The Key to Love

by Betsy St. Amant

  Agnes popped her head through the swinging kitchen door. “We thought we heard a commotion back here. What’s going on? What’s that smell?”

  “Bri, is that you?” Mabel’s head appeared beneath Agnes’s in the doorframe, and a slow smile spread across her overly lipsticked mouth as she took in the scene before her. “Hush now, Agnes. It looks like everything is exactly as it should be.” She winked before disappearing back into the storefront. Agnes followed suit with a grumbled protest.

  Gerard stood and offered his hand to Bri to help her up. She accepted it, knees trembling, and avoided eye contact.

  Nothing was as it should be.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  That had been a huge mistake.

  Which part, he wasn’t sure. But somewhere, there had been a mistake—plenty of them. Telling Bri about his upcoming birthday. Opening up about running from the hard stuff. Almost kissing her.

  Not kissing her.

  Gerard shoved one hand wearily through his hair as he peered up at the steeple atop the nondenominational church. He’d offered to help with the wedding and hated to go back on his word, but he couldn’t stay in the kitchen with Bri any longer. He needed fresh air. Bri must have gotten the hint—or maybe she wanted space as badly as he did—because she’d given him the task of delivering Casey’s wedding vows and updated order of ceremony to the minister, who apparently didn’t have a functioning printer.

  Only in Story.

  Gerard hesitated in front of the small brick chapel. Late afternoon clouds billowed above, shadowed with the threat of rain. Hopefully it wouldn’t downpour, since Bri already had the arch decorated and a dozen tables set out. They’d stored the seventy-five folding chairs in the shed. He could just see Bri asking him to wipe everything down with a towel tomorrow if it rained.

  And he’d probably do it.

  Because something had shifted in that kitchen. He felt like he was holding his breath, careening around a mountain bike trail on a seaside cliff, balancing precariously on two fast-moving wheels. One false move and he’d tumble straight off the rocks and into the breakers. He refused to stop and breathe—or acknowledge what exactly was shifting.

  It was easier to just keep moving.

  He pulled open the solid door of the church. Muted green carpet muffled his steps as he crept inside. A long hallway led to the right, with several shut doors that were probably offices. To the left was another set of oak double doors. One was propped open with a small wooden triangle.

  He peered inside. The sanctuary. “Hello?”

  His voice echoed in the dimly lit room. He turned a full circle in the lobby, but there was no answer. Did they not lock their doors here either? Or maybe the staff had already left for the day.

  On second thought, how big of a staff could a small church in Story, Kansas, even have in the first place?

  He pulled the folded papers with Casey’s vows and instructions out of his back pocket and hesitantly moved inside the sanctuary. “Mr . . . Pastor John?” His church lingo was rusty—too rusty. His mama would be disappointed in him.

  Not that she’d gone to a service either in the past twenty years. And who could blame her, after the judgmental comments about her slipping lifestyle made their way from the choir loft to her ears, until they finally landed in print on a Wednesday night prayer list.

  Gerard ambled down the aisle between the rows of simple wooden pews. A pulpit stood on the stage, atop a carpeted altar. A stained-glass window took the place where the baptistry typically was, back in the church he grew up in, anyway.

  When was the last time he’d walked an aisle like this? The travel-writing life didn’t leave much room for a home church. Or a home at all, for that matter. He’d visited several of the cathedrals on his last venture through Europe. Had taken communion in Rome two years ago.

  None of those churches had felt quite like this one, though. Quiet. Unassuming. Peaceful.

  Or maybe he just hadn’t been still long enough to feel it those times.

  Gerard stopped at the end of the aisle by the second pew and slid onto the empty bench. The serenity of the room calmed the churning emotions in the pit of his stomach, and he inhaled his first deep breath since coming to Story. Maybe he should start going back to church—if he could find one in Chicago like this.

  Put down roots.

  The late-afternoon sun spilled through the stained glass, sending shards of rainbow-speckled light across the carpet.

