The Wonder of You (31 page)

“I clearly need a Mohawk and more flannel. Whose idea was this?” Roark held his free Flapjack Festival T-shirt to his chest, his prize of entry into this blasted event that he should have backed out of a week ago.

Right about the time Amelia had slammed the door in his face, left him standing in the dirt where he’d started two months ago.

“It was my idea, and stop your yappin’. You’re going to do just fine.” Darek led him away from the sign-in booth. One look at the competition and Roark knew the train had truly left the station. He was in for a right walloping.

“Do you see that man over there? Roughly the size of a barge?” Roark pointed to a man who looked like he might eat a full moose for dinner. He had a handlebar mustache; his red-and-black flannel sleeves were cut off at the shoulders, revealing the kind of muscle a man only got from dragging real logs around in the woods. Not the pitiful weights Roark pumped on a regular basis at the gym. “There are women here whose arms are bigger than my legs.”

“Calm down, 007,” Jensen said as he approached, holding two fish burgers. He gave one to Roark. “Have a local specialty. You’ll feel better.”

He made a face. “Please, have mercy.”

“I’ll take that action,” Darek said. “How long before he makes his official appearance?”

“What?” Roark said.

“You’ll be introduced on the grandstand with the other competitors,” Jensen said. “In about fifteen minutes.”

A specimen to be mocked. “No. That’s not happening.” Roark was already searching for an exit from the crowded park, past the grandstand thick with spectators wearing novelty hats with axes in the top and shirts with Stihl and Husqvarna logos.

Too many appeared as if they could wrestle Sasquatch and win.

Main Street had become a carnival, with cheese curds, Chinese food, gyros, and popcorn stands all muddled together in a collision of smells that could turn his stomach. Face and henna painters decorated the cheeks and arms of youngsters, and a small carnival of kiddie rides played a tinny tune from a nearby parking lot.

Smack in the middle was a tent with endless rounds of flapjacks sizzling on a griddle the size of a pickup. The feast spiced the air with the smell of bacon grease and sweet maple syrup.

For the lumberjack games, organizers had brought in a pool of water for the birling competition, and a stage hosted the giant logs for the hot saw. On another platform, smaller logs waited for the standing chop.

Away from the food vendors, the air smelled of fresh-cut wood. Music from a nearby band, the Millers, a group of Celtic players, drifted on the breeze.

“Whoa there,” Jensen said. “Don’t disappear on us. I see that
look on your face. It’s done. And it’s already official. It became official the minute you didn’t cut and run after Amelia left you on the front porch.”

Darek took a bite of the fish sandwich. “You should have seen him, Jens. White as a sheet.” He looked at Roark. “When Amelia came in, I have to admit, I’ve never seen her as truly angry at anyone as she was at you.”

Roark glanced at Jensen. “I blame you and Claire,” he said. “I do believe this is a grand plot to make me look a fool in front of the entire community, get me right good for
 
—”

“Lying to us? Acting like you’re some poor bloke in need of a job and a roof over his head?” Darek took another bite of his fish burger, glanced at Jensen. “Billions?”

“9.72.”

“Stop,” Roark said.

“I’ll bet you have a Porsche, don’t you?” Darek said.

“I need something stiff to drink.”

“Or an Aston Martin.”

“Please.” The oily odor of the fish burger had started to make him nauseated. “Take that thing away from me.”

“Indeed. Only filet mignon for Your Royal Highness.”

Roark shot Darek a look.

“He’s a little sensitive about the royal thing, Darek,” Jensen said, hiding a smile.

“I’m not royal. And right now, I believe I’ve flipped my lid to think I could do this.” He started toward his flat.

“Hey, Roark,” said a girl who passed him. He recognized her as one of the regulars
 
—tall vanilla latte.

“Colleen Decker,” she said when he didn’t respond. “Are you competing?” She indicated the T-shirt in his hands.

He wanted to rip the blasted thing to shreds.

“I haven’t quite decided.”

“Oh, you should! It’s great fun. And stick around for the Sawdust Sweeties pageant.” She winked and headed toward the mini donut stand, giggling when she caught up with girlfriends who gave him a long once-over.

“Roark!”

Roark ignored Darek’s voice and kept walking.

Jensen caught up. “Dude. Don’t chicken out.”

That stopped him. “I’m not chickening out
 
—”

Darek came up to him. “Yeah, actually, you are. We train for three weeks, I bust my backside this week teaching you how to logroll, wear myself out in the double buck, trying to get you to keep up, and you’re walking?” He blew out a breath. “I admit it, I didn’t see that coming. Not after everything you’ve done to show up
 
—and stay
 
—in Amelia’s life.”

“She hasn’t talked to me for a week. And she’s not going to. Apparently I’m right back where I started.”

