The Key to Love

by Betsy St. Amant

  Maybe she needed the push of losing the Puff to extend herself. Could it be that the sisters selling to Charles—weaselly as he was—could be a blessing in disguise for her? She’d never see it that way. But it could be true.

  He wanted the best for her. He knew that was true.

  He turned and set the crumb-ladened cake plate on the desk. When he turned back around, Bri was perched on the edge of his bed, thumbing through one of the books she’d plucked from the shelf.

  Uh-oh. Not good.

  He cautiously approached. “What’s that?” Hopefully she couldn’t hear his heart threatening to pounce out of his chest—and hopefully she wouldn’t turn to the open laptop screen behind her. His fingers itched to grab the machine.

  She held up the book with a smile. “The Notebook.”

  Oy. He fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Is that next on the book club list?” He sank down next to her and took the volume.

  She smirked. “Why, are you going to come crash that session and argue everyone’s interpretation too?”

  “If it’s on this, I sure will.” He wiggled the book at her.

  She snatched it back. “This is a good story. True love, against the odds.”

  “Hardly.”

  She bumped him with her shoulder. “How can you argue the romance of The Notebook, of all things? It’s a new classic.”

  “How is it romantic? They cheated.”

  Bri opened her mouth, then closed it as his logic dawned in her eyes. “I suppose they did. But Allie wasn’t married yet.”

  “Engagement isn’t enough of a commitment?” It sure hadn’t been to Kelsey.

  Gerard rubbed his hand down his face, determined not to tread that path. Not tonight. Not when Bri was three inches to his left, all glossy-lipped and smelling like vanilla and reminding him of all the reasons why a relationship could be a very good thing.

  But the memories taunted, begging to be remembered. The voices whispered—he wasn’t enough. Wasn’t enough to earn her. Wasn’t enough to keep her. He fell back on the bed and covered his eyes with his bent elbow.

  Bri’s voice sounded above him. “I’m sorry. Hit a nerve?”

  He lowered his arm, staring at the ceiling. “My fault.” He was slipping. He gritted his teeth.

  She flopped down next to him on her side, propped on her elbow. “Sometimes the past sucks.”

  “Only when it doesn’t stay where it belongs.” He shook his head. “Something about this town—something about . . .” His voice trailed off before he could say “you,” and he realized how weary he sounded. Weary, and sort of old. His birthday loomed, and the joy of the cake she’d made faded a little. He hadn’t accomplished nearly what he’d wanted to by thirty. What if he never did?

  What if he ended up alone like his mom?

  The thought churned his gut, and he briefly closed his eyes. This wasn’t him. He wasn’t sappy. Romantic. Yearning.

  Bri’s vulnerable voice pierced the throbbing in his head. “Something about me?” Her words lingered barely above a whisper.

  Desire to kiss her warred with desire to gain back control—to have, and keep, the upper hand. He didn’t need her. Or any woman. And he had to draw the line in the sand now.

  “Did I say that?” He pushed himself onto his side, turning toward her and meeting her gaze full-on. The boldness of the move seemed to affect her newfound confidence, and she faltered at his proximity just like he’d expected she would.

  “You—you almost did.” Her eyes dipped to his lips and back, and a pink tint coated her cheeks. “I thought you almost did, anyway. So, what about this . . . town?”

  She meant what about her. But he could answer both at the same time. “It’s like a spell. Makes me think about things I haven’t thought about in forever. Makes me want things.” As if on its own, proving his point, his hand reached out and traced the line of her jaw. So much for his battle for control.

  She closed her eyes, her voice growing husky. “What do you want?”

  To kiss her. Her parted lips practically asked him to, and boy, he wanted to—every fiber of his being demanded it. He smoothed back a lock of her hair, tracing the curve of her shoulder. Against his own volition, he eased an inch closer, his hand finding her hip and tugging her toward him. She tilted her chin up, eyes closed.

