by Melissa Tagg
“I don’t know what you want from me, Chief—Sam.”
“I thought I was pretty clear on that. A little forthrightness.”
“Then I’ll be forthright. I’m managing the Everwood as best I can in Lenora’s absence. I don’t know where she is. I don’t know how to get in touch with her. I wish I did.”
He sidestepped a branch and looked around the debris-filled lobby. “When I first met Lenora, I was surprised that anyone would want to take on this old place. I wonder if she just got in over her head. Maybe she knew what was coming and decided to jump ship rather than stick around to watch the bank repossess.”
Mara wanted to argue but hadn’t she come to the same unwilling belief last night? That Lenora wasn’t coming back. She’d abandoned the Everwood, abandoned Mara.
Like too many others before her.
Just like that, Mara was eleven again, almost twelve. It was the eve of her birthday. There was a set table. A roast in the slow cooker. A pretty dress. A rehearsed speech.
Dad had walked away a year earlier, but he was coming back for her birthday. And Mara had a plan. She’d convinced Mom to make Dad’s favorite meal while she’d cleaned the whole house. They’d eat together, the three of them, just like they used to. Dad would realize how much he’d missed them.
But the plan hadn’t worked, hadn’t won Dad back. Instead, it was as if she’d lost Mom too. “He was never going to stay, Mara. I wish you hadn’t talked me into this.”
Sometimes she honestly wasn’t sure which was worse—Dad abandoning his family for a music career in Nashville or Mom so steeped in her own anger and grief that she just stopped seeing Mara. Stopped caring.
Sam cleared his throat, tugging Mara back to the present. He stared at her bandaged forehead. “You didn’t have that yesterday. The tree?”
She nodded. “Just a scrape.” She swallowed a long gulp of her coffee, prayed he didn’t notice the shaking of her hand.
“So what’s your plan? Just hang out here until the bank forces you out? Or are you actually trying to run this place?”
Again she used her coffee mug like a shield, drinking instead of answering.
Sam expelled a sigh. “Fine. I’ll help you deal with the tree then—”
“No. I mean, that’s okay. I can handle it.”
“I really don’t think you can.”
“Please . . . just . . . leave.”
He shifted his weight from foot to foot. But finally, with a nod and another sigh, he turned.
Before relief could set in, though, he faced her again. “Look, Maple Valley has an emergency relief fund for local businesses. We had a tornado a few years ago, followed by a flood only months later. Lots of businesses needed help getting back on their feet. So the city council started a grant program.”
“I’m not sure why you’re telling me this.”
“Neither am I. But if you’ve got some thought of keeping this place afloat . . . well, there’s a fund, there’s money available.” He shrugged. “Do with that what you will.”
He turned and strode across the wrecked porch, down what was left of the steps. He crossed the lawn, pausing near her car before pacing to his own.
“Hope you know he just took down your license plate number.”
Mara jumped at the voice, coffee mug jerking, liquid splashing over her shirt. She turned. The man from the basement—still shirtless, still wearing her pink bathrobe.
Marshall shouldn’t laugh. He really, really shouldn’t laugh. But the sight of her was too much. Coffee all over her shirt, wet hair windblown from the open door, cheeks tinted red from the cold. Bare feet again. Weren’t her toes frozen?
While he tried and failed to stifle his chuckles, Mara plunked her mug onto the counter nearby, her gaze traveling the length of him. His brown hair undoubtedly resembled a lion’s mane, and yesterday’s bristle was likely today’s beard. Between the grass-stained jeans, the too-small robe, and the lack of a shirt underneath, he had to look ridiculous.
But however he looked, he felt like a new man this morning. He’d slept last night. Five—maybe even six—hours in a row. For once, he hadn’t awakened in a medicine-induced fog either. No headache, not even a single twinge in a single muscle from sleeping in a sitting position.
Which was probably why he truly laughed now. Because he was in his first good mood in two years. “This seems fitting, doesn’t it? You doused me with rainwater last night. Now I scare you into spilling coffee on yourself this morning.”
“I could have third degree burns and here you are laughing.”
