A Kiss to Build a Dream On

by Kim Amos

  He grabbed a handful of nails and brought the hammer down again and again, until sweat broke out on his forehead and soaked his flannel collar.

  When he was exhausted, when it was lunchtime and his stomach was growling, he simply hauled up another pile of shingles and redoubled his efforts.

  * * *

  Willa stared at the pile of decorating magazines open on the kitchen table, trying to ignore the sound of hammering on the roof. She gritted her teeth, concentrating on the pictures, but like the cacophony that surrounded her, the images grated on her every nerve. Nothing was right.

  All of the rooms she saw on the glossy pages were too polished, too perfect. The furniture was too minimal, the walls too white. She’d loved this look in her New York apartment—the gray tones, the silver accents, the dark hardwood floors—but she just couldn’t picture it working in her old family home.

  “Like trying to put lipstick on a pig,” Lance might say, though even that wasn’t quite right. It was more like the house needed a homey touch she just couldn’t identify—something beyond the leather books stacked just so, or the fresh-picked flowers arranged in sleek vases.

  The only problem was, Willa didn’t do homey.

  She paced along the faded floorboards—past the sagging, flowered sofa in the living room and around the battered claw-footed table in the dining room—wracking her brain for how to fix her decorating problem. What would she have done at the Bishop Gallery? She tried to think of the house like an exhibit she needed to curate. Her thoughts didn’t get very far with all the hammering, however. The ideas and sounds blurred together in her mind. She couldn’t take it anymore. She had to get out of the house.

  She grabbed her purse and marched toward the car, wondering how she was going to survive months of this. It would only get worse when Burk moved to the inside projects, and then there would be dust and paint and plaster chips covering everything, in addition to the noise. And when he was done, what then? She had no idea how to decorate anything. A bed-and-breakfast might be a revenue stream, it was true, but first you had to know how to run one.

  She had to make this liability into an asset, to quote her dad—just like her one-time friends the Davenports had. They’d started a couple B and B’s, mostly in Maine and Vermont. As far as she knew, they were doing well for themselves. Not pre-Lance levels of money, but they could afford vacations in Paris and could put No Vacancy on the front door whenever they felt like they needed a break.

  It was an appealing lifestyle that beat out a desk job with a boss and boring meetings and no paid vacation. Sure, Willa would need to figure out a few B and B logistics like how to cook all the meals, change the sheets, clean the bathrooms, and God only knew what else. But she could handle it.

  The rising tension in her shoulders wanted to convince her otherwise. Easy does it, she told herself. Do not panic. It was all going to work out somehow. She was a fast learner and could teach herself what she didn’t know. And it would be worth it when her dream B and B was up and running, and guests were stepping over the threshold with bright eyes saying things like, “Breathtaking!” and “Stunning!”

  Willa stabbed her key in the ignition and peeled off, letting the speed and freedom of her new vehicle clear her thoughts. She never drove in New York, where taxis and walking and the occasional hired car were more than sufficient, but here, the wide roads and open spaces gave her a thrill she didn’t even know she wanted.

  She could hear mud spattering the underside of her car and wondered at her vehicle choice: a Volvo. A practical car for an impractical girl.

  Formerly impractical, she reminded herself.

  She was smart. Savvy. And determined to rebuild her life after Lance had squandered so much of it away, making reckless investments he thought would bring money in fast.

  So what if it meant she had to cook some breakfasts and clean some sheets? With a little luck and hard work, she’d earn back her stolen fortune, plus build a thriving business in the interim.

  Speaking of thriving businesses, Willa figured she should visit Knots and Bolts downtown before the crew gathered there tonight. Her new B and B would need custom drapes and possibly custom linens, and it made sense to talk to Betty Lindholm about it. Maybe sending some business her way this afternoon would help clear the air later that evening. She could have a chat with Betty, then come home and change before track practice and the recipe exchange.

  Easy, breezy.