  He swallowed and glanced down at the papers in his hand, brushing off the imposing thoughts. Church was a thing of the past for him—he didn’t need a building full of hypocrites to point out his sins. He knew them well.

  Gerard leaned forward, pressing his fingers against his throbbing forehead. He shouldn’t be stalling. He needed to get these documents to the preacher—wherever he was—and get back to the Puff to help Bri. Or maybe he needed to get on his motorcycle and forget the whole thing.

  Yet the thought of leaving Story didn’t bring the respite it had a few days ago. In fact, it brought only confusion.

  His shoulders tightened, and he massaged the base of his neck. What had this town done to him? Here he was, stressed out and exhausted, helping set up a wedding, of all things—and hiding in a church from a blonde he couldn’t stop thinking about.

  Peter had no idea what he’d sent him into.

  Or had he? Suspicion pinched, and he frowned.

  “Peaceful, isn’t it?”

  Gerard jerked upright as a baritone voice filled the silent room.

  A man in a blue running shirt and track pants strolled down the aisle toward him, his smile bright against a tanned face. “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Pastor John.”

  Interesting. He’d expected a suit—and someone taller, more imposing. Definitely grayer. This guy didn’t look much older than him.

  Gerard stood and shook the pastor’s hand. “Gerard Fortier. I’m supposed to bring you some stuff for Casey’s wedding Sunday.”

  “Oh, right, the vows and ceremony order.” John, his smile easy and genuine, took the papers Gerard held out. “You’re the travel writer, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “Word gets around in Story, doesn’t it?”

  “It doesn’t take much.” John crossed his arms, his laid-back manner easing the knot in Gerard’s chest. The man wasn’t a day over forty. “I’m looking forward to reading your article. The Pastry Puff has been a staple around here—and we all love Bri and Mabel and Agnes.”

  Gerard’s guard edged up, and the knot tightened. So, he was another local with an agenda, only wanting to discuss the feature. “I’ll make them sound good, don’t worry.” He started to sidestep his way out of the pew.

  “Oh, I had no doubt. I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”

  He thought he did. But maybe not. Not with Bri looking at him with those trusting eyes and Charles slipping him undisclosed cash. He risked a glance at Pastor John, who stood unmoving, arms still crossed, eyes accessing.

  “Where you headed next?”

  Gerard rested one hand on the back of the pew, simultaneously ready to both flee and settle down for more of that peace he’d glimpsed. “I’m not sure, Pastor. Wherever the next assignment is, I guess.”

  “Call me John. And that sounds pretty exciting. Always on the move.” John eased down on the pew.

  Gerard sank back onto the end of the second row, facing him. “It can be.” And exhausting. But it kept him moving toward his goals. Lead writer. More voice. More impact. More money. “This assignment isn’t like the others, that’s for sure.”

  “Not as adventurous, I’d imagine.” John quirked an eyebrow. “Though if you’re staying in the B&B, it might be.” He chuckled, and the knot in Gerard’s chest eased completely. “Red room?”

  Finally. Someone in this town who got him. “Why does that room even exist?”

  John tilted his head back and laughed. “Sometimes I think Mrs. Beeker is playing us all
.”

  He smiled, but it didn’t linger. The pastor was too close to the truth. Story did seem like a game lately—a chess game, and Gerard felt like the pawn. He refused to get caught up in Charles’s manipulative moves or Bri’s strategic plays with her vulnerability and innocence.

  But she wasn’t playing, was she? Bri was different. Different from Charles, by far, but also very different from Kelsey. Kelsey was a knight—complicated, sneaky moves with swift side attacks.

  Bri was a queen—straightforward, no matter which direction she moved.

  Maybe it could be okay, loving someone like Bri.

  Not that he did. Or was even sure he was capable of it anymore. Not after watching his mom and her train-wreck of a love life. At least he knew he got his lack of skill in that department honestly.

  Enough. Gerard abruptly stood.

  John followed suit and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, man.”

