Here to Stay (Where Love Begins Book #2) (11 page)

Jessie beamed. “Then let’s talk numbers.” She rounded the car once more then angled to face him. “Have to be honest. What I can afford to pay you isn’t anywhere close to what you could probably get if you advertised. You wouldn’t believe what some enthusiasts would plunk down.” She tapped the roof of the car. “Especially for a ’bird with this kind of detailing.”

“I’m not looking to make a bundle.”

Jessie gave him a figure—one that sounded good to him. And within minutes, they sealed the deal. Just a little paperwork and they could call it done. Jessie waved to his mom before shaking Blake’s hand once more. She’d have a check to him within a few days. Which meant tonight he needed to find the vehicle title and registration and work out all the details—not to mention carve out time to shop for a new ride.

After Jessie drove off, he turned back to the house, but Mom had already gone inside—Kevin with her.

Inside the house, the smell of chocolate chip cookies led him to the kitchen. Mom turned from the stainless-steel stove when he walked in, hot pad over her fingers and pan in hand. “I suddenly remembered I’d popped these into the oven before Jessie arrived,” she said as he trailed to the middle of the room. She set the pan on the counter and turned.

“You baked?”

The recessed lights overhead spotlighted Mom’s eye roll. She tossed her hot pad at him and laughed. “Don’t sound so surprised. I am the only one allowed to make fun of my kitcheny skills.”

“Why would I bother making fun of your cooking ability when I could tease you for using words like
kitcheny
.” He reached for a cookie but stopped at her playful swat.

“So nice to have you home, son.” Mom’s voice dripped with sarcasm, but he didn’t miss the smile she shot his direction. Everybody’d always said he got his sense of humor from his mother, while Ryan got Dad’s serious streak.

Mom pulled a plate from the cupboard and motioned Blake to sit. Felt like old times, sitting at the table in the kitchen Mom rarely actually cooked in. Modern appliances couldn’t steal the homey feel of the room—basket of fruit in the middle of the table, the refrigerator plastered with photos, wood sign with the words
Bon
Appetit
hung over the doorway—where Mom used to sit with Ryan and Blake after school. The rule had been one Oreo for every tidbit they told her about their day.

Now Mom placed a plate in front of him with two gooey cookies. He took a bite, gasping when it hit his tongue, sputtering. “Whoa. Warm.”

Mom poured him a glass of water. “That’s what you get for mocking your mother.”

He gulped the cool liquid. “Tasted good. Even if I do have third-degree burns in my mouth.”

“Well, it better taste good.” Mom reached for something at the back of the counter, held it out in front of him.

And he burst into laughter. A plastic tub full of Pillsbury cookie dough.

He was halfway through the cookie when Mom sat down across from him. He could feel her stare as he ate, heard the unasked questions she let linger between them. Mom had always been amazing like that—without a word able to draw him out.

“You want to know why I decided to sell the car so quickly.”

“Or not quickly, as it were. You’ve had it for six years now.”

True. “Always figured I would eventually. I don’t have enough car appreciation to own something so fancy.” He
finished off the first cookie and looked up. “Think Dad will be mad?”

Mom nibbled on her own snack. “You’re almost thirty years old, Blake. The time for determining your actions based on your father’s and my approval is long since passed.”

“Just don’t want him thinking it was some act of denial. Truth is, a friend said something to me about not holding on to the past.”

“That’
s my past. I’ve let go.”
Autumn had said it as if it were easy.

He fingered the rim of his plate. “Anyway, I guess she got me thinking.”

Mom’s eyebrows raised. “Ah, she’s a she. I like this.”

A rush of warmth passed over him. “It’s not like that.”

“What’s her name?”

“Mom . . . ”

“I just want to know if her first name would go well with your last name.”

Frankly, it was probably
her
last name that’d cause the most shock if he were to say it. Dad had literally burst a blood vessel in his eye the day he found out Ryan was dating “that Kingsley girl.”