If she’d burned herself she’d be running for cold water right now, not standing there with her hands on her hips, glaring at him. “I hope you at least appreciate that I hung back in the dining room until your friend left. Figured I wasn’t dressed for company.”
“He’s not my friend, and if you’re trying to be funny, I’m not in the mood.” Her eyes flashed with annoyance. Call him batty, but he was caught between the urge to keep teasing—because, frankly, there was something charming about her cross temperament—and the desire to somehow make her feel better. Help her out. She did have a tree intruding on her house, after all.
The distant sound of a motor faded and Mara gave a heavy sigh before reaching for her cup once more and lifting it to her lips, only to find it empty.
“Surprised I didn’t hear you leave the basement,” he said. “Not exactly how I expected to spend last night—sleeping on a cement floor in a woman’s robe.”
“I’d like it back eventually, if you don’t mind.”
“Fine.” Didn’t take him more than a second to slip it off, hold it out. And wow, if her cheeks were red before . . .
“I didn’t mean now.”
“You are one hard woman to please, you know that? How’s your head, by the way?”
She blinked. Opened her mouth. Clamped it closed again.
“Don’t be mad. I saved you from the tree, remember?” No smile. Nothing. Fine, no more teasing. “I can see your day is not off to the best start. Is there anything I can do to—”
She snatched her robe from his outstretched hand. “What do you mean he took down my license plate number?”
Okay. “He stopped by your car. He took out a little notebook. Pretty blatant.” He shrugged. “Why? Does that bother you? Are you a criminal, Mara?” So much for no more teasing. What was with him this morning?
Mara’s freckles bunched and those aqua eyes of hers shot arrows. “Thank you for the help last night. Thank you for returning my robe. And, yes, thank you for waiting to make an appearance until he left. It’s bad enough the local police chief thinks I’m squatting. The last thing I need is him seeing you—like that—and wondering if any other funny business is going on here.”
Don’t say it, Marsh. Don’t even open your mouth. “Care to elaborate on what you mean by funny business?”
Could her eyes get any narrower? “But as there’s a tree in the lobby and foreclosure on the horizon, which I’m sure you’ve figured out from your eavesdropping—”
“Hey, I wasn’t—”
“—it’s probably best that you leave.” She spun away from Marshall again, trudging to what he assumed was the bed and breakfast’s check-in desk—a long counter dusty with storm debris. Rays of blue and green sunlight poured through the row of stained glass overhead, somehow unharmed by the storm.
He hadn’t noticed that last night, the stained glass. Hadn’t noticed much of any of it, really. Certainly not the ornate crown molding that matched the fancy banister of the open staircase. Nor the pillars that added a majestic air where this room opened into what looked like some kind of parlor or something. The floors needed a good sanding and fresh staining. But rip out the kaleidoscope of wallpaper, paint and polish and clean up the storm’s mess, and this bed and breakfast—this Everwood—could be something pretty nice.
Of course, he hadn’t seen the upstairs yet. If every room up there needed the kind of makeover this first f
loor did, the project would take more than a few weeks’ time. And more than a little money too.
“Marshall? Did you hear me?”
He’d moseyed away from Mara but turned to face her now. She was biting her lip again, all vexation toward him gone and replaced with an uncertainty painted into every feature of her pale face. Right, she’d asked him to leave.
“I’m sorry to be rude. It’s just . . . I have enough to deal with as it is.” A breeze cascaded through the open front door, a nearby broken window, riffling through her hair.
“I wish I had red hair, Daddy. Like Anne of Green Gables.”
For once, the memory of Laney’s voice didn’t feel like torture. And it hit him—that, yes, he would’ve liked to stay here. A day, maybe two. He could help move that tree off the porch. Maybe he should offer.
But there was pleading in Mara’s eyes and it wasn’t for his continued presence. “I guess I’ll take off then.”
She only nodded.
An unspoken goodbye balancing between them, he mirrored her nod and turned.
