Here to Stay (Where Love Begins Book #2) (14 page)

He’d placed packets at each seat around the table—budget numbers, town-square layout, schedule of events, all clearly outlined.

Blake rubbed his hands together, the chill of the outdoors not entirely barred from the room. Brown-paneled walls gave the meeting room a closed-in feeling. Framed aerial photos of Whisper Shore lined three of the four walls. On the fourth, headshots of the town founders stared down the crowd.

“All right, everyone, thanks for taking time out of your evening to meet. Let’s get started.” Surely Autumn would show up any minute now.

Voices hushed, replaced by the squeaks of metal chairs as the committee members settled.

“First of all—”

The meeting room door pushed open, and William Baylor entered. “Sorry, I’m late.” He offered the gruff apology, then dropped into the last open chair.

Oh, man.
Why had Autumn invited him?

“Uh, thanks for joining us, Mr. Baylor.” He supposed it made sense, the man being the town’s parks and rec manager. They’d need his help with wiring the park for sound and decorations. Didn’t mean it was going to be easy working with him.

Baylor only grunted in acknowledgment, eyes on the packet in front of him.

“Okay, well, I can’t tell you all how much I appreciate your willingness to help with the festival. This is very last minute, but we’re working hard to make sure it’s the best event this town has ever hosted.”

This is where he would’ve waited for Autumn to jump in,
impress them all with the finesse of someone used to running her own business.

“My co-coordinator and I made several lists. I’m not sure where Autumn is, actually, but . . .” Did he sound as unpolished as he felt? Why couldn’t he have the confidence he’d had on top of that dune, convincing Autumn to brave the ride down? “Anyway, if we keep on schedule with everything on these lists, we’ll have no problem pulling this festival together in time. Thankfully Georgie got the ball rolling weeks ago. We can talk about assignments and all that later, but first . . . ”

He paused at the site of Mindy Turner’s raised hand. As the president of the ladies league, she was the perfect person to head up decorations for the festival. “I’m sorry, Blaze, but before we dig in, I just have to ask, what’s Randi Woodruff like?”

“Um, what?”

She flipped her dark curls over her shoulder. “I know I’m not the only one wondering. Probably half of us agreed to join this committee solely out of curiosity.”

“That’s not really—”

“Can she really build houses?” Bert from the hardware store tapped his coffee mug against the tabletop.

Blake had to work not to roll his eyes. “She can really build houses, Bert. And Mindy, she’s a very nice person. Let’s move on.”

“How’d it feel losing her to the reporter?” Mindy again.

Maybe the ladies league wasn’t so vital to the festival. “I didn’t lose her to the reporter. I never had her. It was strictly professional, beginning to end.”

“Because it’s so professional to fake a marriage.”

William Baylor. Of course.

“Look, folks, we’re here to talk about the festival. Autumn and I had a brainstorm the other night, and we’re pumped to
let you in on it.” He rushed into the new topic before additional questions could pop up. “I know every year, businesses that commit to booths at the festival put down a deposit. That money, in the past, has been used to hire someone to serve as the festival emcee, right?”

“Ahh, Channel 16 meteorologist Lillith Dunwoody,” Bert piped in. “What a beauty.”

“He’s twice her age, silly man,” Mrs. Hathaway quipped beside Blake.

“She gets her forecast right at least fifty percent of the time, to boot,” Bert added.

“Well, anyway,” Blake continued, “we have a proposal. Instead of spending the money on an emcee, what if we take that money and use it to spruce up the square. Repaint the gazebo if the weather holds, replace our out-of-date Christmas decorations. We’d have to work fast, but if everybody pitches in, we could do it. What do you think?”

He waited for a smattering of approval. Instead, only the sound of the wind flapping against the building. The groan of the coffeepot. An uncomfortable cough from across the table. Why didn’t anyone say anything?

