Here to Stay (Where Love Begins Book #2) (8 page)

Looking at Blake now, maybe really seeing him for the first time, she didn’t see the adventurer, the goof-off unable to take anything seriously. She saw a regret-filled man still tortured by the loss of his brother. Compassion, unbidden and surprising, unfolded in her.

He released the hammer. “Come on, it’s too cold for you to be up here without a coat.”

“
You’
re
not wearing a coat.”

“Do you argue about everything, Red?”

“I do about nicknames that come from nowhere.”

He reached over to muss her hair. “Not from nowhere. In the sun, it’s totally red.”

“It’s auburn.”

He stopped at the ladder. “Ladies first.”

After he’d helped her over the edge, she stopped, glanced up at him. “All right, I’ll co-coordinate the festival with you.”

The dimples in his cheeks deepened as genuine gratitude
overtook his expression. No teasing or playfulness now. “Seriously?”

“And if the offer still stands for help—”

“It does. Mornings I’ll help out here. Afternoons we’ll work on the festival. Deal?”

She stepped down a rung. “Let’s flip-flop it. Festival in the mornings.”

“And she doesn’t think she has a problem with arguing.”

Not with arguing. But very possibly with agreeing to things that were probably a really bad idea.

He had a feeling Autumn Kingsley didn’t even know why she’d said yes.

But all that mattered was, she’d said yes. Right?

Blake hopped the curb, the sticky sweet smell of glaze and fruit pastries greeting him he passed under the awning of Gable’s Bakery. When he entered, a bell above the door chimed in tune with the growling of his stomach.

Just like he recalled, an eclectic mix of tables and colored chairs dotted the downtown bakery. Bright yellow walls contrasted with the overcast shadows of the morning. But there were fewer patrons than Blake remembered from his youth.

And the few people who did fill seats offered furtive glances rather than smiles.
Riiight.
So he probably shouldn’t expect a visit from the welcome wagon anytime soon.

“Blake Hunziker, it’s about time you stopped by.” Kip Gable, the bakery owner, raised a sloshing coffeepot in greeting. He stood next to a booth, his apron covered in flour and the same Whisper Shore Ravens cap he’d always worn atop his head.

“Blake? Well, I’ll be.” The patron in the booth next to Kip rose, bobbing her silver-almost-blue hair as she turned.

“Mrs. Satterly.” Blake skirted through the maze of tables to reach the elderly woman. His first-grade teacher still had the stature of a woman in charge of her classroom. “You still eat breakfast here every day?”

“Like clockwork,” Kip said, filling her cup.

“You’re old enough to call me Pam now.” She clasped Blake’s right hand in both of her own. Thick veins ribboned over her frail hands, and yet their warmth matched her welcome. “You’ll sit with me, won’t you? I’m so happy you’re home.”

One more roving glance around the place and he lowered into the vinyl seat. “You might be the only one.”

She harrumphed. “Don’t let them bother you. Half of them haven’t had their caffeine yet and the other half are too stubborn to know they need it.”

Blake’s chuckle was accompanied by the clink of a mug atop the table as Kip placed it in front of Blake. He filled it to the rim with the muddy coffee the bakery was known for. “Besides, you’re the closest thing we’ve got to a celebrity. They’re all just curious. What can I get you to eat?”

“I’m not too late for breakfast, am I?” His mouth watered.

“For one of the Hunziker boys, I’d serve breakfast at sunset.”

Both Blake and Ryan had worked at the bakery part-time all through high school—part of their father’s desire to instill a solid work ethic in his sons. Of course, Ryan had cut back his hours every football season. And never one to hole up when the outdoors beckoned, Blake snuck out early more often than not during the summer.

“In that case, I’ll have some of your chocolate chip banana pancakes.”

Kip saluted. “You got it.”

When the baker retreated, Blake nudged his coffee cup
away. “Don’t tell him, but I’m one of the world’s few non-coffee drinkers.”

Mrs. Satterly grinned. “I’m a three-cup-a-day woman myself. It’s why I’ve lived so long. Did you know I turned eighty-six last month?” She reached for Blake’s cup and poured into her already half-empty mug.

They chatted for a few minutes until Kip returned with a plate of pancakes.

Blake glanced from Kip to Mrs. Satterly as the bakery owner set the plate in front of him. “Dude, I’ve missed small-town life.”

Mrs. Satterly offered a teacherly raise of her eyebrows. “That’s what you get for leaving us, Blake Lucas Hunziker.”

“Been forever since someone used my middle name.”

Kip slid into the open space beside Mrs. Satterly. “Better than that old nickname. Blaze. Just not right. A kid sets an accidental fire or two—”

“Or five,” Blake inserted before biting into a syrupy pancake.

“And he’s branded for life. No wonder you set off for greener pastures.” Kip spoke in lighthearted tones, but Blake had no doubt both the baker and Mrs. Satterly knew full well his real reason for staying away so long. “So tell us, what’re you aiming to do now that you’re back?”

“Well, believe it or not—”

“I thought that was you.”

A shadow fell over the Formica table in sync with a voice that carried Blake back decades—to hot summer nights sleeping outside, only the thin plastic of a pup tent between him and the dewy ground. Blake, Ryan, Tim, and Shawn—pals since their first Boy Scouts camping trip—swapping ghost stories.

He looked up to see Shawn’s dad, his long-ago scout troop
leader with arms crossed over a paunchy stomach that hadn’t been there last time Blake saw him. Blake stood, held out his hand.

“Mr. Baylor, wow. Been a long time.”