Despite the dazzling sun and the clear blue sky, cold needled his bare skin as he picked his way across the ruined porch. The scent of rain still lingered in the air and the grass underfoot was damp. He reached his truck in seconds, rounding to the passenger side first. He nabbed a long-sleeved shirt from his suitcase and pulled it over his head.
He couldn’t help another glance at the house. It was as in need of some heavy TLC outside as in—a good scraping, fresh paint, new shutters. Still, there was something regal about the Everwood. Something winsome and beckoning. He almost wished the foreclosure had already taken place. Then there’d be a FOR SALE sign in the yard and . . .
You would’ve loved it, Laney. We’d have had a heck of a time talking your mom into it, but with enough begging from you and bribing from me, we could’ve done it.
His slow release of breath expelled the usual sharpness of his pain. The ache was still there. But for the first time in a long time, he didn’t sink with it nor run from it nor beat against it until it changed shapes, morphing into anger or blame or guilt. Anything to spare him from the force of his grief.
Instead, he simply dragged his gaze from the house and walked on steady legs to the other side of the truck. He would’ve piled into the driver’s seat then. He would’ve turned the keys in the ignition, steered the truck onto the gravel lane that led away from the house, and navigated his way back to the highway . . .
If not for the glint of gloss-print that caught his eye just as his hand gripped the door handle.
No way.
Before his disbelief could gain hold, he bent to retrieve the wrinkled paper near a back wheel. The moment sunlight landed on the image, his heart constricted. Laney’s house. How on God’s green earth had that magazine page survived the storm?
He honestly could’ve cried. He could’ve plunked down on wet grass and bawled his eyes out and—
The blare of his phone lanced into the quiet. He dug it from the back pocket of his stained jeans, one hand still gripping the paper, and glanced at the screen. Alex.
He lifted the phone. “Hey, Alex.” He couldn’t stop looking at it—Laney’s house. That blue door she thought was so pretty. The porch swing. The tree. “Let me guess—Beth told you to call.”
His brother-in-law laughed. “She didn’t want to be overbearing by calling herself.”
“My sister? Overbearing? I can’t possibly imagine it. Listen, man, about the other day—”
“You don’t have to say it, Marsh.”
He let himself wander away from the car, toward the arched arbor at the side of the house, a sprinkle of violets pushing through the damp, brown earth around it. “I do, though. I have to apologize. Not just for the other day, but—”
He stepped under the arbor and gasped at the sight of the Everwood’s back yard. It stretched to where a line of trees stood guard around the property. Sunlight glowed over a low fog that rolled into the grove. To the west, rope and stakes cordoned off a garden in need of attention.
A man could live a good life on land like this. The air smelled of spring—loamy and fresh—and the March breeze, though weighted with a chill, was a hopeful whisper.
“Marshall? You stopped talking mid-sentence. Where are you, anyway?”
“The middle of nowhere. Iowa.” Laney could’ve run to her heart’s content here. Oh, how she used to love running, even in their cramped townhouse, pumping her legs and swinging her arms.
“Iowa. Huh. Well, just tell me you’re doing good so I can tell Beth you’re doing good.” Alex paused. “Tell me you’re doing okay so I can know you’re okay.” He said it like the partner and friend he was.
Marshall looked again at the picture of Laney’s house before lifting his gaze to the weather-beaten B&B. “I’m doing okay, Alex.” Maybe even more than okay.
He pocketed his keys and strode toward the porch. He couldn’t leave yet. Once upon a time, he’d been a likable, dependable guy. Surely he could conjure up the old Marshall long enough to convince Mara to let him stay—at least to help with the tree, if nothing else.
The sharp thwack of Marshall’s axe sliced into the otherwise quiet of an unfolding twilight—the sky a swirl of pastels, the peeking western sun a pale sliver.
Mara dropped an armful of chopped wood onto the pile at the side of the house. She turned in time to see Marshall once again lift the rusty axe up and swing it down with forceful precision. A chill niggled down her spine, as packed with awe as it was the frosty cold.
What on earth had possessed her to tell Marshall he could stick around for the day?