  But his mind was too jumbled. The last two weeks had been messy—he and Bri were too messy, for that matter. She’d conjured up all kinds of old longings and emotions, had reached down and soothed a scarred-over sore spot with that cake she’d baked for him. If he kissed her now, he would just be acting on impulse and desire.

  That wasn’t right.

  Heat thrummed through his veins, but he reined it in. No more games. Bri deserved better than that, and he wouldn’t touch her again until he knew he was doing it with the right motive—until his heart was as convinced as his body.

  Besides, they were alone in his room. Talk about a bad idea. He needed to shut that door, quick—and probably open the tangible one across the room.

  It took every ounce of willpower he could muster, but he pulled back, letting his hand drop to his side despite it itching to clamp back on her hip. He rolled over onto his back. “Thanks again for the cake.”

  “You’re welcome.” A thousand question marks danced in her eyes, and he hated leaving her that way. She sat upright. “Gerard . . .”

  “I know.” This was their second almost-kiss, and he’d yet to explain either. How could he explain sheer terror, like when he’d stared into the eyes of a black bear in the Colorado wilds or parachuted out of an airplane? Yet she terrified parts of him he didn’t know existed. “It’s that I don’t—it’s not you—”

  “It’s her.”

  Statement, not a question, and that hurt. Because Bri had it all wrong. She thought he still had feelings for Kelsey, and she couldn’t be more incorrect. Yet how could he argue when he couldn’t tell her the real reason?

  “It’s okay, I get it. Old relationships die hard.” Her voice cracked as she scooted toward the edge of the bed and braced herself on the mattress to stand up.

  He might not be able to explain himself yet, but he definitely couldn’t let her think that. “No, you don’t get it. Can you just trust me on this one?” He sat up just as Bri’s hand knocked into his laptop.

  Before he could react, she straightened the tilted monitor she’d bumped, her eyes dropping to the screen. To the document full of her name, some in caps, some lowercase. Some spaced. Some ran together.

  Oh no. Heat gripped his chest in a vise.

  She met his gaze, the question marks turning into something undecipherable. The corner of her lips tightened. A frown? A smile?

  He couldn’t tell, couldn’t stop his heart from racing a marathon. “Bri—”

  “Well, you certainly spelled it right.”

  He closed his eyes, embarrassment threatening to drown him in waves. “Bri.”

  She set the copy of The Notebook on his nightstand and strode toward the door. She lifted her hand in a wave, her face a neutral mask he couldn’t interpret. “See you at the wedding.”

  He flopped back onto the bed and covered his face with his arm as the door clicked shut behind her.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  He’d doodled her name. As much as one could doodle on a computer, anyway.

  But why?

  Bri tossed on her side, squishing her pillow under her head for the tenth time since her failed attempt to sleep an hour earlier. If she didn’t know better, she’d assume it meant something—sort of akin to a woman drawing hearts and squiggles around her boyfriend’s name. Not that Gerard was a hearts-and-squiggles kind of guy. But he wasn’t the kind of guy to type someone’s name without a reason either.

  Apparently she’d gotten in his head. Was that what he’d meant by there was “something about this town”?

  Something about her?

  Bri abruptly sat up, straightening the twisted neck of her long slee
p shirt. She couldn’t lay there any longer, playing their second almost-kiss in her mind over and over like a scratched record. Nor could she figure any reason for her typed name. She knew what she wanted it to mean—which only proved how exhausted she was. She wasn’t Gerard’s type, and him not kissing her—while embarrassing—was a blessing in disguise. She couldn’t afford to get any more emotionally tangled up than she already was right now.

  Especially not with someone a week or less away from roaring out of town on his motorcycle and never looking back.

  No more gifts and special treatment. The article would be what it would be—she didn’t need to waste any more time buttering Gerard up. She had to start focusing on what really mattered. Like saving the Puff and finding out the truth behind her parents’ story.