  “You too. I guess I’ll be seeing you at the wedding.” Gerard shook his hand, then edged into the aisle.

  “Absolutely.” John gestured with the printed vows, his analyzing gaze once more sweeping Gerard’s face. It wasn’t as unsettling as it was convicting.

  Gerard lifted one hand in a wave and started up the aisle toward the double doors. He needed air. Needed something he couldn’t really name anymore yet couldn’t stop wanting since the moment he’d ridden into Story.

  “Is there anything I can pray about for you as you’re leaving town?”

  Gerard stopped in his tracks halfway up the aisle. This definitely wasn’t John’s first rodeo.

  He started to shake his head on default, then hesitated, the true answer burning in his heart. He only half turned to deliver his response. “My mom.”

  He waited for the barrage of questions, the curious prompts hidden under the guise of caring. Of wanting to “pray specifically,” which in his experience, was just code for “tell the entire church.” No one gossiped like a bunch of parishioners holding weekly prayer sheets, standing in line for sheet cake and coffee.

  But there was nothing. Nothing except John’s firm nod and quiet, assured answer. “I’m on it.”

  And then he left the room first, leaving Gerard standing on frayed carpet and wondering if maybe there was something to the whole church thing again after all.

  She hadn’t even kissed him, and yet somehow, she knew Gerard was an amazing kisser.

  Bri piped yet another pink flower on top of yet another petit four and wondered how many she could complete before she actually went insane. Or maybe it just was the pent-up frustration that had yet to dissipate after that almost-kiss.

  Had he pushed her away because of the interruption from Agnes? Or was it something else?

  Was it her?

  She squeezed the bag too hard, and a glob of icing tainted the next cake. She scraped it off with a plastic knife and tried again. She had to focus. Her friend was getting married in two days, and she still had many petit fours to make again. Thankfully Gerard had taken the paperwork to the church, saving her one errand and removing his distracting presence from the bakery while she tried to gather her thoughts.

  Which was a little like herding cats.

  “Bri, why don’t you take a break? Work on something else for a bit.” Mabel popped back into the kitchen, her eyes darting to the spot on the floor where she’d caught her and Gerard just an hour earlier.

  Bri knew, because she kept staring at it too.

  “It’s okay, Mabel. I got it.” She would do this, somehow. All of it. Casey would have the best wedding ever, if it killed her. The only kiss she needed to be thinking about was Casey and Nathan’s at the altar.

  “These arthritic hands aren’t done for completely—yet.” Mabel held out her purple-veined hands, her bright orange nail polish catching the bakery lights. “Come on, now, hand over that piping bag.”

  Bri reluctantly relinquished the icing. She really did need to call Casey, make sure she wasn’t forgetting something that her friend needed before Sunday. Had they talked at Taylor’s only that morning?

  Her chest tightened. Had it been only two weeks since Gerard rode into her life? Since he’d stirred up dormant feelings, upped her blood pressure, and made her feel more irritated—and alive—than she had been in years?

  Had it been only a day since Bri discovered the giant question mark hanging over her parents’ legacy?

  Her heart thundered in her chest, and she grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. She hated to look incompetent or overwhelmed—what if that showed Mabel and Agnes she couldn’t handle the bakery alone, nudging them toward selling it? She should just talk to them about it—but she wasn’t ready for their answer. The only thing worse than wondering about the future was realizing her greatest fears were actually heading her way.

  She needed a break. “I’ll just walk over to Casey’s house and check on a few things, then be right back.” Maybe if she caught her breath for a moment, and a little of her friend’s pre-wedding excitement, she could get refreshed and come back to knock out the remaining tasks.

  Mabel continued piping, without looking up. “Take your time, dear. This will all get done.” She’d already completed three flowers. “Agnes will hold down the fort up front.”

  “Thank you.” Bri grabbed two to-go coffees with cream before she could change her mind, then escaped outside. The November air chilled her cheeks and cooled the flush that came from working around a hot oven. If Casey was even half as overwhelmed and exhausted as Bri was, then she would also appreciate the afternoon caffeine pickup.

