“Gone to the Sweetheart Dance? I believe you did. With Melody Herman, if memory serves.”
“Jealous?” he teased.
“Maybe,” she confessed. “But you’re here with me now, and that’s what’s important, right?”
“I’d like to think so.”
He pulled her closer, dropping his head to kiss her, which caused Coach Hopper to blow his whistle and motion them to move apart—much to the amusement of the students.
“Tsk, tsk, Mayor Tanner,” Helena scolded. “So much for setting an example.”
“It’s an excellent example to set, thank you very much. Meet the perfect girl, wait fifteen or so years to make your move, and then live happily ever after.”
Her eyes widened. “Happily ever after?”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much what I’m thinking. You game?”
“I’m game.” She rose up on her toes, plastering herself against him, and kissed him hard, causing him to wrap his arms around her and lift her off her feet.
And Coach Hopper could just keep blowing that damn whistle all night long.
Acknowledgments
There are so many people I need to thank:
My fabulous agent, Beth Miller, for telling me this was the book I needed to write and not strangling me while I did;
Liz Bistrow for loving it and buying it;
Christina Brower for her amazing editorial notes;
Linda Howard and Linda Winstead Jones for their wisdom and guidance;
Pamela Hearon, Kira Sinclair, Andrea Laurence, Dani Wade, and Marilyn Baxter for cheering me on and keeping me sane all these years;
Darling Geek, Amazing Child and WonderMom for their unwavering support, endless patience, and contortionist levels of flexibility when I’m on deadline. (No, you still cannot have my jelly beans.);
The copy editors and cover artists and everyone at New American Library who worked on this book and made it better and beautiful;
And all the readers, who make it possible for me to do this.
Read on for a sneak peek at the next book
in Kimberly Lang’s charming Magnolia Beach series,
EVERYTHING AT LAST
Available from Signet Eclipse in January 2016.
It’s nearly impossible to keep a secret in a small town.
But nearly impossible meant it was still possible. Damn hard, though.
Molly Richards felt like she knew most of the secrets in this particular small town. She wasn’t a therapist, a preacher, a bartender, or even a hairdresser, but she ran a coffee shop—the only coffee shop in Magnolia Beach, Alabama—and that had to come close. People didn’t have to tell her secrets. She overheard them at Latte Dah—whether she wanted to or not.
But she wasn’t a gossip. She never repeated what she’d heard, never even dropped hints, because everyone had something they’d rather other people not know.
But she also never forgot those overheard tidbits, either, and it gave her a more complete picture of this town and the people in it than most of the folks who’d lived here a lot longer than the two and a half years she had.
In a way, it made her love Magnolia Beach all the more. Not only did she know what was going on, but she also knew the why, the who, and often the whoa-you-won’t-believe-this-part. This was a quirky little place, and the key to appreciating it fully was understanding it.
The buzz today was all about the engagement of Sophie Cooper and Quinn Haslett, but that was news, not gossip—literal news, as Quinn had announced it himself on the front page of the Clarion. That was one benefit of owning the paper, Molly thought with a giggle.
There were sighs over the romance, speculations over the timing—they’d been together less than a year, after all—and a bit of jealousy from the younger, single set now that Quinn had been taken off the market, but it all made Molly smile. It was spring and love was in the air.
And, she was a sucker for a love story. Even after everything, she still believed that everyone should get a happily ever after. And she had gotten to see lots of relationships start, grow—and occasionally end, too—over cups of coffee in the overstuffed chairs of Latte Dah.
Jane, who’d been with her from almost the day she opened her doors, blew her blue-streaked bangs out of her eyes as she passed, carrying a trayful of dirty coffee cups. “There are three applications under the register. Hire someone, or I’m going to quit.”
“I will,” Molly promised. In addition to Jane, Molly had two part-timers, but they were high school kids and the hours they could work were limited. And while it was very nice to be busy enough to need another employee, she was enjoying the security of the extra cash after two years of just making ends meet. She’d invested in the shop and padded her savings a little bit, but that cushion could deflate quickly. But she couldn’t risk losing Jane, either, and they’d only get busier once the summer season started. She tugged the envelope with the applications out and opened it as she followed Jane into the kitchen. “Any of these you particularly like?”
Jane didn’t look up from loading the dishwasher, but Molly saw the triumphant smirk. “Samantha Harris or Connie Williams. Patrice is a little flighty.”
Molly knew of both Samantha and Connie, even if she didn’t know them well or personally—Magnolia Beach was pretty small, after all—and didn’t have a strong feeling either way. “I’ll call them both back for interviews, and if they’re good, I’ll see who can start next week.”
“This week,” Jane insisted. “I’d like to have a life, too.”
Molly sighed. “Fine. Can you call them and see if they’ll come in this afternoon? Maybe one at four and one at five?”
“Thank you. Now I won’t have to poison your coffee today.”
Molly grinned. “Then thank you.” A glance around told her the rush was officially over for the morning. “I’m going to run out for a while. I’ll be back before the Bible-study group arrives.”
“Bring back change,” Jane called from behind her. “We’re low on fives and ones.”