And why wasn’t he wearing a coat? Hints of spring might have hovered over the dewy ground earlier this morning, but on the cusp of night, the air had turned crisp. Winter hadn’t gone into hibernation just yet. Nevertheless, Marshall wore only an unbuttoned flannel over the gray shirt underneath. The layers weren’t enough to hide the strain of his muscles as the axe came up again.
Hours and hours he’d worked, hacking away at the fallen tree and wrestling it from the porch while Mara cleaned up inside, sweeping glass and debris, taping a quilt into place over the broken sitting room window, emptying buckets of rainwater. Marshall had barely stopped long enough to gulp down the peanut butter and jelly sandwich Mara brought him around lunchtime before getting back to work.
Once he’d finally cleared the porch, he’d started axing the tree into firewood. A chainsaw would’ve made the job easier, but all he’d been able to find in the garden shed out back was the axe. For the past hour and a half, he’d chopped while Mara gathered and piled the pieces.
And over and over, she’d replayed this morning. “I’d like to stay and help clean up, if you’ll let me. I know you turned down that cop when he offered, but . . . it’s a tree, Mara. You can’t move it by yourself.” He’d paused, looked down at her, as much of a giant of a man in the light of day as he’d seemed last night.
Handsome too, even with that wild, windblown hair and an untrimmed beard. Not that it unnerved her or anything. It was just a fact.
Okay, fine, it completely unnerved her. So why, then, had she just stood there, mute, staring back at him until he finally spoke again? “Besides, I don’t have anywhere else I need to be.”
“Mara?”
She blinked. Marshall faced her now, the axe hanging loosely from one hand. Great, she’d been staring again. “It’s almost suppertime,” she blurted.
He glanced into the distance, at the fading colors of the horizon. “Guess it is.”
She patted her work gloves together, dirt dusting the air. “I don’t have much in the way of groceries. I’ve been eating boxed mac ‘n’ cheese for days.”
His lips tugged upward and she noticed for the first time the creases that bracketed his mouth underneath his whiskers. More lines than dimples, but the effect was the same. The edges of his flannel shirt lifted in the breeze. “I haven’t had that stuff in forever.”
“
I eat it all the time. Lenora says I have the taste buds of a five-year-old. Funny thing is, I can cook. I’m totally not useless in the kitchen. Yet I could happily eat mac ‘n’ cheese and tater tots and sugary cereal every day of the week.” All day they’d worked in silence, and now she was rambling?
“Five-year-olds get all the good food. I should know, I had my—” He stopped, seemed to catch his breath. “I have a niece and nephew.” He turned away long enough to stick the axe into the stump at his feet before facing her again and nudging his head toward the house. “Lenora. She’s the owner?”
Mara nodded.
“And she’s . . .”
“Not here.”
“Kinda picked up on that.” Another smile. Not the brief smirk from this morning when he’d teased her about the spilled coffee or even the half-grin of seconds ago over a conversation about mac ‘n’ cheese of all things. But the real thing—a smile that reached all the way into his gray eyes and spoke of a newfound something that hadn’t been there last night or even earlier today when he’d first come up from the basement.
A measure of peace. She recognized it like it was her reflection in a mirror eight months ago, her first day at the Everwood . . .
When she’d prayed her first prayer in years. Thank you, God, for bringing me here.
In general, she wasn’t convinced the prayers of a girl who’d never done all that much with her life mattered to God. But the gratitude had spilled from her all the same. She’d almost believed in that moment that God had led her here. Lenora, with her strong faith, certainly would’ve said that was the case.
Is that why Marshall had come back to the house this morning—because it beckoned to him as it had her back in July? Just how long was he planning to stay? Overnight? Why hadn’t she asked him this morning? Or this afternoon?
Why didn’t she ask him now instead of just standing here, mute all over again, while the cold reached through her jacket?
Enough. She snapped on her heel and started back for the house. She needed to come up with a plan. Figure out what to do about that mortgage and the bank and Lenora. Although, really, what could she do about any of it? What she really needed to do was get this bed and breakfast some paying guests. They’d had a steady enough stream of visitors in the fall months, all the way until Christmas actually.
