by Sydney Logan
“I know just the person!” Mr. Johnson smiled broadly. “I’ll be right back.”
Well, that was easy. Of course, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Mr. Johnson knew everyone in Sycamore Falls.
I turned my attention back to the wall and thumbed through the shaded cards. There were literally forty shades of blue, and I groaned in frustration.
“I know. They all look the same to me, too.”
The accent was warm and soft and undeniably Northern. When I turned around, I was staring into a pair of beautiful crystal-blue eyes.
“Wow,” I whispered. I scanned the paint swatches, wondering if such a shade of blue would look good on the exterior of my house.
“Mr. Johnson said you might need help selecting paint.”
“It’s impossible,” I muttered. “I just wanted to buy some blue paint. Why is this so complicated?”
The handsome man stepped closer to my side. “It isn’t, really. Just pick what you like.”
I like crystal-blue. Luckily, I didn’t say those words aloud.
“I need to paint my grandmother’s old house—well, my house now.”
“Mr. Johnson says you’ve just moved back to Sycamore Falls.”
I sighed. The prodigal daughter returning home from the big, bad city was sure to make the local tongues wag.
“Why are you making that face?”
“What are they saying about me?” Nervously, I glanced at the men over my shoulder. Mr. Johnson and two other customers were huddled around the cash register and watching us intently with gigantic smirks on their faces.
He shrugged. “Not much. Just that your name is Sarah Bray and you’re a teacher. Your parents died when you were sixteen and your grandmother raised you until you went away to college. You taught for a while in Memphis, and now you’re living in your grandmother’s old house. You’ll be teaching at the high school when classes start in two weeks.”
I laughed.
“Not much, huh? That’s pretty much my life story.”
He smiled. “Not really. I don’t know why you left Memphis. I’m Lucas Miller, by the way.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” I managed to tear my eyes away from his long enough to focus on the samples. “So, Lucas Miller, which shade of blue do you recommend for the exterior of a house?”
Lucas motioned to the adjacent aisle, and I groaned when I saw yet another vibrant wall of colors.
“For starters, you need to be looking at exterior paint.” He was failing miserably at hiding his smirk.
“There’s a difference?”
This time he laughed loudly. “Have you ever painted a house?”
“No.”
“Do you plan on painting this house yourself?”
“I was actually hoping to hire someone to do it, which is probably a good thing considering I can’t even pick out the paint.”
“You could hire me.”
“You’re a painter?”
“No, but I have some experience in construction, and I have a few weeks off. I’m just working here to earn some extra money over the summer.”
Lucas looked to be about my age, and I wondered what he actually did for a living. He knew my entire life story. Would it be inappropriate for me to ask?
Probably so.
“You could paint it in two weeks?”
“I think so, if the weather cooperates.”
“I couldn’t pay you much.”
“You could pay me with dinner.”
Of course, Mr. Handyman would be a flirt. “You’d paint my entire house in exchange for dinner?”
“Well, Mr. Johnson says you must be a great cook because your grandmother taught you everything you know.”
“Mr. Johnson knows entirely too much about my life.”
“I think he probably knows everything about everyone,” he said with a laugh. “So, am I hired?”
I eyed him skeptically. “Don’t you even want to see the house first?”
“No need.”
“Why not?”
Lucas grinned. “Who do you think mowed your lawn?”
“I really appreciate you doing that,” I said with a laugh.
His face grew thoughtful. “The house needs a lot of work, Sarah.”
“I know. I don’t suppose you do landscaping, too?”
“I do a bit of everything,” Lucas said, “although, landscaping might cost you two dinners.”
Mr. Johnson and his buddies cackled at the register.
I wasn’t interested in dating—even if he did have a chiseled chin and pretty blue eyes—but dinners in exchange for labor seemed like a sweet arrangement to me.
“It’s a deal. When can you start?”
“Tomorrow,” he replied, grinning brightly and shaking my hand.
Chapter 2
After choosing Rocky Mountain Sky Blue and thanking the conniving, yet helpful, Mr. Johnson, I drove over to my old high school to look around.
Walking the halls of Sycamore High as a teacher instead of a student was a little surreal. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever believe I’d return to my former school, but here I was, standing in the doorway of Room 108—the very room in which I’d discovered my hatred for Shakespeare and my love for Poe.
There were some subtle differences. There were more computers along the wall, and to my absolute joy, the ancient green chalkboard had been replaced with a dry-erase board. Otherwise, my old English classroom looked exactly the same.
It was oddly comforting.
Slowly, I walked over and took a seat behind the teacher’s desk. In Mrs. Perry’s mad dash into retirement, she’d forgotten her wooden nameplate. My fingers ghosted over the etched letters, and I smiled as I remembered my former teacher. She wore her pink lipstick a little too brightly, and her pantyhose always had runs, but she was passionate about books and loved her students.
“I thought I heard someone in here,” a soft voice echoed from the door. I looked up to see a sweet, familiar face standing in my doorway.
“Aubrey,” I said with a smile.
