Something to Prove

by Kimberly Lang

  SOMETHING TO PROVE

  “Well, well, well, the rumors are true. If it isn’t Hell-on-Wheels.”

  Helena spun toward the amused baritone. She was getting much quicker at putting names to faces, but she wouldn’t have needed any help matching the twenty-year-old Ryan Tanner with the version standing in front of her now. Sun-streaked blond hair, strong jaw, green eyes with cute little crinkles from being outside . . . There was something just so damn wholesome about him that he could be the centerfold for Cute Boys Next Door magazine. In jeans, a black polo shirt, and work boots, he certainly didn’t look like he belonged in the mayor’s office, but it did give him an almost edgy sex appeal—not hurt at all by the way the sleeves of his shirt strained against his biceps.

  Under different circumstances . . . hummina. But that mocking “Hell-on-Wheels” comment had her hackles up. “It’s just Helena these days.”

  “I’m sure the chief will be glad to hear it. He’s new and all, but he’s very committed to keeping Magnolia Beach orderly and peaceful.”

  And there it was. She’d rather hoped that Ryan had outgrown his holier-than-Helena attitude. Be an adult. Let it go. “I doubt I’ll have time to make his acquaintance, but please pass along my regards.”

  Ryan walked around Julie’s desk and pulled some papers out of an in-box. “What brings you to the mayor’s office? I don’t think even you’ve been in town long enough to cause any trouble.”

  Don’t take the bait. “I’m looking for you, actually.”

  Ryan’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Then maybe we should step into my office.”

  SIGNET ECLIPSE

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014

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  A Penguin Random House Company

  First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  Copyright © Kimberly Kerr, 2015

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-698-16688-2

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Something To Prove

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from EVERYTHING AT LAST

  This book is dedicated to the memory of Randy Marsh, English teacher extraordinaire, who taught me the power of words and gave me a love of language and literature that put me on the path to become a writer. I like to think he’d be proud of me.

  And to L. G. Wilson, who taught me both the importance of making an impassioned argument and the value of knowing when to just keep my mouth shut. Critical thinking is such an important skill. Thank you for not expelling me before I mastered it.

  Chapter 1

  If I’d known I was going to attract this much attention, I’d have worn lipstick.

  Forcing herself to smile, Helena Wheeler waved at the elderly couple frowning down at her from their porch swing. Mr. and Mrs. Riley had been ancient twelve years ago, and though she assumed they’d been long dead by now, she realized they might be living proof that time really did stand still in Magnolia Beach, Alabama.

  The Rileys weren’t the only ones staring and muttering. Grannie’s house sat three blocks off Magnolia Beach’s main drag, and at least a dozen people had done shocked double takes as she’d passed. In a way, it was almost gratifying. She must not have changed all that much, which was heartening for someone staring down her thirty-second birthday and beginning to pay a bit more attention to those commercials talking about fine lines and wrinkles. The flip side, of course, was the hushed whispers that came after those double takes. She didn’t have to hear them to realize that folks rather expected her not to have changed at all.

  As Grannie would say, though, she was merely reaping what she’d sown. She couldn’t really expect anything else.

  They probably have the high school on lockdown already. She snorted. Like she even knew where to find a pig these days.

  Well, she certainly couldn’t terrorize the town on the weak cup of instant decaf she’d gulped this morning in an effort to fool herself into waking up. Her first stop would be the diner for coffee. Then, and only then, would she have the strength to tackle the mile-long to-do list that was tucked into her purse.

  Magnolia Beach was just a small coastal Alabama town, with the geography—Heron Bayou on the west, Heron Bay on the south, and Mobile Bay on the east—forcing pretty much everything into one central location. That was part of its charm, the community’s easy accessibility and friendly layout as much of a tourist attraction as the white sugar-sand beaches of the Mobile Bay side and the marina of the Heron Bay shore. Helena was immune to that “charm,” but it did make today’s errands much easier because she wouldn’t have to drive and park.

  Turning right onto Front Street from Lister Street—officially the place where Magnolia Beach’s residential area became the so-called business district—Helena stopped and took a deep breath to ready herself for the next leg of this gauntlet. Then she smiled to herself. She’d forgotten how pretty Magnolia Beach was from this exact point. From here, it was a straight shot to Heron Bay, an unobstructed, perfect view all the way to where the Gulf’s green water met blue sky at the horizon.

  To her left, Grace Baptist still squared off with First Methodist—a name both hopeful and ridiculous at the same time since it was still the only Methodist church in Magnolia Beach. Grace Baptist had the Bible verse of the week up on its sign, and out of habit, Helena began trying to mentally rearrange the letters into something else. When nothing came to her, she realized that particular skill had gone rusty from disuse. Pity. I used to be really good at that.