  But even as she climbed the stairs to the attic, she knew that wasn’t fully accurate. She hadn’t been buttering Gerard up. She wasn’t bribing him into writing what she wanted—she cared. A little more than she wanted to admit.

  That urge to bake him the cake had been divine, she was sure of it. She had never felt so prompted by the Lord to give something away—more so even than the times she’d discounted baked goods for single moms and snuck Mr. Mac extra macarons and gave coffee to the homeless guy passing through town on his rusty bicycle.

  That cake had been for a purpose—evidenced by the look in his eyes when he’d lifted the cardboard lid.

  But her role in that purpose had to come to an end.

  Bri grabbed the letters from the trunk and settled into her typical spot. She curled her bare legs up beside her and shivered, wishing she’d thought to haul a blanket up there with her. Maybe the answers wouldn’t take long to find.

  But as she flipped through the worn letters, nothing jumped out at her. No more clues, no more smudged letters. No more erased mistakes.

  Had she imagined the whole thing?

  She wanted to think that was true. She wanted to carefully tuck the packet of letters back into the depths of the trunk and cling to her memories. And leave them untarnished.

  But Gerard’s voice, nudging her toward the truth about her view of Paris, the truth about her heart for the people of Story, the truth about her book club friend’s marriage, urged her forward.

  What if there was more unwelcome truth here to discover?

  She ran her finger over the flap of the letter open in her lap. And suddenly a new memory surfaced, of her mom doing the same. Standing at the Formica counter in their kitchen, her expression unreadable—almost sad—as she held the envelope along with the rest of the stack of mail. Sunbeams streaming behind her through the kitchen window lit her hair like a halo. The memory was vague, fuzzy—but real.

  Wasn’t it?

  Bri remembered that light halo. Remembered how stray hairs from her mother’s hastily swept back braid shone silver in the sun. She thought her mom had looked like an angel.

  The memory was real—as real as the foreign stamp on the back of the envelope. But if Bri was old enough to remember, then she must have been at least five years old, maybe six.

  Her father had been back for years by then.

  She stared at the letter—the one with the smudged initials—until her eyes blurred. T.R. The initials didn’t ring a bell. She closed her eyes and racked her brain for any explanation other than the one she feared, but she came up empty.

  Until another memory surfaced. Her father, yelling. A slammed bedroom door. Her mother’s whispered pleas from the hallway into the wood. Mascara smears on her cheeks. Her expression transforming into a forced smile as she caught Bri watching from the bathroom doorway down the hall. She remembered those mascara smudges, just as vividly as she remembered the light halo.

  Why hadn’t she remembered until now?

  She had to be mistaken. Her parents didn’t fight. Her dad could get tense sometimes, but her mother always worked her soothing magic on him. Besides, that was never personal. It was over work or their tight finances. Of course he’d get stressed out at times, carrying the responsibility of a family and dealing with grief from the loss of his dad. No one was perfect. They’d loved each other fiercely—until the day they died. Together.

  So why the sudden memories of foreign mail and smeared makeup?

  Bri gathered the letters together and stood, not wanting to look further. She must be projecting her emotional state onto her past. Those memories weren’t real—she was probably just imagining them to explain her fears. Her parents’ love story was one for the books. She refused to let one little smudge change that.

  Relieved the unnecessary burden was now behind her, Bri knelt before the trunk and tucked the letters carefully back into place. She probably shouldn’t come up here again for a while. She needed to give her mind a break, get past Casey’s wedding and the fate of the Pastry Puff—and Gerard’s pending departure—and leave history alone for a bit.

  Bri squinted into the trunk. To avoid the temptation to pull the letters out again soon, she really should bury them deeper. If they were harder to get to, maybe she wouldn’t bother with them for a while—or at least it’d give her the chance to change her mind if she opened the trunk.

  She quickly pulled out a folded patchwork quilt and a handful of books, then two worn shoeboxes. She’d stick the letters in the shoebox for protection, then put everything else on top.