Aubrey Bryant and I had been best friends from the first day of kindergarten until I hit my rebellious teenage years and ignored everyone who’d ever meant anything to me. I had convinced myself that if I didn’t care about anyone, then it wouldn’t hurt so much if they abandoned me. In the process, I’d lost every friend I’d ever known, including Aubrey.
She took a seat in one of the student desks and offered me a sweet smile.
“I was just doing some work in my classroom. It’s so good to have you home.”
“Thank you,” I said, hating how awkward this felt. “What do you teach?”
“Algebra and Geometry.”
I wasn’t surprised. If it hadn’t been for Aubrey, I never would have made it through Ms. Kelly’s math class during our freshman year.
“How are you?”
It was such a simple question, so I decided to be honest.
“Overwhelmed, I think. But it’s a good overwhelmed. I just have so much to do before school starts.”
“Me too.” She grew quiet then, and I sensed what was coming. “Sarah, I heard about what happened in Memphis. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like for you.”
Not trusting myself to speak, I merely nodded.
“We were all so worried. You see something like that on the news and you just can’t believe it’s real.”
“It’s real,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “It was very, very real.”
Suddenly, she was kneeling at my side, whispering soothingly. We hadn’t spoken to each other in over eight years, and yet here she was, promising me things were going to be all right now.
I wanted so desperately to believe her.
We shared a hug, and she pulled a chair close to mine as she began telling me about her life. Not surprisingly, she’d married Tommy Bryant, former star quarterback and her high school sweetheart. They had a three-year-old, and Tommy taught P.E. and coached the football te
am.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Taking my hand, she led me over to the supplies closet to show me what few materials Mrs. Perry had left behind. “We have a really wonderful school and plenty of great kids who want to learn. Their goals are pretty much like ours had been when we were their age—to graduate and get the hell out of Sycamore Falls.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Some things never changed.
“And yet, here we are.”
“Here we are,” Aubrey laughed quietly. “It’s strange how things work out, isn’t it? I mean, Tommy and I wanted to get as far away from this place as possible, but we’re still in Sycamore Falls, happy and content.”
Either Mrs. Perry didn’t use many supplies or she took them with her, because the closet was practically empty, except for some old textbooks that I was sure we’d used back when I was in school.
“We did,” Aubrey replied when I mentioned it. “Mrs. Perry hated new textbooks. The newest editions are probably stuffed in a closet somewhere.”
I dropped into one of the desks and took a good look around. The walls used to be white, but the room was definitely in need of a fresh coat of paint.
“It’s a little dreary, isn’t it?” Aubrey murmured, reading my mind.
“Just a little, yeah.”
“You know,” she said with a wicked grin, “I bet Rocky Mountain Sky Blue would look great in here.”
My eyes widened in disbelief. Audrey laughed loudly, and the sound filled the empty room.
“Oh, Sarah, don’t look so surprised! Did you forget how quickly gossip spreads in Sycamore Falls?”
“No, but that was literally an hour ago. How did you hear?”
“Tommy and Lucas are best friends. His classroom is right next to yours, actually.”
I was confused.
“But you said Tommy teaches gym.”
“I’m not talking about Tommy,” Aubrey said. “Lucas will be teaching American History right beside you.”
Suddenly, I remembered Shellie’s description of the new history teacher.
Single. Handsome. Northern.
“Funny, he didn’t mention that.”
She grinned brightly. “Lucas moved here from New York about four months ago. At first, everyone was a little suspicious. After all, who would willingly move away from Manhattan to live here?”
I nodded. It was a fair question.
“But he was the only applicant for Mr. Franklin’s job,” she continued. “He needed a job until the new school year started, so Mr. Johnson hired him part-time down at the hardware store. He’s even helped Tommy a bit with summer football practice. The community has really grown to love him.”
“Lucas seems very nice.”
“He is,” Aubrey replied with a nod. “Still, you have to wonder what brought him here. He says he just needed a change, but something must have happened.”
Ah, yes, the supposed scandal.
“Maybe he just wanted to teach in a small town.”
“That’s what he told Tommy,” Aubrey nodded, but I could tell by the tone of her voice she wasn’t convinced.
Suddenly, her eyes brightened. “He’s a really sweet guy, Sarah, and he’s single!”
And so, it begins.
“No, Aubrey.”
“Are you single?”
“Yes, and I intend to stay that way.”
“But why?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Are you actually pouting?”
“Maybe,” she admitted with a giggle.
I rolled my eyes. Aubrey had always loved playing matchmaker.
“He’s super nice, Sarah.”
“I’m sure he’s wonderful. I hope he’s equally as wonderful at painting my house because he starts tomorrow.”
She grinned. “I know. He told Tommy.”
“And Tommy told you.” I shook my head and smiled. “You know, despite the annoying gossip mill, it’s still comforting to be home.”
Aubrey’s face softened.
“Will you tell me about it someday?”
“Maybe someday.”
Taking a deep breath, I asked the question that had been weighing heavily on my mind since returning to Sycamore Falls. “Aubrey, do you think I’m a coward for coming home?”
