Like Never Before (35 page)

She stopped in front of him. “W-what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in LA? Or . . . somewhere? Do you know what's going on in the park?” A drop of rain landed on her cheek, and she stopped, taking a breath and grasping for the composure she must've packed away with her suitcase in the trunk.

And Logan just stood there. Smiling.

Another raindrop, this one tapping against her arm. Distant music floated in on a tumbling breeze. “If you don't say something soon, Logan Walker—”

He held up his hands and stepped closer. “Just wanted to see if you could make it to twenty questions.”

“You're rude.”

“And you're . . .” He broke off, as if catching his breath for the last word. “Beautiful.”

“I'm sweaty from helping Megan move all day. I'm wearing overalls that are leftover from the first time they were fashionable. I'm . . .”
Out of words.
Because the way he was looking at her right now? It stole her breath and filled her lungs at the same time. It puddled inside her, warmer than any summer sun and sweeter than any cool rain.

“What's going on in the park, Logan?”

“Looks to me like a going-away party.” He looked over his shoulder to where umbrellas were beginning to pop open.

And realization, it rambled in slow. A going-away party. And she was the person going away. “But I'm not even sure I'm moving. Not yet. This is just a . . . a short trip. An interview.”

“Then call it a good-luck party instead.”

Ribbons of emotion tangled inside her. “You did this?” Her question was a whisper.

He nodded, hands in his pockets and the first hint of nerves scampering over his face. “The thing is . . .” He cleared his throat and tried again. “The thing is, Charlie and I . . . we're coming with you.”

“What?” The word leapt from her lips.

“We're coming with you.”

Raindrops turned into rainfall, hushed patters tapping against grass and branches, bouncing off her car. Logan reached around to pull off his jacket. He closed the gap between them and held the jacket with both arms over their heads like an umbrella.

She tipped her head. “Stop joking, Logan.”

“I'm not joking. You should've seen Charlie this morning with her little red suitcase. Adorable. I was thinking we'd take my car. I left it here when I flew back to LA last time, since I wasn't sure where Charlie and I were going to end up. It's got a lot less miles than yours—”

“Logan. Stop. Slow down. I'm processing here. What are you saying?”

“I'm saying . . .” His jacket flapped in the wind above them as he met her eyes. “I'm coming with you. Because I love you.”

“I . . . you . . .
what
?”

“I love you, and Charlie loves you, and we'd like to come with you to Chicago. If you'll have us.”

He loved her. “But the campaign and D.C. and your office—”

“There'll be other campaigns. And we closed the office.”

He loved her. “You don't have a job or a plan?”

“This
is
the plan.”

“Y-you love me?”

The answer was in his eyes, rich and warm and melting. And that did it. She launched herself at him, arms flinging around
him and face burying against his shoulder. “I love you, too. I
love
you.”

He lowered the jacket that'd shielded her from the rain, wrapping her in his arms. Raindrops slicked over her hair and down her cheeks, mixing with salty tears and the sound of cheers from the park.

“So we can come with you, then?” His voice brushed over her ear. “Because it doesn't matter whether you end up staying in Chicago or decide to come back here or go off to Paris to see for yourself where Lindbergh landed. We want to come with you.”

She could linger here forever. At the park, in the rain, on the edge of so many dreams-come-true at once. She nodded into his neck, not even capable of talking right now.

“Good, 'cause in true Boy Scout fashion, I've already filled the gas tank and checked the oil and filled bags of snacks for Charlie. I made her a travel kit with coloring books and—”

“Logan.” She lifted her arms to loop them around his neck and kissed him.

“—and I've already got the GPS programmed. Though it's basically a straight shot, and I always bring an atlas just in case—”

Another kiss.

“Okay, okay.” He laughed the words against her lips. His arms tightened, and he took over the kiss.

Until the patter of footsteps interrupted. “Lia!”

Charlie. Logan swooped his daughter into his arms before Amelia could blink. Made room in the embrace for three.