Oh no. Kingsleys and Hunzikers weren’t meant to mix.
And is it stuffy in
here?
“Did you remember to turn the stove off?”

Mom jumped from her chair. “Goodness gracious, you’d think I left my brain in bed this morning.” She marched to the stove, poked a button, and turned to face him. “Anyhow, because I’m a good mother who now and then chooses to respect her son’s privacy, I will refrain from mentioning the fact that you’re blushing right now and stop fishing for information.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“And for the record, no, I don’t think your father will mind. Besides, he has more on his mind to worry about than what vehicle you’re driving.”

Of course. The hotel. The town. Was he up for reelection anytime soon? One or all of them must be the cause for the dark circles under his father’s eyes and the tiredness that seemed to pull on his features.

“You know what, Mom? I think I’ll start checking into townhouses. I should get out of your hair.”

Mom used a spatula to drop another cookie onto his plate. “You’re not in our hair. We even like Kevin.” She sat once more, then leveled him with a serious look. “But if you want to do something to make your father happy, here’s a thought: go see that plane.”

A bite lodged in his throat. “Already gave the keys back to Dad.”

“They’re in his top dresser drawer.”

“Mom, I—”

“You don’t have to fly it. Just take a look. Your father spent hours poring over custom paint options.”

“It’s too much of a reminder.” He’d only see Ryan jumping and hear Shawn yelling and . . . He closed his eyes, willing away the sudden smell of the airplane’s interior fusing with crisp sky air, the taste of fear and the numb of shock.

“What if it helps you remember the good times?” At only his sigh for an answer, Mom’s shoulders dropped. “Please, Blake, just go see it.” She turned then, walked from the room.

A shameful weight settled over him. How could he ignore such a simple request? Maybe she had a point. Maybe seeing the plane would help him remember the good times.

But he could remember those anywhere. Like sitting out on the porch roof of the Kingsley Inn, Autumn at his side. No, he didn’t need to sit in a cockpit to remember the good stuff.

But speaking of the inn, that reminded him. After another heaved sigh, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Only took a couple rings for Hilary’s voice to sound on the other end.

“Hey, Hils, question for you. Does your oldest brother still work at the bank?”

6

T
he rumble and hum of a puddle-jumper’s ascent whooshed overhead as Blake trekked from the Whisper Shore Municipal Airport office building toward Hangar 7. Wispy clouds hazed the sun and fiddled with the pattern of the airplane’s vapor trail.

Blake used to dream about this—claiming a hangar spot and Cessna all his own—back in the days when he was taking flying lessons from Ike Delaney. Used to imagine himself flying the skies on secret missions for one government entity or another.

Now only apprehension and a touch of nausea accompanied his walk to the hangar.

Blake thudded to a halt in front of the metal building that stored his parents’ well-meaning gift—the plane he knew he’d never fly. He hadn’t been able to get Mom’s pleading expression from his head. So after a morning spent walking the entire downtown—talking to business owners, figuring out who planned to host a booth at the festival, convincing those who were reluctant to give the event a chance—he’d forced himself to make the drive out to the small airport.

A gust of wind chugged past him now, rattling the hangar frame.

“You going in or what?”

Delaney. Blake turned to see the pilot covering the distance to the hangar. “I didn’t see your truck at the office.”

“Took an early lunch. Just pulled into the lot when I saw you lugging out here.” Delaney stopped in front of Blake, the camo jacket he’d worn as long as Blake had known him buttoned halfway up. The burly man had the girth of a wrestler, but the gentleness of a teddy bear. “Didn’t get to hug you at the party last week, Blaze. Or was that two weeks ago now? Took you long enough to get out here.”

Blake stepped into the older man’s offered embrace. “I’ve missed you, Ike.” Missed their talks. The pilot had somehow become Blake’s go-to mentor during his angst-filled teen years, when he’d sullenly considered himself a second-class Hunziker compared to his perfect football-star brother.

How idiotic he’d been. So much he’d taken for granted.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you weren’t too overjoyed about the Cessna when your father made the presentation.” Delaney stepped around him and gave the hangar door a hefty pull, sliding it open.