  The Frosty Freeze was shuttered, its picnic tables empty, but that would change once school let out for the day. There were more people on Front Street than cars—mothers with babies in strollers and toddlers following behind, old women doing their grocery shopping, men with rods on their shoulders heading to fish off the jetty, and the occasional tourist with camera in hand, taking pictures of the small-town goodness of a modern Mayberry.

  In other words, Front Street looked much the same as it always
had. Sure, there were a few new stores and fresh coats of paint on some of the buildings, but otherwise . . . Helena was certain she’d still be able to get through town blindfolded.

  She reached for her sunglasses. It was truly a beautiful day—sunny and warm, with just a hint of cool in the breeze to remind her it was actually September. It was exactly the kind of weather that Yankee snowbirds came south to the Gulf to experience.

  And Magnolia Beach . . . Those blue skies, the occasional white puffy cloud overhead, the tidy main street with American flags hanging off the buildings . . . If she were designing the travel brochure for the town, this would be the picture.

  In a way, she’d missed it. Not Magnolia Beach, of course, but she’d missed the water, the smell of salty air, and breezes off the ocean. As much as she loved Atlanta, she was still a beach girl at heart. Maybe one day, she’d relocate back to the coast—not to Magnolia Beach, but maybe someplace down along the Florida panhandle.

  But those were plans for a different day.

  The bells dinged as she pushed through the front door of Marge’s Diner, triggering a Pavlovian-like craving for Ms. Marge’s three-berry pie. Habit nearly sent her to the big booth in the back corner—assigned seating so Ms. Marge could “keep an eye on her” from the kitchen—but she angled to the shiny, stainless-steel counter instead. The breakfast rush was over, and only a few tables with their classic red-and-white checkered tablecloths still had customers seated at them. She kept her sunglasses on and her head low. Fortunately, Magnolia Beach’s beaches and the marina attracted enough tourists that one lone woman wouldn’t draw much attention—until someone recognized her and decided to speak to her at least. And she really needed coffee before that happened.

  The bored-looking young woman behind the counter barely seemed old enough to be out of high school, and she glanced at Helena without a glimmer of recognition.

  Perfect.

  “What can I get ya?”

  Helena thought longingly of the fabulous coffee shop right across the street from her place in Little Five Points, and the craving for one of their special double espresso hazelnut lattes nearly brought her to her knees. She pushed the thought aside. This was Magnolia Beach. “Just coffee, please. Black.”

  The coffee wasn’t the best, but it was hot and strong, and her brain perked up the minute it hit her tongue.

  “Helena?”

  And so it begins.

  Swiveling on the stool, she located the voice and found herself looking at a tall, lanky man who was staring back at her with surprise—not judgment. There was something so familiar—the shock of dark hair, the bright blue eyes. . . . “Tate!”

  Tate Harris caught her as she launched herself off the stool and lifted her off her feet in a hug that squeezed the breath out of her.

  “It really is you.” The blue eyes narrowed into a scold. “I can’t believe you’d come to town and not let me know.”

  “I just got in last night. You were definitely on my list of folks to find as soon as I got settled in.”

  Tate grinned. “I should hope so.” He gave her another squeeze. “God, I’ve missed you.”

  Helena’s heart contracted a little. Although he was a year younger, Tate had always been her friend, defender, and partner in crime—the Boy Wonder to her Batman. But that awkward teenager was gone, and the intervening years had been very good to him. “Look at you. All grown-up.”

  “And you’re as beautiful as ever. Welcome home.” Then the smile faded, and concern took its place. “Ms. Louise didn’t take a turn for the worse, did she?”

  “Grannie is fine,” she assured him. “The doc says she’s healing well and should be able to come home in a couple of weeks.”

  Tate guided her back to her stool and ordered a cup of coffee for himself. The waitress suddenly didn’t look so bored as she poured Tate’s coffee. He grinned at her, and she blushed before she went back to filling saltshakers and casting the occasional glance Tate’s way. “That’s good news. She gave us all quite a scare.”

  “And me.” Guilt settled on her shoulders. Grannie had lain at the foot of the stairs for nearly two days with a broken hip, a broken ankle, three cracked ribs, and a concussion before her neighbor, Mrs. Wilson, had found her.

  “So that’s why you’re here.”

  “Yeah. I wanted her to come to Atlanta for a while after she’s out of the convalescent home, but she pitched a holy fit at the idea. And since there’s no way she’ll be able to handle everything herself once they do release her, I had to come here.” She shrugged.

  He patted her arm. “You’re a good granddaughter.”

  “I’m trying. I’ve got a lot to make up for.”

