Like Never Before (8 page)

A muffled voice sounded from inside. Did she say “come in”?

He knocked again, and this time the door cracked open. He stomped the snow from his feet and then pushed the door the rest of the way open, stepped inside, and—

Amelia's squeal about stopped his heart.

She stood in the center of what looked to be her living room, a towel slipping from her head and wet hair tumbling over her shoulders. Bare feet and legs whiter than the snow outside peeked out from underneath a pink robe.

The door thumped closed behind him. “You . . . you said . . .” Words, why couldn't he conjure any? “You said ‘come in.'”

“I said ‘just a minute.'” She flapped her hands in exasperation, the belt on her robe loosening with the movement until she flung her arms around herself.

Maybe he should just turn around and walk back out.

Or at least stop staring.

But it was like his feet had grown roots through her welcome mat. So he simply lifted one hand and covered his eyes.

Only to hear Amelia burst out laughing. “What are you doing?”

“Being a gentleman.” And hopefully hiding the fact that his face had to be the color of her barn—er, house—right about now.

“I'm wearing a robe. I'm not naked, Logan.”

“Please don't say the word
naked
.”

She only laughed harder. “Man, you are easy to embarrass. Imagine if I'd been wearing this last night when you hugged me.”

A rumble of laughter escaped, surprising considering how much that hug had bothered him as he'd tried to sleep. How could Emma still—and so swiftly—walk back into his brain? Not to mention the ache that came along with her.

Maybe he needed a break more than he realized. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No, but let me go change. I just ran down here to turn on the teakettle after taking a bubble bath. Not that you need to know that—or that I was taking a bubble bath.”

He couldn't help a grin at her rambling, peeking through the crack in his fingers as she bent to pick up her towel and cinched the belt at her waist. She might've laughed at him, but he obviously wasn't the only one uncomfortable at the moment.

Still, he didn't drop his hand until she'd started up the boxy steps that led to an open loft.

“So what are you doing here, Logan?” she called down.

“Just wanted to talk for a few minutes. If that's okay.” Her living room, with simple beige furniture and an antique trunk in place of a coffee table, spilled into a narrow dining room. “Charming house, by the way.”

The ceiling overhead creaked as Amelia walked around the second floor.

“Cool dining-room table.” Someone—probably Lenny—had crafted it from an old door. Two long benches sat on either
side. A spread of papers covered one end of the table. Old newspaper clippings, scribbled notes. Logan picked up the top papers, ignoring the voice in his brain reminding him he'd already barged in on Amelia. Probably shouldn't go through her things, too.

But curiosity got the better of him. Why was she reading so many articles about Kendall Wilkins?

“What did you want to talk—”

The screech of the teakettle interrupted Amelia's question from above, so he dropped her papers and walked the rest of the way past her dining room into the kitchen. Steam hissed from the kettle as he pulled it off the burner. A canister of Nestlé hot chocolate mix sat next to the stove.

She was going to make hot chocolate with that? Instead of placing the kettle back on the stove, he moved to the sink and poured out the water.

By the time he turned around, Amelia stood behind him. She'd traded the robe in for jeans and an emerald sweater that made her eyes seem more green than hazel. Her hair still hung damp around her face, the scent of vanilla clinging to her.

“What are you doing with my water?”

“You can't make hot chocolate with this.”

The freckles on her nose scrunched together. “Yes, I can. I do every night.”

He moved past her toward the fridge. “You've got milk, don't you?” He pulled it open and found a half gallon of two percent behind a pile of Chinese takeout containers. “Good.”

Amelia stood with her hands on her waist now. “Make yourself at home, why don't you?”

He opened a cupboard. “Spices?”

“Next one over.”

Cinnamon and nutmeg. Perfect. He turned away from the cupboard. Couldn't tell if that was amusement or annoyance
flickering in Amelia's smirk. Probably both. “My mom was very particular about hot chocolate.”

“Clearly she passed on the trait.” She brushed her fingers through her damp hair.

He ignored her wry tone. “Mom, however, used cocoa extract and sweetened condensed milk. We're going to do our best to re-create it, but it won't be exactly the same.”

He found a pan under her oven and poured in a couple cups' worth of milk, then set it on the still-warm burner.

“You're awfully comfortable in my kitchen, Logan. Much more so than you were in my living room.”

She stood beside him now, hands in her back pockets while she watched him work, and that vanilla smell—her hair, maybe—grew stronger as she moved close.

“Well, you know, you're wearing clothes now. That helps.”

She had a nice laugh, low and lilting.