“I haven’t flown since . . .” Should it really still be so hard to produce the words this many years after the accident? He stepped into the hangar, blinking as he adjusted to the dark. The oily smell of gasoline mixed with metal and dust, at once familiar and jarring. He used to think of it as the scent of adventure.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t pick it back up.” Delaney slapped on the lights as his words bounced against the metal walls. “If you want to.”

And there it sat. The sport-utility Cessna 206 with the 310-horse turbocharged power plant. Blake could rattle off
the specs like his own birth date. With a high-wing design, black nose, and white body, it was a thing of beauty.

“It’s perfect,” Blake murmured. It had the body of a bird and the words
The Blaze
printed in red script near the tail.

“Got the keys?”

Blake shook his head. “Gave ’em back to Dad.” There wasn’t a chance he was going to sit in that cockpit. Not a chance he’d curl his fingers around the controls or prop his feet on the steering pedals. No, he’d only come to appease Mom.

“What’d you do that for?”

“Told you. I don’t fly anymore.” Except . . . except maybe for the first time since Ryan’s accident, a prick of desire needled him now. Barely enough to sting, but it was there.

Delaney clapped a palm on Blake’s shoulder. “Nope, you said you haven’t flown since your brother’s death. Not the same thing as saying you don’t fly anymore.”

“You can’t understand, Ike.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Blake’s voice hit a low note. “I watched my brother fall to his death in a skydiving accident.” Had he ever said it out loud? “You know what
that
feels like?”

“I know what it’s like to hurt, son.” Delaney’s gaze seared through him.

It was a pointless conversation. Delaney hadn’t been there, didn’t know the whole story. Blake’s conscience still got a kick out of stabbing his dreams. By day he could usually ward off the flashbacks with enough effort. At night, he was powerless.

And in the mornings when the dreams faded away, they always left the same thing in their wake—accusation, his familiar bedfellow.

He’d
convinced Ryan the jump was just what he needed to clear his head after the loss of his football career—an injury
his senior year in college—and his girlfriend, too. Ryan had listened, jumped, died. Simple—and devastating—as that.

Except it wasn’t quite that cut and dried. There’d been questions after the accident. Drugs—not the prescription kind—identified in his brother’s system. Hard to know whether it had been the drugs or a possible defect in the chute that caused the accident. And then there was the question no one voiced, but certainly everyone entertained:
Was
it an accident . . . or a choice?

After all, Ryan had lost so much. What if he’d finally just given up . . . and opted not to deploy his own parachute?

They’d never know. Blake forced his fists to loosen and his fingers to stretch. But what did the
why
s and
how
s matter now anyway? Ryan had died a death orchestrated by Blake’s recklessness. Nothing could change that.

Blake swallowed the familiar lump clogging his throat.

After a moment of strained silence, Delaney folded his arms and leaned against the hangar wall. “Why’d you come home?”

Blake ran one hand along the underbelly of the plane. “Tired of playing nomad. Got this feeling in my gut it was time.” This was safer—light conversation, catching up.

“And now that you’re here?”

Blake shrugged. “I’m coordinating the festival. You heard that, right?” In the past two days he’d lined up musicians and entertainment. Ordered strings of lights and decorations. Started piecing together a schedule. He was beginning to think he might actually have a knack for organizing events.

Or maybe it just felt good to be entrusted with something important.

And so far, he’d managed without Autumn’s help. He’d called the inn a couple times since Wednesday morning’s incident with the Dylan dude. But Harry answered every time
and insisted she was busy. Couldn’t help feeling badly that their little deal hadn’t worked out. He might be managing the festival just fine, but Autumn seemed to really need the help around her inn.

“Somehow never took you as the party planner type.” Delaney pulled off his baseball cap, scratched his scalp, and then replaced the hat.

“Maybe not, but it’s something to do. Dad’s hoping it will impress the state tourism board if he can get some board members up here. Said there might be grant dollars in it if we do.” Apparently he had invited the board members behind Victoria Kingsley’s back. The family feud lived on.