  Tate snorted but didn’t say anything. He knew what she was up against.

  “The Rileys and a few other folks have already given me the hairy eyeball today. I’m just hoping they don’t break out the pitchforks and torches.”

  “It won’t be that bad.”

  A spark of hope lit in her chest, surprising her. “You think folks are willing to—” She stopped as Tate shook his head.

  “Jesus may forgive, but people don’t forget. You, Miss Hell-on-Wheels, are half local legend, half cautionary tale told to keep kids on the straight and narrow path.”

  “I wasn’t that bad,” she muttered into her coffee.

  “Uh, yeah. You were.”

  She lifted her chin. “Those were merely youthful indiscretions. And it was a long time ago. People do grow up and change, you know.”

  Tate nodded sagely. “That sounds like an excellent story. You should stick to it.”

  She returned the nod as regally as she could. “I shall.” Tate grinned, and she leaned forward eagerly. “So tell me all about you. How’ve you been? Job? Wife? Kids?”

  “Fine, yes, no, and no.” He checked his watch and drained the last of his coffee. “All the other details will have to wait because I’m about to be very late for work. But we should go to dinner or something and catch up.”

  “I’d like that.” And she meant it. The fact she’d missed Tate landed on her chest with a thud that surprised her with its weight.

  “Everything’s pretty much where you left it, but if you need anything while you’re getting settled back in, just let me know.” He scribbled a phone number onto the back of a business card and pushed it her way.

  Helena did the same. “But I do have one thing you could help me with now.”

  Tate paused.

  “You know what Grannie’s house is like—all those stairs—and my first project is to get someone in to do some renovations before Grannie comes home. She’s adamant that I call ‘that Tanner boy’ and get him to do it, but she didn’t mention which Tanner boy, and there’s so damn many of them.”

  Tate nodded. “You want Ryan.”

  Figures. Not that there was a Tanner in Magnolia Beach that she did have fond memories of, but why did it have to be Ryan? “Oh yay,” she grumbled into her cup.

  Tate laughed. “What happened to growing up and changing?”

  “I certainly hope that’s true in Ryan’s case.”

  The grin got bigger. “Oh, this is going to be interesting. I don’t have his number on me, but if you run down to the mayor’s office, the secretary, Julie, can get it for you.”

  Throwing a couple of dollars onto the counter, she followed Tate outside. “Why would the mayor’s secretary be keeping up with Ryan Tanner?” Magnolia Beach was a small town where everyone pretty much knew everyone else—and all their business—but even Magnolia Beach had limits.

  “Because Ryan’s the mayor, sweetcheeks.”

  It was a little hard to picture someone she went to high school with as the mayor, but she wasn’t really that shocked. Ryan certainly wasn’t the first Tanner to hold the office, and if his election to student body president was any indication, he’d
probably swept into office in a landslide vote. He’d always been golden—not that it was hard for a Tanner to be popular in Magnolia Beach. They were the local family, with doctors, lawyers, business owners, and even a county sheriff hanging off the branches of the family tree.

  “I gotta go,” Tate said, squeezing her hand, “but I’ll give you a call later. And, by the way,” he said, leaning in close, “I’d never say this within earshot of Ms. Marge, but if you want a good cup of coffee, head over to Latte Dah on Williams Street. It’s where the old yarn store used to be. Their coffee could fuel rockets to Mars.”

  “Morning, Dr. Harris.” A lady Helena didn’t recognize spoke as she passed, and Tate nodded politely in reply.

  “Bye, Helena. Welcome home.” Then, with a quick wave, he was gone.

  Helena stood still for a moment, trying to process this new information. Tate Harris is a doctor? She fished the business card out of her pocket, and sure enough, Tate J. Harris had DVM after his name.

  Grannie had told her Tate was working at the vet’s office, but she’d made it sound like he was a vet tech or something—not the vet himself. Good for him. He’d always talked about vet school, but the cost alone had made it seem like a pipe dream, at best. She didn’t know if she should be proud of him or for him, but it made her smile either way.

  And Magnolia Beach had a coffee shop now? Wow. That was big news. She couldn’t quite wrap her head around the idea.

  Grannie liked to give updates on life in Magnolia Beach—hell, Helena knew all about Mrs. Potter’s roses and that new high school teacher with the tattoo—but maybe she should start steering those conversations in more practical directions.

  I wonder what else I don’t know.

  The short walk to the squat brick building that doubled as the city hall and police station told her the answer to her question was “a hell of a lot.” There was a yoga studio tucked in between the barbershop and the post office now, and a day spa next door to Bryson’s Shoe Store with a menu of services that rivaled most Atlanta spas, only the prices were much more affordable.