The dejected slant to Ava’s voice almost made him feel bad for teasing just now.
The nurse sighed. “You heard me say Mr. Lang is sleeping, right? He’s sleeping . . . comfortably.”
Clearly that was as close to an update as they were going to get. He didn’t know about Ava, but it buoyed him, at least. Ava only nodded, gave him a stoic “See ya,” and started down the hallway.
He followed. “Wait, let me walk you to your car.”
She stopped at the elevator door. “Seth—”
“Didn’t you learn back in college it was futile to argue with me? I always win.” He popped into the elevator, knowing she’d follow, knowing she wouldn’t be able to help herself.
The few times they’d actually seen each other in person in college, she’d never seemed to warm to him, was constantly saying each weekly column was her last. “I’m sick of arguing with you, Seth Walker. You’re a pain.” But she always came back for the next argument.
“You do not always win.” The closing door accompanied her hurled retort. “We wrote a total of fifty-six columns, every one accompanied by an online poll.”
“I remember, Kingsley. I was there.” He punched the ground-floor button.
“Of those fifty-six polls, the student body sided with me thirty-two times.”
“Probably because you’re a pretty girl. And you were dating the star quarterback.”
The doors closed at the same time as he clamped his mouth closed. Shouldn’t have brought up Ryan. What was he thinking? He’d seen how she reacted back at the dance.
But instead of stiffening or slumping or frowning, a steady grin spread over her face. “You just called me a pretty girl.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t try to take it back, Walker. You said it.”
“Yeah, well—”
But before he could finish his argument, the elevator lurched. The lights overhead flickered. Once. Twice. Another lurch.
And then dark stillness.
“Uh . . . Seth?” Ava’s voice wobbled.
Whoa. Freaky. He swallowed. “You all right?”
“Are we stuck?”
“Appears that way.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, pressed to unlock it. No service, but at least the light helped him find the Emergency button. Seconds later a voice came over an intercom telling them maintenance had already been alerted.
“Sit tight. We’ll have you on the move soon.”
He dropped his phone back in his pocket.
“Now what?” Ava’s voice came out tinny and concerned.
“We wait, I guess.”
He heard her shaky inhale, felt her tension even from feet away. He inched to her side, reached out his hand . . . felt her fingers.
She jerked her hand away. “What’re you doing?”
“I thought you were scared. I was gonna—”
“Hold my hand? Ewww.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but you’re over there half hyperventilating, and—”
“Because I’ve always been afraid of getting stuck in an elevator. But that doesn’t mean I want you to hold my hand.”
She better not think he’d meant anything more than kindness in the gesture. “What happens when you get claustrophobic? Do you faint? Are you going to start screaming any minute? At least we’re already in a hospital.”
“I don’t know. I said I’ve always been afraid it’d happen . . . not that it actually ever has.”
“Then why are you afraid of it? Snakes freak me out but that’s because when I was a kid my cousin Logan stuck a garner snake in my bed. I have a reason.”
“Does the thought of a shark attack scare you?”
“I guess.”
“But I assume you’ve never actually been attacked by sharks.”
“Fine. Point taken.”
Silent seconds ticked by. And he sensed Ava reaching down toward her shoes. “I’ve gotta get these off. My feet are killing me. I’m just not a fancy dress and heels kind of girl.”
“Well, you looked . . . look . . . good. Not that that helps your feet feel better. But, you know.” Wow, smooth.
But the compliment must’ve eased at least some of her tension, because her next words almost approached friendly. “So what are you up to these days, Walker?”
“Actually, I’m on the brink of opening my own business. A restaurant, back in my hometown.” That is, if he signed those loan papers tomorrow. It would make his move back home official. But how would he keep things going with Maddie—she in Chicago, he in Iowa? That was the main thing holding him back.
Well, that and the question he was pretty sure everyone who knew him was asking: Could Seth Walker actually follow through with something, start to finish, for once in his life?
“I didn’t know you were into food or the restaurant biz.”
“I’m not exactly. But there’s this historic bank building in my hometown—Maple Valley—and the city was looking at tearing it down. Nobody had leased it for years, but it’s the coolest building. Just needs someone to take the time and make the investment, renovate the inside and put it to use.”
“So you decided to turn it into a restaurant.”
“Yeah. I think. Plus . . . ” He shrugged. “I really love the town. It’s in Iowa, basically in the middle of nowhere. But it’s home. Got family there. I’ve been job-hopping for years and this is the first thing that feels right. And doable.” Why was he telling her all this?
“Got a name for it?”
“Not yet. I have some ideas, though. If we’re stuck in here much longer, I might ask you to help me brainstorm. I can tell you my ideas and you can tell me why they’re bad.”
She actually laughed.
He opened his mouth to reciprocate her question, ask what she was up to these days. But that’s not what came out. “Hey, Ava, I . . . I’m sorry about Ryan. I heard about it back when it happened.”
She stilled. “What exactly . . . did you hear?”
“He was skydiving, parachute didn’t open.”
Even in the dark, he could sense her indecision, hear the hint of words she waited to speak. And then, when she did, they came out a whisper. “There were drugs involved.”