Molly nodded as she hung up her apron and then held the door for a mother pushing a stroller with a sleeping baby. Outside on the sidewalk, she took a big breath of non-coffee-scented air and turned her face up to the sun. Late spring was quite possibly one of the best times of year here, weatherwise: warm, but not hot, days and nights that were just cool enough to require a light jacket.
It might be a quirky little place, but there sure wasn’t much prettier than Magnolia Beach on a bright spring afternoon. The town was practically a movie set labeled “small-town Americana”—tidy buildings set along clean, narrow streets and flags waving lazily in the breeze. Even the newer buildings intentionally had that older aesthetic, giving the impression the town wasn’t necessarily stuck in the past but rather gently resisting change where and how it could.
That feeling was part of what drew tourists to the area. That and the water, of course. Magnolia Beach was locked in on three sides by water: Mobile Bay to the east, Heron Bay to the south, and Heron Bayou to the west.
The Yankee snowbirds had already left town for their Northern cities and climes, but in a few more weeks, the town’s population would nearly double in size as all that water would draw folks down to the coast. The Mobile Bay shore—called “the Beach” by the locals—had white, sandy beaches, perfect for sandcastle building and long walks along the water, while the Heron Bay shore—called “the Shore” to avoid confusion—offered fishing off the jetty and a boardwalk along the rockier man-made beach. Add in a marina full of boats to charter, airboat tours into the bayou, and long, hot sunny days, and Magnolia Beach was a summer paradise.
While the tourists looking for wild parties would head over to the east side of the bay to Gulf Shores and farther along the Florida panhandle, families and those wanting a more low-key vacation would come to Magnolia Beach. And when they
weren’t on the water, tourists had a full selection of restaurants, quaint shops, and family-friendly activities right at their doorstep.
Trapped as it was between the water and unable to sprawl, the town was rather compact, making pretty much everything within walking distance. The tourists loved that perk, and Molly liked it herself, leaving her car at home except on the most miserable of days. Since she tended to nibble at the pastries—strictly for quality-control purposes, of course—she needed all the exercise she could get. That would be another perk of a new employee: She could possibly find the time to start running again before the winter weight became permanent.
More important, though, she liked the walk. In the early mornings on her way to open Latte Dah, the whole place felt quiet and still, and that was better for clearing her mind and relaxing her soul than any meditation. In the afternoons, the streets were busy and active but not stressed and crowded, and there was always someone to stop and speak to, making her feel like a real part of the town. Making it feel like home.
Only better. She had no desire to really go home.
Fuller, Alabama, was only six hours away, but as far as she was concerned, it might as well be on the other side of the planet. Eventually she’d have to go back—her day of reckoning would come—but until then, it was easy enough to forget Fuller even existed. This was where she wanted to be.
The bank, post office, and grocery store were quick, easy errands and she made it back to her place, a tiny guesthouse beside Mrs. Kennedy’s house, in plenty of time for her own lunch and maybe a short nap. Even after over two years, that five a.m. alarm was still hard to handle sometimes.
She dropped onto the couch and kicked off her shoes, and Nigel jumped into her lap with a purr. Threading her fingers through his soft gray fur, Molly closed her eyes with a sigh.
And, of course, there was an immediate knock at her door, followed by Mrs. Kennedy calling, “Molly?”
Nigel hissed in the general direction of the door, expressing Molly’s feelings quite nicely. While the place was clean, cozy, and affordable, her landlady had boundary issues and a rather interesting interpretation of tenant-landlord relationship boundaries.
Grumbling, Molly moved Nigel off her lap and rolled off the couch. Knowing Mrs. Kennedy could see her through the glass window in the door, she pasted a smile on her face as she opened it. “Hello, Mrs. K.”
Eula Kennedy was welcoming warm weather with a bright fuchsia sundress and a color-matched faux hibiscus in her carefully coiffed white hair. Molly could only hope that forty years from now she’d have the nerve and ability to carry off something like that. “Hello, dear. I’m so glad I heard you come in. I was about to head to Latte Dah to find you.”
“I just came home for lunch.” Like I do most days. It wasn’t a secret or anything.
“Well, I won’t keep you but a minute.”
Molly had no choice, really, but to open the door wider for her to enter. Mrs. Kennedy was carrying a bulging grocery sack from the Shop ’n Save, but it didn’t look like groceries. As she set the bag on the coffee table with a sense of satisfaction and purpose, Molly had a bad feeling she wouldn’t like the explanation of that bag.
“I got a call from Jocelyn last night.”
Jocelyn was Mrs. Kennedy’s niece, currently pregnant and living over near Destin. Molly nodded absently while she eyeballed the bag. Oddly, it looked like it was full of notebooks. “I hope she’s doing well.”
“The doctors have put her on bed rest. Worries about an incompetent cervix.”
That got her attention. Molly had no real knowledge what that diagnosis might mean, but Mrs. Kennedy looked worried, so it probably wasn’t good. “I’m sorry to hear that. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do,” she said automatically.
“I’m so glad you said that,” Mrs. Kennedy said in a tone that had Molly wishing she’d stopped talking after “sorry.” “There’s no way Jocelyn can rest the way she needs to with two other little ones running around, so I’m going to go stay with her and help until after the baby is born.”
