by Kirk, Cindy
“I’m going to stay.” Without him knowing exactly when it had happened, this town, this part of the country, had ceased being an escape and become his home.
“How’s the restaurant business?” his father asked.
“It’s doing well. This is a busy time.” He went on to tell them about the Twelve Nights events and the tour of homes. Before he knew it, he was telling them about the Giving Tree and Cory and Jackie. “Neighbors helping neighbors.”
“Sounds like a nice place,” his mother said.
“You should all come up and visit this summer,” Beck urged. “The Fourth of July celebration is huge. You’ll be impressed.”
“You want us to come?”
Beck understood the hesitation in his mother’s voice. He’d made it clear when he relocated that he wanted—no, needed—to be left alone.
“I’d like all of you to come. You and dad, Elliott and his family, and Anders.” Saying the words felt right, and he could almost feel Ami beside him, cheering him on. “I have a big house. There’s more than enough room for all of you.”
“That would be nice. I—” When his mother’s voice broke, his father stepped in.
“We’ll make it work.” His dad spoke in the same authoritative tone he used when rendering judgments from the bench. “My son, the restaurateur. I never thought when you graduated from law school summa cum laude, you’d end up running a café.”
Though his father had tried to stay out of the decisions Beck had made after the accident, he knew it bothered the judge that he’d turned away from the practice of law.
“I had the chance the other day to make use of my law degree.” Beck briefly explained the situation with Dakota. “I didn’t end up doing anything except offering advice. It felt good to help someone.”
“I’m so happy, Beck.” His mother’s voice was thick with emotion.
His father cleared his throat. “I’m proud of you, son.”
Beck could have ended the conversation there and everyone would have been happy. Except he had more to say. Now that he could see more clearly what he had done, how he had hurt the ones he loved, he had to address the issue.
“I’m sorry I pushed you away when all you wanted to do was help.” This time it was Beck’s turn to clear his throat. “We’re a family. I realize now that I didn’t lose everything when Lisette and the baby died. I still had you.”
“You’ll always have us.” His mother’s soft southern drawl was like a caress.
“Darn right,” the judge added in a gruff voice. “We’ll be up to see your new place in the summer. You can count on it.”
He could count on it, he realized, and count on them. They’d always been there and would always be there for him.
By the time Beck hung up, the heavy weight he’d been carrying around for nearly two years had lifted. When he pushed back the curtain of the parlor window, it seemed fitting that the gloomy skies had cleared and the sun had started to peek out on a new day.
The Saturday dinner rush at Muddy Boots ended early. After ingesting a quick meal of Salisbury steak with wild mushroom gravy and smashed potatoes with garlic, most patrons headed outside to watch the Snow Blade Parade. Ami and Beck had just finished their meal when Joe Lyle, a local fisherman, entered the café.
He stood just inside the doorway for several seconds, glancing around the near-empty café. He was a tall man with an Abe Lincoln build and a short-cropped beard. His clothes were pure Door County fisherman: coveralls and strap trousers, an insulated jacket as slick as any duck’s feathers.
Ami knew Joe through his daughter, who’d been one of Prim’s friends back in high school.
“Mr. Lyle.” Ami rose from her seat at the table and Beck did the same. “It’s good to see you again. How’s Emily?”
“Why if it isn’t Amaryllis Bloom.” Some of the tension in Joe’s face eased and he smiled. “Emmy is good, living in Madison, expecting her first baby any day. Wife and I are planning to spend Christmas with her.”
“Give her my congratulations. It’s too bad she isn’t coming here. Prim will be back for Christmas and I know she’d love to see her.” Ami turned. “Do you know Beckett Cross?”
Without pausing for an answer, she introduced Joe to Beck. The two men exchanged greetings.
Ami noticed Joe seemed uncharacteristically nervous, shifting from one foot to the other, his gaze darting around the café.
Joe shoved his hands into his pockets. “Looks like business is slow.”