  Right?

  Willa’s heart fluttered behind her breastbone. Hardly. Seeing Betty Lindholm meant more than just a conversation about custom fabrics. It meant Willa would have to face someone she’d been awful to in high school.

  Not awful, Willa thought determinedly. Just…honest. That is, if you could say that making fun of someone’s facial features was honest.

  Willa suppressed a groan and tried to remind herself that she was the prom queen. She was the pageant winner, and she was the one who’d moved to New York to live the glamorous life—which she had. At least for a while. And now she was back, determined to start over as a successful B and B owner in her hometown.

  The idea of talking to Betty Lindholm again should not make her skin prickle.

  Only, it did.

  Willa realized the sensation was more shame, akin to what she’d felt with Audrey. It crawled along her body and pinched her nerves.

  The sun peeked out from behind spongy white clouds as she drove toward downtown. She tried to concentrate on the warm fall rays instead of her shivers of dread.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Thursday, September 20, 2:15 p.m.

  Willa stepped into the dim, cramped store space and paused to let her eyes adjust. “Hello?” she called tentatively, wondering if she’d misread the Open sign.

  She walked forward a few paces. The inside of Knots and Bolts was a dizzying array of fabrics crammed together so closely there was hardly room to maneuver. She fingered a yard of silk and could imagine the store substituting for a fortune-teller’s booth at the circus. It was all colors and drapes and confusion—the perfect environment for the right soothsayer (or salesman) to get you to believe just about anything.

  Willa glanced at a polka-dot fabric where the polka dots were actually dogs’ faces. Purple dogs’ faces. She turned away.

  Beyond all the ribbons and fabrics was a small doorway leading to a back room. The door was cracked, and Willa spotted a shadow of movement.

  “Be right there,” someone called.

  It was Betty. Even all these years later, Willa still recognized her voice.

  Willa could picture Betty’s curly blond hair, her round face, and her wide eyes. And her jutting teeth.

  For so many years, Willa had called her Bucky Lindholm. And that wasn’t even the worst of it. Willa had made references to beavers all the time around Betty. How’s your beaver? Oh, you like beavers? What do beavers eat again? That’s right, wood.

  Willa swallowed, suddenly overcome with regret. She could try and play it down all she wanted, but she had been horrible to Betty. She had used the poor girl to perfect the art of clever cattiness. In New York, the skill had transferred seamlessly. Only instead of overtly making fun of people’s faces, she’d lace her conversations with droll condescension, placing her put-downs just so, asserting her power not with terrible names but with sarcasm and wit.

  Willa had modeled the behavior for her friends. They, in turn, adopted the skill flawlessly when it came time to use it against her. When Lance lost everything, she was suddenly the brunt of all the jokes. She was the pariah, standing outside a group of people who had secretly wanted to see her fall.

  And what a spectacular plunge she had given them.

  Willa turned back toward the front door. Her whole body ached with remorse. How had she behaved so cruelly for so long?

  She grabbed a nearby handful of seersucker cotton, wondering why she couldn’t have realized the error of her ways without the humiliation of financial ruin. It had taken a terrible
fall to make her see that her life, and the lives of the people around her, had become a series of blade edges, each one sharper than the next. They sliced into one another every time they moved or changed direction. Coming up or going down, you got cut.

  Willa released the fabric, feeling slightly sick. She could stand here feeling sorry for herself all she wanted, but it was beginning to dawn on her that seeing the error of your ways and atoning for it were two different things.

  Her past had consequences. She couldn’t just start over in White Pine—or anywhere, for that matter—without facing them.

  Eventually, she would have to face the people she’d hurt.

  People like Betty Lindholm, for starters.

  She took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. She could do this. She was genuinely sorry. That had to count for something. Right?

  She heard more movement from the back room. Her throat tightened.

  There was no reason to rush her encounter with Betty. She had a few more hours before the Knots and Bolts gathering. What would be the harm in postponing the inevitable for just a little while longer?