See, I am doing a new thing.

A new season. A new family. A new hope. Amelia buried herself against Logan, Charlie's arm around her neck.

Filled with a joy like never before.

The End . . . except not quite.

Dear Charlie,

If one day soon you're my daughter, I'll tell you all about how I had a crush on your dad before I even met him. Technically, it was a crush on his writing. He's brilliant with words, Charlie. Someday when you learn to read, you'll know what I mean.

B
y the way, sorry about the rain at the party last night.”

Amelia closed the notebook in her lap. The road was too bumpy to write, anyway. And the scenery too tempting.

Logan held a travel mug in one hand, the other on his steering wheel. The pinkish orange of dawn traced his profile and lit his eyes, and when he turned to her and smiled, she saw her future.

“You don't have to apologize for the weather, Logan. Not even you, in all your glorious preparedness, can control that.” Amelia stuck a handful of Cheerios in her mouth.

In her car seat in back, Charlie slept. Maple Valley had faded into the horizon an hour ago.

“Those snacks were supposed to be for Charlie.”

She took another bite. “I don't know how something so tasteless actually counts as a snack. Almost as bad as carrots.”

“And I don't understand how you can throw out a phrase like
glorious preparedness
when in one fell swoop, I walked away from a presidential campaign, quit my job, and started driving cross-country with you. Or at least cross-Midwest.”

“Touché.” She tipped her sunglasses from her eyes to her forehead. “As for last night, I like rain almost as much as snow. And it was fun seeing a rainbow of umbrellas.” The whole night had been perfect, even if she had looked hilarious—hair, overalls, all of her drenched. But probably even more laughable, the way she hadn't been able to let go of Logan all night. As if he'd poof and disappear back to LA if she released his hand.

“I still can't believe you sold the newspaper to Jenessa Belville, though.” She sealed up the baggie of Cheerios and reached for the princess backpack she'd found in the backseat. The one with everything they could possibly need for the day-long drive. “I thought she was a paralegal or something.”

“She watched you in action. She thought it looked fun. And she's lived with her parents for nearly ten years, not paying a dime in rent—which means she's kinda well off, actually. No, she couldn't pay me what Cranford could, and she may need to take the paper online until she can afford to buy a new press, but the
Maple Valley News
still lives.”

Amelia pilfered through the backpack, looking for a better snack. She paused when she recognized the cover of one of the books inside. She slid it out. “Logan?” She held it up. The Amelia Earhart picture book. The one he'd inter-library loaned. “The due date was weeks ago.”

“I know. I'm going to have the worst overdue fines ever.” His smile stretched. “Worth it.”

She couldn't help it—she abandoned the backpack to the floor and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Well, anyway, it's a good thing someone's manning the helm at the paper because I've got a great headline.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure Kendall Wilkins's body is going to end up being exhumed.”

Logan spit out a drink of coffee, and it splashed against the steering wheel. “What?”

“You prematurely sent that story of ours to Belle. I might've solved the deposit-box mystery.”

Logan's sunglasses slipped down his nose, and she could practically hear the cogs turning in his brain. “You did? And you're just now telling me?”

Oh man, he's adorable . . .

And he loved her. And he was following her to Chicago.

It was almost too much.

“Talk, Amelia.”

“I'm pretty sure Charles Lindbergh's helmet was buried with Kendall.”

She shifted in her seat and reached over to wipe off the wheel with her sleeve, catching a whiff of Logan's aftershave or soap or something—intoxicating, whatever it was. Enough to in one moment dissolve all thought of graves and missing helmets and dead men . . .

She flipped up the console between them, turning the middle spot into a seat, and scooted as close to him as she could, lacing her arm through his. She kissed his cheek again.

“I'm trying to drive here, woman.”

“I know, and you're doing a fine job.”

“But . . . how . . . what made you realize . . . ?” His voice was
incredulous. “You're telling me Charles Lindbergh's helmet—the one he wore across the Atlantic—might be in a man's grave back in Maple Valley?”