“So what's with all the reading material about Kendall Wilkins?”

She leaned over the counter, chin propped on her fists. “You barge into my house—”

“I knocked.”

“—take over my kitchen,
and
you were snooping through my stuff?”

“I was admiring your table, and your stuff just happened to be there. Whisk?”

She pulled it out of a metal-ringed cylinder full of utensils. “If you must know, I'm doing a story on Kendall.”

“A story about the dead town loner?

“Why does everybody call him that?

Logan started scooping Nestlé cocoa powder into the milk. “Because he lived in a mansion and never participated in a single town event and—”

“—and donated ridiculous amounts of money to the town,
had a life history that belongs in a biography, met Charles Lindbergh, and paid for my college.”

He set down the canister. “He paid for your college?”

She nodded. “He had a scholarship fund. Anybody in Iowa could apply, and you had to write an essay about something that made an impact on you when you were younger. I wrote about this Amelia Earhart picture book I checked out from the Des Moines library over and over, and how I used to lie about being named after her.”

Logan
tsk
ed. “You lied?”

“Some kids lie about missing homework. I lied about a historical namesake. Weird, I know. But it did end up impacting me because that book spurred a love of history. So that's what I wrote about. And I guess Kendall Wilkins liked it because I won the scholarship and got to go to college because of him. He even wrote letters to me my first two years there.”

Logan lowered the burner heat as the milk began to bubble. “No kidding?”

“Handwritten and everything.”

“And here I always thought he was just a grouchy old man.” The sweet smell of the cocoa glided up from the stove, tinged with the extra spice of nutmeg and cinnamon. “What's the story angle?”

“The empty bank box. I'm going to figure out what was supposed to be in it. Because unlike the rest of Maple Valley, I think he was actually trying to do something nice.”

He flicked off the burner and turned. Her eyes twinkled with something like anticipation, maybe even mischief, as she waited for his reaction—lips pressed into a half grin that dared him to counter her.

Instead he moved the pan off the stove and pulled two mugs from the mug tree on her counter. “Marshmallows?”

A minute later, he handed her a mug, warm around its edges. “Drink up. You'll never settle for water and powder again.”

He waited until she acquiesced, watched as the pile of mini-marshmallows bumped against her nose, and lifted his eyebrows when she swallowed. “Well?”

“Okay, it's good.”

“Just good?”

“Fine. Kind of amazing.”

He took a drink of his own. “It
is
amazing. You're lucky I happened by tonight, Miss Bentley.”

“Yeah, about that . . .” She lowered her cup to the counter, blithe expression drifting from her face. “You came to talk.”

He did. But sometime between seeing Amelia in her robe and right now, he'd lost the desire to talk business. Wanted, instead, to . . . he didn't know. Maybe talk more about that Wilkins mystery she couldn't possibly solve? Ask her how she'd ended up living in a barn in Maple Valley?

Maybe make her laugh again.

But those hazel eyes of hers brimmed with questions.

“Well, Seth texted. I guess he told you . . . that is, you know . . . I mean I only found out myself . . .” He looked down at the globby mess of melting marshmallows in his cup.

“Better at writing speeches than giving them?” There was kindness in Amelia's voice. But also a hint of pleading, too. And then she made the request he'd dreaded. “Please don't sell the paper, Logan.”

R
elease the ducks!”

The mayor's voice warbled through a megaphone from his spot at the foot of the Archway Bridge. The curving bridge reached over the Blaine River, where a splash of plastic yellow ducks rained into the cobalt water.

Logan shook his head. “This town is so weird.”

Kate laughed as she slid her arm through Logan's, nudging him to join the crowd now migrating from the main bridge connecting both halves of town south toward a smaller bridge. “It's hilarious and fun, you mean.”

Logan burrowed his chin into the high neck of the navy blue puff vest he'd found in the hallway closet at Dad's house. Probably Seth's. He should've packed warmer clothes for himself and Charlie.

Or skipped pilfering through the closet and stayed inside altogether. Figured out a way to let Amelia down easy so he could get the
News
off his plate and enjoy the rest of his time at home before falling back into the hectic pace that was his life in LA. He needed to call his in-laws, too. Let them know he and Charlie were in town. He should've contacted them by now.
It was just that he knew the second they found out, the tug of war would begin. He loved Rick and Helen because they were Emma's parents. But they'd never made a secret of resenting how far away he and Charlie lived.

Anyway, Kate had refused to let him miss the annual duck race. She'd practically dragged him from the house, insisting Charlie deserved to experience as much of Maple Valley life as she could while they were here.