  She headed for the door, squeezing past bolts of cloth, seemingly as endless as ocean waves. Her purse got stuck on the end of a thick roll of shimmering satin, and she had to yank it free. The door was nearly in reach. She needed to get out.

  Almost there, she thought.

  “Hello? Can I help you?” Betty called to her retreating back.

  Willa closed her eyes against a tide of anguish. She almost answered, but at the last moment, she simply ignored the query, and stepped out the door.

  * * *

  Willa felt the sun on her cheeks first: They were already burning with embarrassment, and the golden afternoon light seemed to add insult to injury.

  Her sensible heels clicked on the cobbled sidewalk as she fled to her Volvo, locking herself inside. She buried her face in her hands, feeling the scarlet heat of dishonor on her skin. Tears pooled, but she wouldn’t let them fall. She couldn’t. She might feel terrible for the way she’d behaved in the past, but sobbing wouldn’t change a thing. The people who should be crying were Audrey and Betty, and here they were holding down good jobs and being productive members of their communities.

  It certainly was more than Willa had been able to do.

  She sat up and took a deep breath. As awful as she felt, she knew she couldn’t sit in a Volvo dwelling on it. Come what may, she was going to see Betty later, and crying on Main Street wouldn’t make that encounter any less difficult. While she could, she needed to get back to her layouts, her designs, and figure out how one even ran a B and B.

  Focusing on the here and now, Willa steadied herself. It was time to head back to Oak Street. She placed the key in the ignition, but nothing happened. The engine wouldn’t turn.

  She jiggled the key, made sure she was in park, and tried again.

  Silence.

  Willa jumped when a set of knuckles met her window. They rapped once—twice. “You okay?”

  Willa looked up to find Burk’s blue eyes blazing with concern on the other side of the glass. Her hammering heart froze in her chest. What was he doing here?

  “You need something?” he asked.

  I’m fine, she mouthed, ignoring him to focus on the problem at hand. He wasn’t going to show up while she was parked on Main Street and act like he hadn’t been a total jerk that morning. No way.

  She pressed on the gas, turned the key a number of times, and then exhaled sharply. Something was really amiss with the engine. She wondered briefly if it was the transmission. That was a word she’d heard her dad use when things went badly with cars. Transmission.

  “Let me in,” Burk demanded from the other side of the glass. He went around to the passenger door and tried to open it. It was locked, and Willa stayed still.

  “Willa,” he said. He took a breath. “Please.”

  As if she were watching someone else’s hand, Willa stared at her fingers on the unlock button. The switch flicked. The locks lifted.

  And then Burk slid into the vehicle. His smell was everywhere at once in the small space. Fresh pine and an undercurrent of salty sweat, which didn’t turn her off at all, but instead had the opposite effect. A tingle started in the base of her spine and didn’t let up.

  “What’s the problem with the car?” he asked.

  She worked to steady herself. “Nothing. Why are you here?”

  “I was down at the hardware store getting some things. I saw you, and you looked like you were having trouble.”

  “I think it’s the transmission,” she said. “I’m sure I can get it going again in a moment. I’m fine. I appreciate your concern.”

  Something tugged at the corner of his lips. “The transmission? That’s a pretty serious problem.”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  Burk leaned over, his arm coming to rest on the back of her seat. Willa froze, realizing that she could press herself into the crook of his shoulder with no difficulty whatsoever.

  “Dash light says you’re out of gas.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Right there.” Burk pointed to a tiny orange light next to the speedometer. “That little pump? Means you’re out. Probably why the car won’t start.”

  She stared at him. Surely it couldn’t be as simple as that. “So it’s not the transmission?”

  Burk’s whole mouth quirked with amusement before he managed to pin it back. “No, it’s not.”

  Willa’s face reddened. He must think she was a complete idiot.

  “Let me go get you some gas,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “What, now?”

  “Sure, it’s close by.”