Blake faced the front of the plane now. Like a live being, it stared him down through Lexar-glass eyes over a pointed nose.

Could he take to the skies once more?

“I’ve got another set of keys in the office,” Delaney offered. “I can be back in five.”

Maybe he could do it. Bleach the past from his mind, and in its place, the white of the clouds and the thrill of the flight.

He considered the thought for all of a minute before shaking his head. It wasn’t fear that racked his nerves . . . but certainty. He didn’t belong in the skies anymore.

Which begged the question—where
did
he belong? Once the festival ended, would there be a place for Blake in Whisper Shore anymore? Sure, there was the promise of the city job. But did a job equal purpose? Belonging?

Delaney leaned against the side of the plane, studying Blake. “You seem more pensive than I remember. I mean, you were always the dreamer-type, even as a kid. Always thought there was a sort of visionary in you. But feels like . . . like your spark might’ve gone out some.”

Some? “I don’t want to be a dreamer, Ike. I want goals—like what Ryan had. While I was off planning my next big adven
ture, he was always solid, focused—football, then someday, the family biz.”

Ike propped one hand against the body of the plane. “What you don’t realize, son, is that being a dreamer is a gift. Being able to see something as it could be before it is . . . Not everybody can do that.”

“If it’s so great, why can’t I do that with my life? See what it could be. Or should be.”

Ike grinned. “You don’t have to figure out everything you’re meant to do today. You’re all of, what, thirty years old?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Plenty of time. Pray about things. If God likes an idea, He’ll see it through. If He doesn’t, He’ll let you know. That’s for sure.”

Ike made it sound so easy. “And in the meantime?”

“You do whatever God puts in front of you. Best way to live life. You don’t have to see every open door on the way to your end goal—just the one staring you in the face.”

“If you mean the Cessna, I—”

“I mean whatever it is.”

Hope House usually rang with laughter and cheer, but today only silence echoed against the beige interior walls of the home. Autumn forced herself to swallow the disappointment threatening to show itself on her face. Lucy would need her smiles.

Blake walked beside her, cocoa eyes scanning their surroundings as they walked into the living room. After the forty-five-minute drive from the inn down to Traverse City, she was still trying to figure out how he’d ended up with her.

One minute she’d been racing around the inn, completing chore after chore—every day brought them closer to Dominic
Laurent’s arrival, and every day she felt further behind—the next she was sitting in Philip’s truck with Blake at the wheel. Apparently two of Betsy’s kids were sick and Philip was working.

“So why’s this place closing again?” Blake took a second look around. Couches and comfy chairs filled the space, accompanied by calming watercolor paintings on the walls.

“Government funding. Or lack thereof.” They checked in at a small staff office and then settled onto the red couch where Autumn usually led her reading group. “It was nice of you to come help move Lucy. Though I still don’t get why Betsy didn’t call me. I was planning to come with her anyway. Probably could’ve done this myself.”

Blake’s doubtful look told her he hadn’t missed her frantic state when he’d found her at the inn. She swallowed another shot of humiliation, same flavor as the other day when she’d admitted her financial predicament.

“She knew you’d need a truck to transport Lucy’s stuff. Philip’s truck is manual.”

“I can drive stick.”

“Not from what I hear.”

She crossed her arms. “One teensy-tiny intersection incident.”

“Betsy said you held up traffic for ten minutes, Red. And that Philip told her never to let you drive their truck again.”

“Betsy’s got a big mouth.”

It looked like it was taking every ounce of self-control in Blake not to laugh. Cheeky man. And how was it that he could make a pair of worn jeans, black Henley, and navy puff vest look so . . . good? And seriously, sandals? On a day that wasn’t supposed to get warmer than forty degrees?

Or maybe the better question was why she couldn’t stop noticing every little detail about the man. Like how his dark
hair brushed the tips of his ears. Or how his presence had dominated the small cab of Philip’s truck on the drive, practically stealing the oxygen from the space.