Finally Mrs. Hathaway gave his hand a motherly pat. “Blaze, giving the square a facelift is a nice idea. But the fact of the matter is, we’re not the town beautification committee. You asked us to help with the festival. And in the past, Lillith Dunwoody has been a real draw.”

His knuckles rapped against the table as he turned his hands palms up. “Well, did anyone consider asking her to donate her time? This is her hometown after all.”

“Now, how would that look after seven years of paying her?” She may not have meant to sound condescending, but Mrs. Hathaway’s tone was enough to dry up Blake’s confidence.

He closed his eyes, pressed his lips together. And when he
spoke again, his words were measured. “I am sure that Lillith Dunwoody has done a wonderful job. And I am sure, like you said, she is a real draw for folks in this community. But she’s a far cry from a celebrity who’s going to lure tourists from farther away than a thirty-mile radius.”

“And I suppose you know all about celebrities.” Baylor’s blurted words stilled the room. He stood, rounding his chair and propping both hands on its back. “I can’t be the only one here who’s wondering why I’m listening to the plan of a boy who spends one week in town and decides he knows what all we’re doing wrong. As if he’s never made one misstep—or a hundred.”

Gasps popped like hot corn kernels across the room, then fell at once as a weighty tension shrouded the space. So many faces staring at him, a mix of disapproval and embarrassment hovering like a sticky mist.

The silence pulled rubber-band taut, and suddenly he was sitting in the front of First Church again, Ryan’s coffin just feet away, feeling the disapproval of those in attendance who’d heard the details of Ryan’s death, hearing the whispers.
“Blake was flying the plane.”

He grasped for control, an intelligent response, anything. “I don’t think you all understand. My dad is working on getting some state tourism board members to the festival. There’s grant money on the table. If we impress them—”

“Everybody knows we don’t have a chance at a grant,” William Baylor interrupted. “We haven’t been taken seriously in years, not compared to Ann Arbor or Mackinac.”

It was all Blake could do not to bang his forehead against the table.

“Besides, Victoria Kingsley would rather fund a popcorn stand in Poughkeepsie than do anything that might make your father look good.”

They all stared at him when William finally finished. Waiting for a reply. One he didn’t have.

“Autumn, are you still awake?”

Mom’s voice muffled past Autumn’s closed bedroom door. Autumn tapped her toothbrush against the side of the sink in her bathroom. “Yes, Mom.”

She sidestepped the pile of soot-stained clothes at her feet, where she’d traded them in for flannel PJs. The white lights over the mirror highlighted the mascara smudged under her eyes, the result of a too-long day coming to a too-distant end.

Faulty wiring had caused the fire in her cottage’s kitchen. Thankfully, Lucy had called 9-1-1 as soon as she saw the smoke wafting from the vent. The damage was minimal, contained mostly to the kitchen. But with the smell of smoke heavy and the electrician unable to immediately fix the wiring, she and Lucy had relocated to Mom’s.

Autumn crossed her childhood bedroom now and opened her door.

Mom leaned against the doorframe, hair pulled away from her face and sharp cheekbones cleared of makeup. Autumn steeled herself for the lecture sure to come as she bunched her hair into a ponytail behind her head and stretched a band.

“Autumn, I . . . wanted to apologize.”

The hair band snapped, and her hair spilled over her shoulders.
Say again?

“For this morning. At the inn. The things I said.” Discomfort sifted over Mom’s face.

“Well . . . thanks. I mean . . . apology accepted.”

Mom nodded and turned.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Even if Ava won’t come back, I’m still going to try to figure everything out. There’s this man coming—Dominic Laurent, from Laurent Lodging International. He must’ve seen that ad I took out in a few magazines last summer. I think this could be a great thing.”

She couldn’t translate the shift in expression in Mom’s eyes. She’d expected at least a glimmer of relief. After all, she was still looking out for the best interest of the inn. That’s what Mom had been concerned about, right?

Mom tightened the robe of her belt. “It’s been a long day. I’m going to go check on Lucy and then turn in.”