“‘I’m
rich
.’ That’s not so hard to say.” This from Darek.

Roark’s mouth tightened.

“But here’s what’s harder. Sticking around. Because if you really love her, be a fool for her. She wants the guy who took a job pouring coffee just to be in her life. I think she loves that guy; she just has to figure out how to get past the one who keeps getting in the way.”

“The rich one, from Europe?”

“The one who thinks he has to lie to get her to like him. I think the real Roark St. John is the guy who helped rescue Boy Scouts and learned how to stay on a log, the guy who isn’t afraid to fight for the girl, even if it means he’s about to get chippered
 
—if it means helping a girl realize she wasn’t a fool to fall in love with him twice.”

Amelia’s words floated back to Roark, her voice rough-edged, her eyes flush with tears.
It means my stupidity has no borders. I can be a fool on both sides of the ocean.

He’d wanted to be sick at the thought of how much he’d hurt her.

Darek held out the shirt, and for a second, the gesture brought back John’s words the night he’d taken Amelia out on the boat.

I was wrong about you. Thank you for sticking around, for showing us you were worthy of her.

Darek waited. Jensen, who’d finished his fish burger, wadded the wrapper into a ball.

Roark heard the announcer call the contestants onstage.

“You could at least wish me the best of British.” He headed toward the stage, his shirt tight in his grip. The other contestants had already pulled theirs on, but he marched onstage, too wound up to comply.

Even when Seb, as mayor, took the stage. He glanced at Roark, smiled. Roark offered him a thin smile in return.

Seb welcomed everyone, gave a rundown of the weekend’s events, starting with tonight’s street dance, the classic car show, the pageant, tomorrow night’s Flapjack Ball, the chainsaw carving contest, and then the lineup of lumberjack sports
 
—the hot saw, the chop, the birling, and the double buck. “Top scorer overall wins the Flapjack Festival title. Let’s meet our competitors.”

He introduced the women first, six competitors who ranged from women who could bench-press Roark to lean athletes with sinewed arms.

Then the men. Seb started at the top, alphabetically, and the men stepped up, some of them waving to the crowd, pointing at sweethearts as the applause rose and fell with each competitor.

And then Roark spotted Amelia. The fact that she’d come
rocked him. He hadn’t really contemplated what he might do if Amelia appeared in the audience. Her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, her hair up in a ponytail and threaded through the hole at the back of her baseball hat. She wore a black shirt, a pair of ripped jeans, and looked about as American as a girl could get.

He ached, every inch of him, to replay the past month
 
—no, the past nine months. More, at once he didn’t care, not really, if she loved him for himself or his money. He just wanted her. Wanted her laughter, her solid belief that he could do anything. Save her from thugs in Prague, teach her wine pairings, and yeah, also win a stupid log-chopping competition.

He wanted her smile. On him. For him. Forever.

“Unbelievably, folks, our next contestant hails from . . . Europe. Where is it, Roark?”

“Brussels,” he said quietly to Seb, his eyes on Amelia. Her mouth had tightened almost imperceptibly. But Roark saw it, and his heart sank.

Clearly he’d harbored a sort of crazy hope that she might be impressed.
Are you man enough to show up and stay in the fight, even if you could lose?

He wanted to be.

He stayed right there, rooted to the stage, as Seb announced his name.

A cheer went up from the audience
 
—probably Darek and Jensen
 
—but to his surprise, it was followed by a rising cascade of applause. He recognized Colleen Decker and her mates, as well as Kathy, his boss from the coffee shop, and Jake, the pilot, plus a few other regulars he’d managed to befriend.

In fact, he’d received just as much applause as any of the locals.

Amelia shifted. Beside her, Vivie stuck two fingers in her mouth and let out a whistle.

Roark lifted a hand, waved, and it elicited a few more cheers.

“I guess we have some BBC fans here,” Seb said.

Roark couldn’t help but smile.

“And our last contestant, a veteran of the Flapjack winner’s circle, a logger by legacy, our own Seth Turnquist!”

Applause, of course, which Roark couldn’t help comparing to his own. When Amelia didn’t cheer for Seth either, Roark tried not to find satisfaction in that.

Until Seth stepped forward and took the microphone from Seb’s hand. “Hey, everyone. I just want to say that this year, my win is for my girl, Amelia Christiansen.” He pointed to her, and the crowd erupted.

The earth could have opened up, swallowed Roark in a gulp, when the smallest of smiles went up Amelia’s face.

Seth handed Seb back the microphone. Seb closed the announcements. Then the competitors left the stage.

Roark stood watching as groupies surrounded Seth, dearly hoping Amelia wasn’t among them.

“Did you hear the crowd? They love you!” This from Jensen, who came up to him with a closed fist.