She smiled sympathetically and reached for my hand.
“After what you’ve been through, I don’t think anyone would have blamed you if you’d completely left the profession. Trust me. No one here thinks you’re a coward.”
Tommy had football practice at five, so Aubrey had to get home to the baby. While walking each other to our cars, she invited me over for dinner, and I promised to come one night this week.
Aubrey opened her car door before turning to me. She pulled me into a hug and whispered, “I’m so glad you’re home. I’ve missed you.”
I squeezed her tightly.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
On my way home, I took a detour down Main Street to see if anything had changed. There were three new fast food places, and the medical clinic appeared to have had a renovation. Benji’s Diner was still open for business, and the old men still congregated in rocking chairs on the restaurant’s porch, offering a friendly wave to anyone who happened to pass by.
That’s the great thing about the country. People are friendly and welcoming, and they actually smile at you, even if they don’t know your name.
It was such a stark contrast to the city.
Attending college in Memphis had been like moving to another planet. I’d shared a dorm with Monica, a beautiful African American girl who had clawed her way out of the ghetto with dreams of becoming a college professor. Despite the fact we had nothing in common except for a few education classes, we had become best friends.
I had embraced my life in Memphis, dating a little and making new friends. Listening to jazz on Beale Street became my favorite weekend activity. That’s where I’d met Ryan, a music major from Little Rock who loved to play the saxophone. We dated until my demons—both past and present—became too much for him to handle.
Once I arrived back at the house, I quickly unloaded the paint supplies before heading to the living room to begin the miserable process of unpacking. The thick burgundy curtains made the room a little dim, so I reached for a lamp.
A thousand memories flooded me as the room was illuminated in a soft yellow haze.
Running my hands along the faded white walls, I paused briefly when my fingers came into contact with the old framed photographs. My grandmother had loved taking pictures, and I’d always been her favorite subject.
I’d been such a happy child; the girl in the frame was proof. Dangling upside down from a tree with my brown pigtails and cute dimples, it was hard to fathom that this brave kid used to be me.
Once upon a time, I had been fearless.
I suppose youth has a strange way of making you foolishly courageous.
At the end of the row of photographs was my favorite picture of my parents. Mom was in her simple white dress and dad was wearing his best Sunday suit as they smiled into each other’s eyes on their wedding day. I’d spent my childhood gazing at the picture, desperate to grow up and find a love just like theirs—full of mutual respect and complete adoration for one another.
I still believed their marriage was a fairy tale.
With a heavy heart and tears prickling my eyes, I trailed my finger along the glass frame, wiping away the dust.
I missed them.
The rest of the day was spent cleaning and unpacking. I had two weeks until school started, which was good, because it would take me that long to get the house organized. As I carried a box upstairs, I noticed the wooden banister was a little loose. I mentally added it to my repair list before opening the door to my old bedroom.
A new wave of memories washed over me, leaving me breathless.
My room was just as I’d left it.
The walls were faded green and an embarrassing display of everything I’d loved when I was a teenag
er. Sycamore High School pennants hung above the bed and a few basketball trophies lined the top of the bookshelf. A Kenny Chesney concert photograph was displayed on one wall while a Coldplay poster hung proudly on the other.
Clearly, I’d been a musically confused teenager, as one had absolutely nothing to do with the other.
While exploring the room, I spotted my dad’s old record player. Growing up, I’d collected vinyl records like most girls collected Barbie dolls, and I’d begged Mr. Johnson to keep a supply of record needles on hand, just for me.
I glanced toward my closet and smiled.
Standing on tiptoe, I opened the door and pulled my record collection from the top shelf. Collapsing on the floor, I sighed longingly as I flipped through the album covers. I’d stolen many of the records from my dad’s old collection, and seeing Creedence Clearwater Revival mixed in with Michael Jackson’s Thriller proved my musical confusion spanned the decades.
Or maybe I just liked good music, regardless of the labels.
I needed a place to sleep, so I placed MJ on the turntable and spent the rest of the evening cleaning my old room. I stripped the bed, added fresh linens, and dusted every flat surface. When the old grandfather clock echoed from downstairs, I felt a distinct tiredness wash over me. It was almost a conditioned response. For two years of my life, that chime had signaled the end of the day.
It was such a comforting sound.
Later, while lying in bed, I thought about my first day back in my little hometown. The people in Sycamore Falls were just the same—sweet, friendly, and nosy. I’d expected all of those things. What I hadn’t expected was the constant mention of my family and my emotional reaction to it.
Would it get any easier?
I hoped so.
I closed my eyes, and with Michael Jackson serenading me, I fell into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter 3
With a weary groan, I glanced at the clock on my nightstand.
7:00 a.m.
What the hell?
Jumping out of bed, I rushed over to the window to see who was waking me up at such an ungodly hour. It was a beautiful mountain morning, but the scenery paled in comparison to the handsome man with the weed eater, plowing his way through my jungle of shrubs.