Beck laughed. “We shut down early, figuring most of the patrons who hadn’t already been in to eat are probably at the soup supper First Christian is putting on in the town hall.”
“I can rustle you up some Salisbury steak if you’re hungry,” Ami offered, stepping away from her chair.
“Actually.” Joe rubbed his chin and, once again, shifted from one foot to the other. “I stopped by hoping to have a few words in private with Mr. Cross.”
While surprised, Ami quickly rallied. “Your timing couldn’t be more perfect. I was just getting ready to clean up the dining room and shut down the kitchen. You can keep Beck company while he finishes his coffee. May I get you a cup?”
She took the man’s noncommittal shrug as assent and moved behind the counter to pour him a mug. “Cream or sugar?”
“Just black.”
Once she’d set the cup down, Ami turned and began to slowly bus a nearby table, hoping to discover just what business Joe Lyle had with Beck.
Beck waited while Joe sat and took a long drink of his best chicory blend. After stretching out his legs, the older man leveled piercing blue eyes—a striking feature in an otherwise unremarkable weathered face—on him.
“Mr. Cross, I need your help.” Joe splayed his hands on the tabletop and leaned forward. “I ain’t got much money, but if you let me make payments, I promise you’ll get your full fee. I’m up against a wall here.”
Puzzled, Beck inclined his head. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
“Dakota told my youngest that you’re a lawyer. That so?”
“Yes, but—”
“Well, back in October my boat was being repaired at a place in Sturgeon Bay when another one beside it caught fire. Before they could get the flames under control, the fire spread to mine.”
The older man clenched his hands on the table. “My boat has to be replaced before spring. Me and my family depend on the money I make fishing.”
Beck carefully placed his cup on the table. “I don’t see where I fit in.”
“The insurance companies keep wrangling and no one is budging, which means no one is paying.” Joe’s eyes turned imploring. “I need a professional.”
Finally Beck understood. “Have you contacted any of the law firms in Sturgeon Bay?”
“They, ah, don’t extend credit on these kinds of cases.” A look of embarrassment crossed the man’s features. “I told ’em I was good for it, but no go.”
When Beck said nothing, Joe pushed back his chair, stood for a second, then sat back down. “Dakota says you’re a smart man. And not expensive.”
Beck stifled a groan. With Dakota out there pimping his services, the café would be filled with pro bono clients by the first of the year.
“Like I said, I’m not asking for a free ride. I just need someone to write a letter or to do something to let ’em know they can’t keep jacking me around.” Joe’s gaze met his. “You’re my last hope, Mr. Cross.”
It would be easy for Beck to say he was no longer practicing law. But the truth was, he did have a current license in the state, and this proud, hardworking man had come to him asking for help.
Neighbors helping neighbors.
Beck gestured to the envelope the man had placed on the table when he’d sat down. “Show me what you brought and I’ll see what I can do.”
A relieved look crossed Joe’s face. “You’ll help me?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“How much?”
“
Consider it an early Christmas gift, Mr. Lyle.”
“I didn’t come asking for charity—”
“Not charity.” Beck lifted his cup. “This spring when you bring in a good haul of whitefish, just think of me and my café.”
Ami took the tub of dirty dishes to the kitchen, placed it on the counter, then did a little happy dance in front of the dishwasher.
Beck was embracing the practice of law again. Okay, perhaps that wasn’t quite accurate. He’d agreed to help one man with his insurance claims. Still, it was a start.
While she knew Beck had grown to love Muddy Boots, the practice of law was a part of him, too. Nothing said he couldn’t do both. That was the great thing about Good Hope: the opportunities here were endless.
Granted, he might not get rich, but there was more to life than money and prestige. She had a feeling Beck was finally seeing all that Door County had to offer him if he stayed.
His future was looking brighter by the second. She only wished she could be a part of it.