  Bri slid off the lid of the shoebox—the one containing her mother’s old handkerchiefs and lace table doilies—and shifted the contents to make room for the stack of bundled letters. A faded, yellow photograph—an old one she’d never noticed before—lay in the bottom of the box.

  She picked it up. A man in a brown suit stared back at her, only half smiling. He had dark, slicked-back hair, a strong jawline, and a thin mustache. Her heart rate accelerated, and she licked her dry lips. It was just a picture. Maybe one of her father’s extended family members? An uncle she had never met?

  That had to be it. She closed her eyes and turned it over, her heart thrumming desperate with hope. Please . . .

  Bri opened her eyes, and a familiar cursive script mocked her.

  From Paris, with love

  T.R.

  Gerard would typically rather face a fire-breathing dragon in a dark cave than a bride on the day of her wedding. He knew better. But regardless, he needed quotes for the feature, and he’d be more likely to get them earlier that morning than right before—or right after—the ceremony.

  Besides, Casey had seemed pretty chill thus far. It shouldn’t be that bad.

  The early Sunday sun shone on his bare forearms as he knocked on the closed door of the little townhouse Mrs. Beeker had directed him to. He stepped back on the covered porch, nearly knocking over a mini tower of pumpkins, and turned to squint toward the unseasonably blue sky. At least she’d have great weather for the event.

  If he ever got married, the sky was bound to start churning black clouds.

  A series of thuds sounded against the door, hard and loud. Gerard flinched. What in the world? He knocked again. “Casey?”

  Another thud followed an angry wail. “I told you to forget it!”

  This felt like one of those defining moments, where he could turn away whistling and pretend like nothing had happened or knock again and possibly get sucked into a bridezilla vortex he could never escape.

  He took two steps away, then sighed and knocked again, hard enough this time to bounce the bronze and gold wreath against the door. No answer. Just a steady stream of muffled thuds against the frame. Thump. Thump.

  He took a chance and tried the knob. Open. “Casey?” He stepped into the house, halfway shielding his eyes with his hand in case she was in a pre-wedding preparation state of undress.

  A red beanbag narrowly missed his head. He ducked.

  “I don’t even know you anymore!” Casey appeared in a fuzzy bathrobe around the corner of what seemed to be the kitchen. Her dramatic wedding makeup was already in place but smeared around the eyes like a raccoon. Curlers dotted
her dark brown hair. She looked like a grandma from another era. Or maybe an alien.

  Gerard held up both hands in defense at her raised fist, loaded with a blue beanbag. “What do you mean anymore? You barely know me at all.”

  She blinked. “You’re not Nathan.”

  He shook his head in agreement. Thank goodness.

  Casey wilted against the doorframe of the kitchen, lowering the beanbag to her side in defeat. “I thought you were Nathan. Back to finish our fight.”

  He approached, cautiously, like one might an injured boar. Not that he had a lot of experience with wild pigs, but it seemed like it’d be similar. He tripped over a stuffed animal on the ground and caught himself before stepping on some sort of preschool board game. “Can I have that?”

  She handed over the beanbag.

  “Glad it wasn’t a ninja star.”

  She smirked, but the smile didn’t make it all the way to her eyes. “They’re from the girls’ cornhole game. Harmless.”

  “Unless you’re throwing with an arm like Nolan Ryan.” He crossed his arms over his chest, stepping backward toward the dining room table. He stopped just short of planting his jeans-clad butt in what looked like a heap of grape jelly. “Should I ask if you’re okay, or ask if you need a glass of water?”

  “Neither.”

  Apparently what she needed was a maid. He’d probably be standing around crying too if his apartment looked like this.

  Not that he was ever home long enough to notice.

  He eased past her into the kitchen, which was littered with paper towels and dirty dishes, to the fridge. He squinted at the meager contents and finally pulled out a bottle of water. It was half-empty, and there were some kind of sticky-looking fingerprints on the label, but moms didn’t care about germs, right? He handed it to her.