Gone was the paternal gentleness that used to make the man a hero and friend among Blake and his friends. Instead, an unmistakable surliness darkened his eyes.

Blake glanced down at Mrs. Satterly. She gave him a tight,
hang in there
half smile. He dropped his hand.

“How’s um . . . how’s Shawn?”

The second the question came out, Blake wished it back. Because if William Baylor had been gruff a second ago, now he sizzled. “You want to know how my son is? He’s been on depression meds off and on for almost six years now. Refuses to do anything with his life. Won’t step on a plane for the life of him. Walked out on his wife.” Mr. Baylor stepped closer. “That’s how Shawn’s doing.”

Blake could feel the eyes of every customer in the bakery on him. And suddenly the smell of breakfast food turned sickly sweet, enough to set his stomach churning, as the memory of Shawn’s panic the day of Ryan’s accident bulleted through him.

“Something’s wrong, Blake. Something’s wrong
. I don’t see his chute. He’s not pulling
.”

Blake closed his eyes now.

Oh, Shawn.
The thought of his friend, his brother’s
best
friend—the only one whose taste for adventure ever rivaled Blake’s—morose and inactive bruised whatever conviction he’d had just minutes ago that something good might come of his return.

“Mr. Baylor, I’m truly—”

“If you try to apologize to me, kid, I swear my fist will be in your face before you finish.”

“William Baylor!” Mrs. Satterly jerked, only Kip’s hand on her arm stopping her from rising from the booth.

Blake’s focus faltered under Baylor’s stare, floundering over the heads of bakery patrons and booth backs, toward the back wall where town mementos ornamented the space. And there, near the center, Ryan’s football jersey from the year they’d taken State.

Baylor’s growl drew him back. “I didn’t come over here for an apology. Only to tell you to stay away from Shawn. It’s bad enough you’re back in town, driving around in that showy Firebird. Last thing he needs is to see it, see
you,
and be reminded.”

With that, the man lurched on his heel and stalked from the bakery, awkward silence dragging as Blake stood frozen beside the table.

Grady Lewis couldn’t be saying what Autumn thought he was saying.

The oversized leather chair squeaked as she crossed one leg over the other, its high arms walling her in. Across his mahogany desk, her family’s longtime financial advisor peered at her through thin-rimmed spectacles. Waiting, probably, for some sign she’d processed his words of doom.

“You’re saying we should close one of this town’s most historic sites?”

Grady folded his hands, arms outstretched on his clutter-free desktop, narrow shoulders hunched. “Hopefully only for the winter season.”

Each tick of the grandfather clock in the corner lanced her confidence. Why hadn’t she suggested they meet at her office instead, where generous windows ushered in sunlight and an ever-calming coastal view? Where it might be a little
harder for Grady to look her in the eye and suggest cutting off her great-grandfather’s dream.

Even if only until spring. “But how will no income for three or four months help us?”

“The inn has always operated in the red the first three, four months of the year. Profits during high-tourist season made up for the loss in the past. But that wasn’t the case this year.” Grady nudged his glasses with one finger, then spread a series of papers across his desk. “I’ve noted estimates here. Why, in staff costs alone you’re looking at a sizable savings. Add in electricity, water—”

“Wait, you’re suggesting I lay off our staff?”

“You didn’t think you’d pay them to do nothing, did you?”

What she’d thought was that Grady would tell her the bank had agreed to one final mortgage extension or short-term loan. Just enough to keep them going until Dominic Laurent saved the day.

And yet . . .

Grady’s numbers told a story she couldn’t ignore. The Kingsley Inn was inching toward a financial sinkhole it might not be able to climb back out of—especially if next tourist season fell as flat as this past summer. Didn’t help that along with the inn, she’d inherited a mortgage and bank payments. Dad had taken out a large loan in the late ’90s to renovate the inn. Then after he’d died, Mom had been forced to take out a second mortgage when business slowed.

The fiscal responsibility of it all too often felt like a dragon breathing down her neck. It had only fueled her antipathy, the irked piece of her that had wondered how Mom ever thought handing the Kingsley Inn and all its debt to her could ever feel like a gift.

Autumn’s cell phone interrupted her morose thoughts, jarring her and prompting a sigh from Grady. Oh yes, she’d
forgotten how much the man disliked cell phones. “Sorry.” She reached into her purse to silence the thing.

Grady removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, the age spots on his cheeks stretching with the movement. The man had a gruff manner and a no-nonsense way about him, but he wasn’t cold. He wouldn’t suggest something this drastic without good cause. In fact, if she knew Grady at all, he’d probably lost sleep before deciding on his recommendation.

“If we close, what if we don’t open again? If my employees go off and get other jobs . . .”
And I’m not
around to make sure everything’s ready come spring.

Because she wouldn’t be. It’d be someone else at the helm by then. Maybe even Ava. The hazy hope that her sister might finally be ready to contribute to the family business had solidified sometime in the past couple days.

Yes, Ava lived in Minnesota now—worked half time as an adjunct college instructor and half time in the college’s athletic department. But maybe she would consider taking a turn running the inn. Autumn had even tried to call her sister yesterday under the guise of finding out when Ava planned to come home for the holidays. Surely she’d hear back soon.

But a thread of worry knit through her, same concern that always hit her this time of year—that one of these years Ava wouldn’t come home at all. They’d grown so distant.

Grady leaned forward. “Do you have a better idea, Autumn?”

Actually, she did—namely, Dominic Laurent. But now Grady’s concerns blasted a hole in her optimism. Because why would the Laurent company invest in a failing business? Surely they would take one look at the books, the late payment notices from the bank, and run the other way.