Logan's feet sunk into patchy snow and damp ground as they walked along the riverbank. Cars packed the street that bordered the river.

“It's barely above freezing, and we're all standing outside, watching a hundred plastic ducks float down a river that's still half-jammed with chunks of ice.” He buried his hands in his pockets. “I bet most of the people here don't even know what we're raising money for.”

“I sure don't.” Kate tugged her stocking cap over her ears. Or, rather, Colton's hat—the LA Tigers logo wrapped around its rim. She pointed a gloved hand up ahead. “But take a look at your daughter. Tell me that plastic duck wasn't worth twenty bucks.”

Several clumps of people away, Charlie rode atop Dad's shoulders. She wore a pair of white earmuffs that were way too big for her head and matching mittens, along with a coat as bright pink as that robe Amelia had been wearing last night.

“Now you're smiling.”

Yeah, but Kate only knew half the reason why. No way was he repeating the story of barging in on Amelia to either of his sisters. They'd never let him live it down. “Charlie's having the time of her life, isn't she?” His daughter turned her head to look back at him. Waved. The sunlight made her green eyes more luminous.

“I don't think she's the only one. Dad hasn't stopped beaming
since you got here.” Kate sidestepped a puddle of mud and melted snow. “He's got three of his four kids home and his granddaughter. If a miracle happened and Beck showed up, he'd be in heaven.”

It
would
take a miracle to get Beckett here from Boston. He always said it was work that kept him away. But did any of them actually believe that? “So you're pretty confident you and Colton are sticking around the Valley?”

His sister's smile told an entire story, one he'd only heard about from afar but could actually take some of the credit for. After all, he was the one who'd asked Colton to come back to Iowa with him last fall after the tornado hit, stick around town and help Dad repair the depot when Logan couldn't stay himself.

He hadn't realized Kate would end up home from Chicago at the same time. Never would've guessed Kate and Colton would form the kind of friendship that shifted into love before they knew what hit them. They'd had a fair amount of bumps—one that had even landed Kate in the hospital—but looking at her now, watching the joy spread over her face, he'd bet she'd say it had been worth it, broken bones and all.

“I'm confident I'm sticking around. Can't speak for Colt.”

“Ha, don't try to pretend you guys aren't a package deal.”

She snickered and freed her arm from his. “I'll say this—twelve months ago if you'd told me I'd be moving back to Maple Valley early this year, I'd have laughed in your face. Now, I couldn't be happier, and it's hard to picture myself anywhere else. But Colton has a dream of eventually expanding his nonprofit, and who knows what that could mean?”

Still hard to believe, sometimes, the same Colton he'd known back in LA—the one whose injuries had forced him out of the NFL, the one he'd had to pick up at a bar after a fight the week he'd announced his retirement—had now opened a transitional home for male teens aging out of the foster care system.

In fact, Colton was with one of the teens right now, a high school football player he'd started mentoring last year. Kate said they worked out at the community center every Saturday morning like clockwork.

“Duck number fourteen is in the lead now.” The mayor's voice rasped as he walked and talked at the same time. “But seventy-six is right on his tail. As are forty-two, forty-eight, and ninety-one. But we all know how this goes. It can change as fast as the tide. Who will win this year? It's anyone's guess.”

“Man, how badly does he want to be a sports announcer?”

Kate waved at a friend. “Or a circus ringmaster. Or game show host. Oh, hey, look. Your paper's covering this shindig.”

He followed her gaze down the river, its ripples marked by an almost pearl-white sun, to the bridge up ahead. On the other side stood Amelia Bentley with a long-lensed camera. She already had the camera to her eye, angling it down the river and back.

“You should've seen her last night, Kate. She was almost . . . desperate.”

“Amelia?”

His hot chocolate had turned bitter as he'd swallowed after she'd asked about the paper. And for five minutes he'd just stood there, practically mute, while she pitched all the reasons he shouldn't sell. The jobs he could save. The legacy he could preserve.

“You don't even have to stay
in town, if you don't want. I know enough
about the day-to-day operations. Not that we don'
t want you to stay. If you did stay, it
could be awesome. It'd be fun—you'd see.
Have you thought about staying?”

Stay. Stay. Stay. How many times had she said the word?

Every time had felt like a pinprick. Did she think he'd just walk away from his life in LA to oversee a paper that was hemorrhaging money?

“She asked if I'd hold on to the paper, at least through June.
She thinks she can turn the numbers around by the end of the fiscal year.”