She turned, and Autumn released the sigh building in her. Why is it they had so much trouble talking? Just being a mother and daughter. It had started long before Ava ever left, before anything happened with Ryan or the Hunzikers . . .

It’s because we’ve both been
pretending for years.

The thought chugged through her, heavy and poignant and . . . true.

Ever since Dad died, Mom had pretended things had been perfect between them, that divorce had never been on the table. But mother and daughter still bore the hurt of it. Separately. Because neither chose to talk.

“Are you all settled in, Lucy?” The sound of Mom’s voice drifted down the hallway followed by the muted tones of Lucy’s answer.

The click of Mom’s bedroom door cut into the quiet. Autumn closed her own door and returned to the little bathroom connected to her room. She grabbed a washcloth from the cupboard over the toilet and ran it under warm water.

She was grateful Mom had been quick to offer to put them up, hadn’t even blinked when Autumn mentioned Lucy was now living with her. Autumn paused, washcloth lifted halfway to her face.

What if Mom’s sadness didn’t only have to do with her worries about the inn, but about Autumn’s leaving? Considering all she’d gone through with Dad, considering Ava’s distance . . . did Autumn’s plan feel like the final break in their family tree?

I
don’t want to hurt her, God. But if I
don’t get out and start living my own life
now, I never will.

And she could end up just like Dad, trapped in a headlock of regrets.
I have
to go.

She scrubbed at her face, hard, smearing away her makeup and leaving in its place, splotches of red.

“Have you prayed about this, Autumn?”

Autumn had waved off Ellie’s question the other day, because, well, yes, she’d prayed . . . but only halfheartedly. Never listening long enough for an answer.

Because she couldn’t risk the answer being “Stay.”

But God wouldn’t actually ask her to give up France, would He? Not after she’d waited this long. Of course, maybe the real problem wasn’t so much what God might ask of her . . . but whether she’d even hear it, if He did answer. Somehow in the past months of financial worries—or maybe the past years of listless longing—she’d lost her ear for His voice.

Or maybe He’d just stopped talking.

She wrung out the washcloth and slung it over a towel bar. The bathroom, decorated in warm earthy tones, had always been her favorite place to think before moving to her cottage at the inn—especially in the deep, oversized tub.

But tonight she’d been too tired to even fill the tub. Autumn picked up her pile of clothes, then paused.
What was that?
She waited, heard another sharp rap.

She padded out of the bathroom, shuffling in her slippers. One more rap . . .

She dropped her clothes, clamping a fist over her mouth. A face at her window. Heart hammering, she stalked to the window and thrust it open. “
What
do you think you’re doing?”

Blake perched on the overhang that sheltered the side porch. His cheeks were red—either from the exertion of his climb or the cold. Probably both. Crazy man.

“I wanted to talk.”

Thank the Lord she’d skipped that bubble bath. “You haven’t heard of a phone? Or, you know, like a front door? How did you even know I was here?”

He climbed in the window. “Called the inn. Jamie said you were staying here tonight. You never gave me your cell phone number, so . . .”

Autumn flounced over the clothes she’d dropped and walked to her desk. She scribbled down her number and pulled the Post-it from its cube. When she turned, she was face-to-face with Blake. Did he have to stand so close? She stuck the Post-it to his light blue button-down shirt. “There. My number.”

He peeled it from his shirt. “So you want me to climb back out the window, go stand at the curb, and call you from there?”

She folded her arms instead of answering. Swell, she’d chosen her white pajamas with pink and red hearts. Second time he’d seen her in her PJs, and it wasn’t any more pleasant than the first.

Suddenly the humor seeped from his expression and he turned serious. “Where were you tonight? I needed you at that meeting.”

She inhaled. The meeting, she’d completely forgotten. “Blake, I’m—”

“And why didn’t you tell me you invited William Baylor? The man can’t stand me. In fact, newsflash: Most of the
people on that committee can’t stand me. They don’t like me. They sure don’t like my ideas. And the one person I thought might back me up didn’t even bother to show.”