  He moved to exit the car. “Wait! It’s fine. Please. Let me do it. I need to get reacquainted with the gas pump anyway.”

  Burk looked unsure. A little V formed between his brows. Willa caught herself staring at it, remembering the same crease on Burk’s much-younger face. “Come on,” he said, interrupting her thoughts, “I’m happy to do this.”

  “No. It’s what I get for being a New Yorker for so long. I haven’t driven in ages.”

  “All right,” he relented. “But how’d you get around in New York, then, if you didn’t drive?” He’s asking the question like he’s genuinely interested, Willa thought, though she didn’t let herself believe it.

  “Mostly cabs and such. Sometimes the subway, but I tried to avoid it because it’s dirty. A lot of the time you can just walk if you want.”

  “Sounds pretty nice. Why’d you leave?”

  Willa shook her head, wondering why in the world Burk was in her car, asking after her like he cared. This morning, he’d acted like he couldn’t care less.

  “My circumstances…changed. That’s all.”

  His blue eyes held her and wouldn’t let go. “Changed so much you’re back in White Pine out of gas?”

  “The B and B is my priority now. I need custom drapes and linens, and I was visiting Betty Lindholm at Knots and Bolts for exactly that reason.” She made her voice deliberately light. Just a visit with Betty like we’re old friends.

  “Did something happen in there?”

  He asked the question as if he already knew Willa’s reception in White Pine wasn’t going to be a warm one. And why wouldn’t he? This was a small town. The way Willa had spread hurt like fairy dust—well, people were bound to talk about it. Both then and now.

  Willa studied him, suddenly wanting to confess how awful she felt about the past. If anyone understood how she’d acted in high school, it was Burk. She’d even treated him badly, at least at first. She’d wanted to dismiss him, telling him that she would never date someone who wore those clothes. But his gaze was always so intense. It seemed to pierce her skin, going straight into her platelets and nerves and marrow. It was as if his eyes were telling her that, deep down, they were just the same: an assemblage of cells and parts that would work together. If she’d let them.

  When she�
�d finally opened her heart to him, it had been a relief, in a way. She had found someone she could be herself with.

  Which meant Burk got a front-row seat to all her bad behavior. They’d fought about it in high school, even, with Burk telling her she was beautiful and smart and that if she’d let other people see her true self, it would be better than being on the offensive all the time. She never listened, of course, but maybe he’d actually understand what she was going through now.

  “Do you remember how I used to make fun of Betty?” she asked hesitantly. “I was pretty mean to Audrey Tanner, too. And now they’ve invited me to their recipe exchange, whatever that is.”

  Burk nodded. “I can see where that would be awkward.”

  Willa waited for him to continue, but he seemed to be done.

  “Do you talk to them much?” Willa asked after a moment, wondering if Burk might have some useful intel.

  “Mostly I talk to my sister. You remember Anna? She’s in the group. Thursday afternoons they bring dishes. Anna is a good baker.” He studied Willa. “Maybe you should be more nervous about your food.”

  “The past is what’s gnawing at me. I have a lot to—account for.”

  “Seems to me you should think more about the recipes.”

  “Because food is the way to win people over around here?”

  Burk shook his head. “Because you were always so bad at anything in the kitchen. Remember the roast?”

  Willa laughed in spite of her concern, recalling how she’d tried to cook a Valentine’s Day dinner for him their senior year. She’d purchased a roast, for crying out loud, like it was the 1950s and she was Betty Homemaker. It had been so badly scorched, she’d set off the house’s fire alarm. Burk had to take her out for pizza instead.

  She smiled at him. “You had to save the day. As usual.”

  “You call getting pizza saving the day?”

  More like loving me when I wasn’t lovable years ago and offering to get me gas just now, she wanted to say. Instead she just nodded.

  “Huh,” Burk said, his eyes not leaving her face. “Where I come from, I think they just call that being there for each other.”