“Do
you
think she can?”

Across the river, Amelia lowered her camera, leaned over to say something to the guy standing next to her. “I think if irrational love for a small-town weekly was enough to keep its heart pumping, she'd be the one to do it. But is it actually financially possible? I have my doubts. I mean, maybe if they got a website, then they could bring in some extra ad revenue.”

And her idea for a centennial issue wasn't a bad one. Might actually give them a nice subscriber boost.

“So what'd you tell her?”

He shrugged. “She got a phone call, and I was saved from answering.” Some guy named Owen. Was that the dude standing next to her now?

“So why don't you stay?”

He turned. That word again.

“Stay. Not forever, but longer than a week a two. Shouldn't that be one of the perks of being your own boss? Being able to take extended time off or work remotely? Take some time to make your decision.”

“There's no decision, Kate. I'm selling. That money will be really helpful. Even with insurance, speech therapy for Charlie is expensive.”

“But you could probably get a better deal for the paper if you take some time, make some improvements, start that website.”

She had a minor point. He'd read the paperwork Hugh Banner had given him. The offer from Cranford Communications was lowball, no question about that.

“I can't just take a break from real life, though.”

“Logan, this
is
real life. Real life isn't just your career or your everyday stuff. It's the surprises and opportunities and open doors you didn't see coming. Last year taught me that. You
remember. I thought I was going to be writing another movie or going to Africa to work for Mom's foundation. Coming home felt like the hugest interruption—but it turned out maybe the interruption was part of some bigger plan all along.”

Of course by
bigger plan
she meant God's plan. But he didn't know how he felt about the idea of God and his plans these days. Not if life interruptions like Emma's death could be considered part of “God's plan.”

Or how about Charlie? Was it God's plan she grow up without her mom—her adoptive mom
and
her birth mom? And was it God's plan Emma's little sister get pregnant at nineteen while on drugs? Oh, she'd promised she was sober all the way through her pregnancy, but he'd started wondering lately if that had been a lie. If maybe Waverly O'Hare's addiction issues might've contributed to Charlie's not talking.

“We're getting closer. Eighty-four has captured the lead.” The mayor's voice cut into his thoughts.

“Okay, I'll stop,” Kate said. “I know that look.”

“What look?” He scoped out Charlie again, still smiling atop Dad's shoulders. What was her duck number again? Sixty-five or sixty-six?

“The look that says I'm being pushy and you're the older brother. You're the one who's supposed to dole out advice.”

An expectant hush fanned over the crowd as the bobbing ducks neared the bridge. “I don't mind your advice, sis.”

“In that case, I'll say one more thing: You're burnt out, Logan. We all see it. You've got circles under your eyes, you've forgotten how to shave—”

“You really know how to make a guy feel good about himself, you know that?”

“Stick around for a while. We can help with Charlie. You could remember what it feels like to have a hobby. Go fishing. You used to love that. Or get out your guitar—”

“I don't play anymore.” His voice came out sharper than he'd intended.

But Kate didn't seem to notice. “Besides, you might have fun playing newspaper publisher for a while. Write some articles, flirt with the cute editor—”

“Kate.”

“Come on, admit she's pretty.”

Maybe she was—something about those speckled eyes—but he'd shave his head before admitting it to Kate. She wrote romantic stories for a living, after all. She'd start playing matchmaker so fast he might as well write his vows already.

“Logan?” She'd stopped, the rest of the crowd continuing to move around her. “You'll do the right thing. Whatever you decide about the paper and selling and staying or not staying. You'll do the right thing. You always do.”

But that was the problem, wasn't it? This time he honestly didn't know what the right thing was.

“And number sixty-six has taken a solid lead with only feet to go!”

Kate's eyes widened. “That's Charlie's, isn't it?”

Up ahead, Charlie was waving her arms from atop Dad's shoulders. Minutes later, they stood on the Peach Street Bridge, Charlie holding a wet duck and Logan holding Charlie. Dad grinning and Kate clapping. And somehow he heard the whisper in his heart even over the crowd.

Stay.

“Can I get a picture for next week's paper?”

Amelia. With her camera and her notebook and that hopeful expectation in her eyes. She lifted her camera, and Charlie held up her duck with a smile that could've melted the last of the ice in the river.

Sometimes it really stunk, being the only one in the office with both the gall and an arm small enough to battle the press machine. Amelia flexed her hand as she felt around inside the machine for jammed newsprint, inky fumes clouding around her from her perch on the stepstool. Great way to start off the week.