“I’ll keep an eye on things at the house, no problem.” Molly often looked after the place while Mrs. Kennedy traveled. It was one of the reasons her rent was so cheap.
“I know you will, and I appreciate it, but the house is really the least of my issues. I’ve got my Sunday School class and volunteer shifts at the library covered, but there’s no one to take over the Children’s Fair on Memorial Day weekend.”
She couldn’t possibly be thinking that I should . . . No. Memorial Day marked the official start of the summer tourist season, and Magnolia Beach always went all out with a weekend of concerts downtown, an arts-and-crafts fair downtown, a fireworks show over Heron Bay, services at the War Memorial, a parade, and of course, the Children’s Fair, which was Mrs. Kennedy’s idea originally and her pride and joy. More important to this conversation, it was a huge undertaking, with a dozen different parts. Not to mention all the screaming children. “Oh, Mrs. K., I couldn’t. Really. I wouldn’t know where to begin, and I’d hate to mess it up.”
Mrs. Kennedy waved that away. “It’s impossible to mess it up. Most of the heavy lifting is already done, and the folks involved are old pros at it by now, so it will mostly just roll along on its own. I just need someone to keep an eye on it.”
Oh, crap. Think. “But . . .”
“Have you already agreed to volunteer somewhere else?”
Molly wished she could lie. “No, but . . .”
“Then this is perfect. A great way for you to get your feet wet.”
Get her feet wet? This would be like jumping into the deep end. With dumbbells strapped to her legs. And the pool would be full of small, screaming children.
“I don’t—” Molly started her protest, but Mrs. K. just patted her on the arm—firmly, but kindly nonetheless.
“Everything you’ll need to know should be in those notebooks, and if it’s not, just ask Margaret Wilson or Tate Harris for help. They’ll know. Now . . .” Mrs. Kennedy started unloading the notebooks as she talked, placing them in Molly’s hands so that she was forced to accept them or end up with bruises on her feet from dropping them.
Molly was being steamrolled and she knew it, but damn if she knew how to stop it. Mrs. Kennedy kept talking like it was a done deal, with or without Molly’s agreement, and Molly couldn’t bring herself to interrupt a sixtysomething-year-old woman. And since Mrs. Kennedy never seemed to stop to take a breath, she had no place to interject an objection.
The flood of words and instructions rolled on, interspersed with assurances of Mrs. Kennedy’s confidence in Molly’s ability to pull this off. Molly was still blinking in confusion and formulating her plan of resistance when Mrs. Kennedy gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and was out the door.
Leaving Molly with the Children’s Fair literally in her hands.
“Damn it.”
Nigel blinked at her from his perch on the back of the couch, then stretched out his neck to sniff disdainfully at the load in her arms. A second later, he pulled back quickly, ears lying flat against his head.
“My thoughts exactly.”
She didn’t have time for this. She had a business to run, and they were shorthanded right now anyway. Equally as important, she didn’t want to do this. She, too, was from a small town, and this was exactly how people got sucked into the volunteer pit, never to surface again. She was all for community spirit and pulling together, but there was no way she wouldn’t screw it up somehow. And since it was a big fund-raiser for . . . Damn, she didn’t even know where the money raised actually went. It had to raise a lot, though. Christ, she was going to mess this up and be the reason some deserving charity couldn’t make its budget this year.
This was insane.
She was still standing there, trying to figure out a graceful way to decline the honor, when she saw Mrs. Kenn
edy come back out carrying a suitcase. She hurried to the porch, ready to claim illness, insanity, incompetence, any reason not to be in charge of this, but Mrs. Kennedy was very spry for her age and was already driving off with a honk and a cheery wave.
Damn it. She was well and truly stuck now.
* * *
Tate Harris stood under the shower and let the hot water beat the tiredness from his shoulders. After a long spell of nothing but checkups and routine procedures for weeks, it seemed every pet in a twenty-mile radius had decided today was the day for illnesses and accidents. He’d been on his feet all day without even a lunch break and gone through multiple changes of clothes, due to sprays of pretty much every bodily fluid an animal could emit, and Mr. Thomas’s Pomeranian, Florie, had taken a bite out of his hand.
It was days like today that made him wish he still drank.
With that option off the table, though, he stayed under the spray until the water ran cold and forced him out. He scrubbed a towel over his hair to dry it, then grabbed clean jeans and a T-shirt.
Now that the animal smells were washed away and out of his nose, he caught the faint scent of lemon furniture polish and bleach floating through the house, meaning Iona had come today—a day earlier than usual. Suddenly hopeful, he went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. There, in neatly wrapped and labeled packages, were his dinners for the next several nights.
He’d been not exactly dreading, but not looking forward to either, a cold dinner of ham sandwiches, so the sight of Iona’s pot roast made his mouth water. Feeling better already, he stuck it into the microwave to heat.
A fresh pitcher of tea sat on the counter, holding down a note from Iona explaining that she’d come today because she had a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, and if he’d text her a list of any personal items he might need from the store, she’d take care of those on her next trip.
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