Chapter Twenty-One
Saturday night, after the rush at the café was over, Beck asked Ami to come home with him. Though she wanted to accept the offer, she told him that with the upcoming week being so busy, she had to get some sleep. Her heart swelled remembering how his eyes had softened, the tip of one finger trailing down her face as if memorizing each feature.
Once Christmas was over there would be more time for them, he’d promised. It had taken all of Ami’s strength to nod and agree. But she knew that once she confessed all to him on December 26, there would be no more them. She had to set a deadline or else she’d put it off forever. Besides, she didn’t want to ruin his Christmas.
In the meantime, she would try her best to enjoy this most blessed time of the year.
Sunday morning she got up early and headed straight downstairs to bake from four to eight. Then, after making a quick phone call, she hopped on her bike and made the seven-mile trek to Egg Harbor. The trip took a little over a half hour but it was well worth her time.
Last night, she’d racked her brain trying to think of what to give Beck for Christmas. She’d awakened this morning to an unseasonably warm day with the perfect gift in mind: a crystal sun catcher she’d spotted last month in the window of an Egg Harbor gift shop. Because it was in the shape of a star, it seemed perfect for Beck, the man who had everything.
It might be silly, but Ami hoped that eventually, given time, he’d be able to look at the star and remember this Christmas—and their time together—with fondness.
As she’d called the gift boutique before leaving home to make sure they still had the item, they had it gift wrapped and waiting for her.
Once she reached Good Hope, Ami swung by Beck’s house. After letting herself in with the key he’d given her, she tucked the prettily wrapped present under the tree.
Though she faced a full day of baking and decorating for her father’s open house, Ami stood in the parlor for several minutes. This was likely the last time she’d be welcome in the home that held so many of her dreams. The scent of roses in full bloom closed around her in a sweet, final embrace. Her gaze took in the massive fir she’d helped decorate and lingered on the star.
Home.
The day she’d placed the star at the top of the tree, Ami had let herself dream just a little—of a future with Beck, of making a home with him, of having a family.
Those dreams were gone. Or would be as of December 26.
As she locked the outside door, Ami blamed the sudden moisture in her eyes on the brisk north wind. She covered the distance to her bakery in record time and rushed inside, shivering.
Though Ralph II was spewing warmth from numerous vents, it barely touched the cold chill of regret that wrapped like a noose around her heart. Ami was grateful Hadley wasn’t scheduled until the special hours later this afternoon, when patrons would stop by to pick up the cookies, bars, and kringle they’d ordered for the holidays.
That gave Ami plenty of time to bring up holiday cheer from deep inside her and do some personal baking.
After putting another batch of kringle in the oven, she sat in the bakery’s dining area with her laptop and a cup of strong coffee. Wanting, needing, to keep busy, she perused various food sites looking for lavender cookies with rose-water icing recipes.
The cookies had been her mother’s favorite and baking them had been a holiday tradition. There was no written recipe. There had never been a need for one. Ami and her mother could toss together a batch of cookies in their sleep.
Until Sarah Bloom passed away.
When Ami had attempted to conjure up the recipe the next Christmas, her mind had gone blank. No matter how she’d tried, she couldn’t think of the recipe. She’d resorted to trying recipes she found on the Internet, hoping her memory would be jogged by stirring familiar ingredients.
The plan hadn’t worked. Not yet, anyway.
This year, Ami would find another variation and try again. She was considering one that called for vanilla extract when a sharp rap on the door had her lifting her gaze from the screen.
Her father stood on the other side of the door, gloved hands in pockets, shoulders braced against the stiff wind.
Ami hurried across the room. The second he stepped inside, she pushed the door firmly shut, blocking out the cold.
“What are you doing out in this weather?” Ami asked as she held out her hands for his coat. “This is your holiday break. You should be relaxing at home, watching football, not out in the cold.”
“There aren’t any major bowl games on tap for today. Besides, I wanted to see my girl.” Her father sniffed the air. “Is that coffee I smell?”