Roark ignored the fist bump. “What is he thinking, dedicating the competition to her?”

“I think he’s going for the win, dude,” Darek said.

That was all it took. Roark marched over to Seth, weaving through the crowd right to where the lumberjack stood, a few feet from Amelia.

“What?” Seth snapped, obviously annoyed at being torn away from his groupies.

“You’re on,” Roark said.

Seth frowned. “What?”

“The wager. You win, you get her. I win, you walk away.”

Seth let out a harsh laugh. “Right. Okay, dude. May the best man win.”

Roark walked toward Darek and Jensen, who stood there, nonplussed. He pulled out his wallet. “I think I’ll have one of those fish burgers.”

He smoothed the fiver between two fingers, then turned to Darek. “By the way, the car you were looking for is a Ferrari 599 GTB Fiorano.”

Jensen grinned.

“Oh, he so has this,” Roark heard Darek say as he headed to the fish stand.

Yes. Yes, he did.

“J
UST ONE MORE TIME,
for me. How rich is he?”

“Oh, Vivie, give it a break.” Amelia sat balancing a cup of bracing coffee between her hands as the sun turned the shiny sawdust produced by the chain saws into a rainbow of light. Vivie sat beside her, wearing a pair of overalls, her costume for today’s talent show and pageant interview on the main stage.

“I’m just sayin’, he’s only gotten better-looking since he picked up an ax. If you’re still mad at him, I’d start looking at the big picture. Brains, brawn, and bucks. And please, let’s not forget the accent. What’s the question here?”

“He lied.” Amelia took a sip of her coffee as Vivie waved to a couple contestants, gearing up for their turn on the hot saw. And yes, her gaze lingered, just a moment, on Roark.

He wore Casper’s steel-toed boots, a pair of faded jeans he probably borrowed from Darek, and the black Flapjack Festival T-shirt that sculpted every inch of his torso, reminding her exactly how it had felt to lean against him in the schooner. A gimme cap sat backward on his head so his curls fed out under the brim, behind his ears.

He probably smelled manly.

Shoot.

But that’s just it, Amelia. You don’t see me as a man with means
 
—

Funny thing was, right now she could agree. She never saw him as a man of means. Just the guy who showed up in her life to make her believe in herself.

She blew out a breath, looked away. He was a liar. And the fact that he was still mocking her by competing had her wanting to run. But she’d promised Seth she’d stay.

Seth, who’d found her last night and asked her to dance. Who’d wrapped her in his arms and told her that he’d win today for her, and she’d never have to worry about Roark again.

What, because Seth planned on humiliating him?

“Does he own a yacht?”

“Vivie!”

“Or a palace?”

“I don’t know, okay? Maybe. I googled him finally
 
—something I probably should have done at the beginning
 
—and Roark St. John is all over the Internet. Pictures of him at Eton and the University of St Andrews
 
—”

“Isn’t that where Prince William went to school?”

“It is, and for all I know, he had tea with the queen and bested the future king in polo. And yes, he played rugby and rowed, just like he said. Then I looked up their company, Constantine
Worldwide, and they do have four thousand-some hotels. And are worth something like nine billion euros. But the Roark I know drives a Ford Focus and lives above the coffee shop as a pauper.”

“Claws in, sheesh. I was just curious.”

“Yeah, well . . . I’m trying not to think about it.” Amelia blinked back the sting in her eyes. Because seeing how amazingly rich Roark was only did strange things to her. Like made her want to weep for a guy who felt like he couldn’t be loved if she knew he was rich. Or the guy who had lost everything, twice. And the guy who felt as if God had abandoned him
 
—no,
cursed
him, to use his words.

So much for trying to scrape him from her mind.

Please, let this day get over fast.

“Here he comes! Pick up your camera!” Vivie grabbed her arm as Roark took the stage, fitted his ear protection, and grabbed the chain saw, one of Darek’s with the engine taken and modified from his old snowmobile. He’d no doubt tuned it to perfect racing condition. Roark and another contestant
 
—thankfully, not Seth
 
—would compete for times, sawing the horizontal log through from the top down, then from the bottom up, keeping the cuts straight, then down a third time, for three “cookies.”

She reluctantly centered Roark in the viewfinder, just on the wild chance he didn’t make a gigantic fool of himself and she could sell a few shots to the paper

Roark pulled the string, starting the saw. To her surprise, he handled it like a man who’d spent his life in the woods.

Good job, Darek.

Roark positioned the saw, revved it. Didn’t even look her direction.

The gun went off and he dove into the cut, starting over the
back, just like Darek taught him, then slowly, steadily pulling the saw through the cut. If he came off max power, even for a second, he’d lose momentum.

He leveled out as he reached the bottom, and the cookie fell off in a solid thump. Without breaking, he started up from the bottom, in closer at the front, evening out on the back side as he came up to the top.