  She rounded the corner of Maple toward Casey’s house and glimpsed a tall figure strolling toward her. She squinted, trying to make the person out. The saunter and sway of his shoulders was familiar.

  Gerard.

  Her heart rate increased, and she clutched both coffees, halfway debating if she should duck behind the big oak tree to her left. He must be heading back from the church.

  Had he seen her yet?

  She squared her shoulders. She wouldn’t hide. This was her town, and like it or not, he was going to be leaving it—very soon.

  The thought brought relief and disappointment in equal measures.

  She’d sort that out later. Right now, she had other emotions to conceal. She refused to let Gerard know how he’d affected her in the kitchen. Until she knew exactly what had happened between them—or rather, had almost happened and why he’d stopped it—she would have to keep her own reaction stuffed down.

  Besides, she felt totally incapable of deciphering anything romantic with her parents’ love story on the line. Clearly, she wasn’t the best interpreter, after all. The thought knotted her stomach. She was refusing to let herself think about so much at this point, she wished she could just clear her brain completely.

  Bri pasted on what she hoped was a casual smile and raised her mug at Gerard. “Mission accomplished?”

  He nodded, removing his sunglasses and tucking them into the neck of his shirt. His eyes were a little drawn at the corners, as if he’d missed sleep the night before. Or maybe it’d just been as long a day for him as it’d been for her. “Everything’s been delivered to the pastor.”

  Bri took a sip of her coffee. “Thanks for doing that.”

  He ran a hand through his slightly rumpled hair as he nodded. “No big deal.” There were definitely creases by his brows too. Had something happened at the church? Or was he feeling the effects of their connection at the bakery too? She sort of hoped for the latter.

  “How’d you know I’d be heading back right now?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t.” If she had, she’d probably have chosen another route. “What do you mean?”

  He pointed to the second cup of coffee in her hand.

  “Oh!” She hesitated, then held it out to him. “But you don’t like my coffee.”

  “I told you last time—it’s growing on me.” He gently pushed her hand away, and the connection of his fingers on
her wrist sent sparks down her spine. “But I don’t want to be a coffee thief.”

  “It’s okay, Casey won’t care. Besides, you look like you need it more.”

  “Thanks.” He took the cup, then rolled his eyes at her, a humorous spark temporarily lifting the tired lines. “I think.”

  She looked worse, guaranteed. Thankfully he didn’t confirm that fact. “I really appreciate your help.” She didn’t want to get vulnerable, but he was going out of his way to assist her—and she still didn’t really understand why. He didn’t owe her anything. Did that mean he cared—about her? Or just felt sorry for the situation she’d gotten herself into?

  The wind shifted, ruffling his hair. “It’s no problem. I have the time, which is something you’re pretty short on.”

  That was considerate. Hope blossomed. Hope for what, exactly, she wasn’t sure, except when he was sweet like that it made her—

  “Besides, like I said, it gives me an up-close-and-personal angle for the second part of this article.”

  Hope smashed into a dozen broken pieces. The article. Right. They were back to that.

  She shoved aside the threat of disappointment. She already knew the truth—confirming it shouldn’t sting like this. He wasn’t interested—which was clearly why he’d pushed her away before they kissed. She’d misread those moments in the kitchen, bonding, connecting.

  Besides, who cared? Her emotions were just raw from the hectic day and the long lineup of tasks still before her. Gerard Fortier was still the last guy in the universe who would be her type, and she needed to remember that.

  Even if he was staring at her over the lid of his to-go cup with a steady gaze that made her legs morph into something resembling lumpy cake batter.

  “I’m sure the wedding will help give the article a great extra layer.” She started to step past him. “I better go check on Casey and compare to-do lists. We’re burning daylight.”

  “Do you think Charles will show up to the wedding?” A glint tinted Gerard’s eyes, one she couldn’t decipher and passed too quickly before she could try.