She buried her face against his neck.

“Shouldn't we, like, do something about that? Tell someone?”

“Eventually, yeah. But for now . . .” She sighed, warmed by sunlight and surprise and Logan's kiss to her forehead. “Just keep driving.”

S
o you know that Amelia Earhart children's book that Amelia Bentley talks about
?
Somewhere that book actually exists. I checked it out from the Kendall Young Library in Webster City, Iowa, over and over as a kid. But I've never been able to find it since. I can't even remember what it's called—I just know it had a salmon-pink cover.

My childhood fascination with Amelia Earhart, coupled with multiple trips to Little Falls, Minnesota, where Charles Lindbergh spent the bulk of his growing-up years, led to the light historical angle in this book. I sifted through plenty of sites and articles as I dreamt up the Lindbergh helmet storyline, but the one I came back to most was the Pulitzer Prize–winning biography
Lindbergh
by A. Scott Berg.

However, I definitely took some historical liberties. It's true that Lindbergh's helmet was never recovered after his historic flight across the Atlantic. And it's also true that after he landed, his helmet temporarily ended up on the head of an American named Harry Wheeler, whom the crowd mistook for Lindbergh. Many sources, including Berg's biography, say that the American was a journalist. Others say he was a Brown University student in Europe on holiday. At least one, a
Pittsburgh Press
article
from June 6, 1927, says Harry Wheeler was a fur buyer from New York who'd gone to Europe to purchase rabbit skins for a hat manufacturer.

For the purpose of my story, I decided Harry was a Brown University student. I gave him a friend from Iowa and made up a backstory for him. I also let myself daydream about what might've happened to that helmet of Lindbergh's. I like to think it's out there somewhere . . . an incredible piece of history just waiting to be discovered.

W
ell, anyone who has heard me talk about this book has probably also heard me talk (read: gush and swoon) about Logan Walker. I think I found the fictional love of my life!

But believe it or not, Logan wasn't the best part of writing this story. The best part was rediscovering the joy of writing and storytelling after a somewhat difficult creative season. I believe that was a gift straight from God . . . and I'm so grateful to him.

I'm also thankful to:

Mom and Dad—Thanks for letting me hide away in your sunroom and write. Thanks for all the meals and prayers and cups of coffee. And most of all, thank you for being you.

My siblings—Once again, thanks for inspiring all the best parts of the Walker family members.

Grandma and Grandpa—I can't tell you enough how much your encouragement and prayers mean to me. Thank you!

Raela Schoenherr, my editor—Thanks for putting up with my plot schizophrenia and helping me do the Walkers justice.

Amanda Luedeke, my agent—You're as fun as you are savvy. Thanks for everything.

Charlene Patterson, my line editor—I'm so grateful for your keen eye and careful reading and editing of this story.

Everyone at Bethany House—I'm hugely honored to be a part of your publishing family.

Beth Vogt and Rachel Hauck—Thanks for that much-needed conference call last spring and for helping me sort through the tangles to find the heart of this story. And Susan May Warren, as always, thank you for the teaching and mentoring that's shaped me as a storyteller.

Lindsay Harrel, Alena Tauriainen, and Gabrielle Meyer—My partners in crime . . . er, writing. Thank you for your constant encouragement and prayers and support and friendship and everything! And Gabe, thanks for all those tours of the Lindbergh house and museum in Little Falls.

Rachel McMillan and Hillary Manton Lodge—Can you say
moral support
? Thanks for being just one (or a bazillion) Facebook messages away.

Readers—I don't even have words. Except, yes I do. You bless me like you wouldn't believe. Huge thanks to those of you who have read, reviewed, and spread the word about my stories. If I could, I'd host a huge party and invite all of you, and we'd eat pizza and ice cream and talk and laugh the night away. Instead, please accept my very sincere, very heartfelt thanks. (And if you're ever in Iowa, just let me know and we'll have that party, after all.)