“I’ll get you a cup. Have a seat.” She gestured to the table, then hung his jacket on the coat tree on her way to the back.
In a matter of minutes, she faced him across the small table, two mugs of steaming coffee and slices of kringle between them. “Where’s Marigold?”
“She’s home decorating for the party. She slapped my hands when I tried to help.” He chuckled. “It’s good to have her back. Though she was so busy hanging out with her friends this weekend, I barely saw her.”
“She’s a social creature.”
“That she is.” Her dad took a sip of coffee, then sighed. “I love this chicory blend.”
Ami responded without thinking, “It’s our favorite.”
Steve raised a brow, cast a speculative glance at her. “Our?”
“Ah, Beck’s . . . and mine.” Ami kept her tone casual. “You’ve probably heard we meet at Muddy Boots most mornings for coffee and Danish.”
As he brought the cup to his lips for another drink, his hazel eyes remained firmly focused on her face. “I’ve heard you’ve been spending a lot of time at his house.”
Ami resisted the almost overwhelming desire to squirm under the direct gaze. “Beck graciously agreed to store gifts for the Giving Tree’s Christmas campaign. I’ve been helping him wrap.”
“Is that all?”
“Oh, and I also helped him decorate his house for the Victorian home tour,” Ami added, grateful her brain had decided to start firing on all cylinders. “That was part of my duties as a Cherrie. It was well worth my time. There were lots of positive comments received from those who toured the house.” Ami paused. “How did I miss seeing you that night?”
A sheepish look blanketed Steve’s face, and now it was his turn to squirm. “Anita and I planned to do the tour, but at the last minute we, ah, we got caught up in some things at home and didn’t make it.”
Something in the way he put together the excuse had her brain recoiling in horror. It almost sounded as if her father and Anita had been busy . . . in the bedroom.
Not knowing exactly how to respond to that comment, Ami popped a piece of kringle in her mouth and chewed.
“I’ve been really enjoying this Christmas season.” He appeared almost embarrassed by the admission.
The warning Ami had been about to issu
e against the piranha died in her throat. This time of year had been especially hard on her father since her mom had passed. She’d begun to wonder if her dad would ever be truly happy again.
But the man sitting across the table from her looked content and at peace. If being with Anita helped him weather the difficult holiday season, she’d happily keep her mouth shut.
Reaching across the table, she covered his hand with hers and gave it a squeeze. “I’m glad.”
Then, because she feared her dad might want to talk more about Anita—or Beck—Ami changed the subject. “I was just about to start a batch of lavender cookies.”
“Sarah’s favorite.” Though he smiled, his eyes turned sad and Ami cursed her insensitivity.
“Once they’re in the oven, I’m baking a devil’s food cake with vanilla buttercream icing.” Ami sipped her coffee and broke off another piece of kringle. “Which, as I recall, is your favorite.”
When Ami saw him tense, she knew exactly what her superorganized father was thinking. “I’m aware the open house is tomorrow, but never fear, the cake will be done on time, and it will be delicious.”
“You haven’t started it yet?”
“Not yet. But, again, no need to worry.”
“I’m not worried, I’m relieved.” Her father expelled a breath. “You don’t need to make it.”
“Of course I do,” Ami insisted. “Thirty-five years with the Good Hope school district is a big deal. You have to have a cake.”
“No, I mean you don’t have to do it now. Anita offered to make it.”
Dumbfounded, Ami could only blink at her father.
“She knows how busy you’ve been and wanted to contribute to my party.” His lips curved in a fond smile. “And we both know cakes are her specialty.”
Ami couldn’t argue that point. The woman’s prowess with cakes was one of the reasons she’d renamed the business she purchased after her divorce Crumb and Cake.
Even as Ami’s mind conceded the logic, her emotions railed against the thought of Anita Fishback having a part—any part—in a Bloom family party. She opened her mouth to tell her father just that, then remembered this was his open house.