He felt her eyes on him, waiting for a response he didn’t know how to give. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothing to say, really. Don’t know why I told you. I guess I thought coming tonight, seeing the campus and the guys and Prof Lang, it might finally help me let go. It’s been so many years. . . .”
This time, when his hand closed over hers, she didn’t pull away. Might’ve even laced her fingers through his.
But the elevator jerked then. The lights flipped back on. And it only took Ava one second to glance from their clasped hands to his face before she slipped her hand free. The space between them shifted with the elevator’s movement, from tentatively friendly back to distant.
The elevator stopped at the ground floor and the doors opened. They trailed, not quite together but not quite separate, toward the hospital exit.
Ava stopped just outside the revolving door. That’s when he noticed she hadn’t put her shoes back on. They still hung from one hand. “Well, good to see you.”
“You too.”
She started to move away.
“Hey, I didn’t ask what you’re up to. And we never got around to brainstorming names for my restaurant.”
She turned, holding her dress so it didn’t drag against the ground. Another strand of blond hair slipped from her ponytail. And a smile. “Email me.”
2
One year and 1,473 emails later
Ava Kingsley huffed warm air into her cupped hands—oh, how she loved a cool night—and rocked on her heels at the fifty yard line.
Eyes to the clock. A minute forty, second and ten on the Raiders’ thirty.
The stands rumbled behind her with her favorite rally cry. “Defense!” Stomp. Clap. “Defense!”
“We got this, Coach.” From across the circle of players hunched around her, Tripp Bundy tossed the assurance with the same ease as he would a pigskin. His six-foot-four frame might dwarf hers, but the junior defensive end oozed boyish anticipation from his spot in the huddle. “It’s in the bag.”
“Oh yeah, like school lunch.” The quip earned her a chuckle but chipped away at their time out. “Men, you know what to do. Look for the punch up the middle—and they’ll be trying the hard count, so stay tight. Secondary, keep an eye out for the pass. On three.”
Grunts and fist bumps and the circle broke, her boys jogging to their places. Stadium lights blurred out the smudgy pinks and oranges of sunset, washing the field in white.
“A.J.?”
Her boys.
“Ava Jane, you even hear me?”
Coach.
Ava blinked. Opened her eyes.
Daylight instead of dusk.
Midsummer warmth instead of autumn cool.
And an empty field, silent and still except for the sticky breeze rattling through the bleachers and skimming over her cheeks, peeling away with it the daydream she never should’ve indulged. Head coach for the Raiders next fall? About as likely as her up and dying her blond hair blue.
Not gonna happen. No matter how many times Seth Walker goaded her. Him and his silly emails. If by silly she meant highlight of most days.
Forget Seth. Forget his joking suggestion that she dye her hair. Forget . . .
Forget her coaching dream.
Because Coach Mac couldn’t possibly have good news. Not if it was taking him this long to spit out the words. They’d been sitting out on the bleachers for at least ten minutes now. And it was his unnerving quiet that had sent her into the daydream.
“Sorry, Coach. I’m listening.”
She watched him now—silver hair and a pair of Raymond Burr shoulders, weathered face, apology spelled out in the downward turn of his mouth. “I can’t hire you, A.J.,” he finally said. “I know you wanted that defensive coordinator position. Lord knows, I wanted to give it to you. But I can’t.”
Ava rubbed clammy palms over the faded jeans, threadbare with holes at the knees. “I’ve been at every home game for the past five years—most of them down on the sideline with the guys. You’re the one who said I have a strategic eye, that more often than not my read of the opposition is spot-on. I’m good.” Isn’t that why he’d let a female adjunct instructor help at practices and review game tape after Saturday showdowns?
She’d always known her hope of snagging a head coaching job for a college team—even a small school like Minnesota Tech—was the stuff of pipe dreams, but she’d been certain Coach Mac intended to offer her the defensive coordinator slot. And finally she’d be more than the team’s sideline good-luck charm.
Apparently she still hadn’t learned her lesson about sure things.
“Of course you’re good, A.J. And you love the game, maybe even more than me.” Coach shifted on the bleacher beside Ava so that he faced her. “But I can’t hire you.”
“Because I’m a girl.”
“Because Ackerson is qualified and has twelve years of actual coaching experience.”
“Because I’m a girl.”
Coach folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. “You know that doesn’t matter to me. But be practical for a minute. Think about the team—yeah, they like you, they respect you. But they don’t look to you as an authority figure. Shoot, half the team has a crush on you.”
“I’ve got ten, twelve years on most of them.” Thirty years old, but probably further away from her career hopes than the boys she desperately wanted to coach. Men, they like to be called men, not boys.
But that’s how she thought of them—boys. Which is why Coach’s concern was so silly.
“I heard Tripp Bundy propose to you the other day.”
“He was joking.”
“A.J. . . .”
She stood. “Fine, you made your point. You’re giving Ackerson the job. Understood. And I’ll go back to playing the team’s big sister.”
Coach looked down, laced his fingers, glanced back up at her.
Ohhh. Like watching instant replay in slow motion, understanding slid in. Enough to knock the breath out of her. “Or . . . I won’t?”
It was Ackerson, wasn’t it? Coach Mac’s volunteer assistant coach liked her about as much as shoppers appreciated the customer service line at Wal-Mart, day after Christmas. She’d have been the toy he exchanged if he had his way.
Hadn’t ever mattered before, though, because he had been outnumbered by fifty-two players. And Coach.
Until now. Clearly. Apparently now that he was moving into a paid coaching position, Ackerson had pull.
The regret in Coach’s eyes deepened. “He doesn’t want there to be any confusion about who’s coach and who’s not.”
Ava dropped back onto the bleacher, humidity slicking over her arms while disappointment gnawed inside her. This was the year things were supposed to change. She’d even said it in an email to Seth. He’d written back, encouraging her to apply for the coaching job, cheering her on like he always did.
Who knew back when they’d exchanged email addresses outside that hospital in Detroit he’d turn into such a constant in her life. Oh sure, they still argued about anything and everything in messages that clogged her inbox—just like in college. Only it was more in fun than annoyance now.
“Ava Jane, I’m going to say something, and I’m not sure how you’re going to take it. But it needs saying.” Coach patted her knee before returning his grip to the edge of the bleacher. “You’ve been waiting too long. Not just for the chance to coach, but on everything. Your heart’s not in teaching—that’s obvious. But I think you’ve been biding your time, using our little football team as a security blanket.”
She knew he didn’t mean to hurt her with his words, but taking them in was like bitter icing on an already burnt and unsweetened cake. A security blanket?
“I think you should look at this as an opportunity. Peek outside the Minnesota Tech bubble. Find out what you want from life.”
But she knew what she wanted! She wanted to coach football. She was just . . . the wrong gender.
“It’s an opportunity,” Coach repeated. “Don’t waste it.” He stood, gave her a fatherly pat on the shoulder, and retreated, the bleachers shaking as he walked down to the field.
Leaving Ava alone with her disappointment.
And a phone that’d been dinging in her pocket for the past ten minutes. She pulled it out with a sigh, saw a string of texts from her sister, her mom—both back in her hometown of Whisper Shore, both asking how her coaching interview had gone.
The thought of answering was too depressing at the moment. So she tapped open her email instead. Found Seth’s last missive. Scrolled to the part she hadn’t paid much attention to earlier:
Random sidenote, Prof: I know you’re not teaching this summer and said you hoped to take a cheap vacation. Well, there’s an apartment above my restaurant. It’s yours for however long you want . . . if you want.
Just throwing it out there. Stay for a couple days or a couple weeks. Stay all summer, if you want. Maple Valley’s no Hawaii or anything, but it’s as good a place as any to relax.
She’d brushed the offer off, just like she did every time Seth invited her to Iowa. Yeah, they were friends. Or whatever it was called when former college nemeses reconnected and somehow found themselves exchanging emails on a daily basis—multiple times a day. Usually light fare.
But sometimes . . . sometimes deeper.
Visiting him, though? She’d never been sure why, but the thought always left her feeling a little disconcerted. Weirdly breathless. So she hadn’t seriously considered it.
But now?
Seth Walke
r needed eighty-four custom-made chairs. Plus sixteen bar stools. And he needed them now.
Okay, fine, technically tomorrow—but basically . . . now. Because, honestly, if he had to go to bed tonight not one hundred percent certain the first patrons to dine at The Red Door on opening day actually had a place to sit, well, he might as well guzzle a gallon of that mud his uncle called coffee. There wouldn’t be any sleep with that kind of worry hanging over his head.
Seth jammed his baseball cap over his head, then folded his arms, swallowing half a dozen sighs while Lenny Klassen flipped through the paperwork on his clipboard.
“Uh-uh. Nope. Not seeing it.” Lenny’s mumbles were accompanied by the faint sounds of Shan at work in the kitchen and the lilt of a classical music station. He prayed things were going better back there than up here. Seth leaned his elbow on the rich wood surface of The Red Door’s order counter. Sleek and polished—just like the hardwood floors underfoot and the thick redwood beams crisscrossing overhead to support the vaulted ceiling.
Somehow he’d really done it. In less than a year he’d turned Maple Valley’s First National Bank, unused for decades, into the diner of his dreams. Though in his imagination, the establishment had, oh, you know, seating.
“It’s got to be there, Len. I remember signing the order form. Twenty-two tables, eighty—”
“I know, I know. Twenty-two tables, eighty-four chairs.” Lenny’s mustache wriggled as he spoke.
“And sixteen bar stools.” To go along the narrow counter flanking either side of The Red Door’s front entrance and running the length of the sprawling glass windows that provided a gaping view of the town square, awash in summer green and sunlight.
“And sixteen bar stools,” Lenny repeated. He flipped another sheet. Paused. Flipped it back over. “Ah, mystery solved.”
Seth rubbed his shadowed jaw. One of these days he might shave. And trade in his faded blue tee for a shirt with a collar. At least for opening day.