“He’s ahead!” Vivie said, grabbing Amelia’s arm. She hadn’t noticed the cheering increasing as Roark ripped through the top, but when the second cookie fell, the roar began to swell.

Sweat ran down his face, and the sight of him, fighting through the log, his jaw tight, his legs straining at his jeans, sawdust layering the fine hair on his arms . . .

Who was this man?

The final cookie dropped off, and Roark cut the power to his saw, dropped it, breathing hard.

His competitor had just started his third cut.

“He beat Seth.”

“What?” Amelia looked at Vivie, who had the score sheet from her program open.

“By 2.3 seconds. He beat him.”

“No, he didn’t.”

But yeah, as Roark jumped off the platform into the high fives and fist bumps of Darek and Jensen, it appeared Roark, the Brit, had bested Seth. Especially when she caught a glimpse of Seth, his eyes dark on Roark, a moment before he turned and stalked away from the audience.

Amelia couldn’t help a strange surge of pride. Especially when she scrolled through the series of shots she’d taken.

The man actually looked like a bona fide lumberjack.

“C’mon. Seth is chopping next.”

Right. Amelia scrambled off the benches and headed over to the platform for the standing block chop. On the way, she and Vivie picked up a bag of cotton candy, sharing it between them.

“I have to run after this and get ready for my talent,” Vivie said.

“Which is?”

“Guess.” She sighed big. “‘Do you know what I intend? I intend to be a queen. When I grow up, I’m going to be the biggest queen there ever was, and I’ll live in a big palace, and when I go out in my coach, all the people will wave and I will shout at them, and . . . and . . . in the summertime I will go to my summer palace and I’ll wear my crown
 
—’”

“
You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown
. Senior year.”

Vivie winked.

“You were the perfect Lucy.”

“If I had half the talent for acting that you have for photography, I wouldn’t have to try out for a silly pageant. I’d be in Hollywood right now, reading scripts with Chris Pine. Please tell me you’re going to win.”

She’d thrown herself into finding the perfect shots this week for the finale in an effort to keep her mind off Roark and his revelation.

Here she was, trying to win a paltry five thousand dollars. He was probably laughing at her behind her back.

Laughing at all of them, maybe. It made her feel small and simple, her life in Deep Haven, their resort, provincial.

Once again, he’d humiliated her. “I hope so. I made it to the finals, and I have until Monday to submit three final shots. I’m not sure what it is that America loves about my photos
 
—”

“It’s your subject matter. And speaking of, the mighty Seth just
picked up his ax.” She hooked Amelia’s arm and pulled her over to the standing chop.

Seth lined up, his stance textbook, something she knew from all those hours watching Darek once upon a time. He competed for time against a burly man who looked like a Wisconsinite.

When the gun sounded, Seth slammed his ax into the wood, two blows to the bottom. Looking like Thor with his golden mane gleaming in the sunlight. Two more blows into the top, and a perfect trapezoid wedge chipped out.

He had the shoulders of a lineman. Sturdy, solid. The kind of man she could depend on. Who would never leave her, never lie to her. Husband material. Father material. A happy life in Deep Haven material.

His fourth and fifth chops took out the rest of the wood on the front, and he stepped around the back, just ahead of his competitor.

He wore jeans, a white shirt, the arms ripped at the shoulders, and red suspenders. And he took the top of the block off in four more blows. It went skittering into the audience, who roared.

Vivie recorded his time. “Twenty-eight seconds. Not a world record but it’s good.”

“It’s fantastic. Darek got a 29.3 once and we had to call him Mighty Dare for a week.”

Vivie laughed. “I gotta run and get ready for the show. Here’s my gift to you. Words to live by.”

“Yeah?”

“‘I forgive you, Roark.’” Vivie squeezed her hand and climbed off the bleachers.

Amelia watched as two more competitors came up, both of them nearing Seth’s time, neither beating it. Then she spied
Roark. He stood with Darek and Jensen, head down, getting final words.

Her brother’s arms hung on Roark’s shoulders as if they were in a pregame huddle or praying, even. She had to admit that her anger cooled enough for her to feel the stirring she’d felt in Roark’s arms on the boat. Staring at the stars with a sense of electricity or anticipation, as if all might be awaiting her, just behind a veil.

Waiting for . . . what?

Two more competitors and her breakfast donut had turned into a ball in her stomach.

Especially when, as Roark stepped up to the block, Seth slid onto the bench beside her. “Hey, beautiful.”

She looked at him. He hadn’t shaved today, the finest layer of reddish-blond whiskers adding to the lumberjack aura.

“You were amazing out there.”

“Best time yet.”

She nodded, trying not to glance at Roark. But the gun sounded and she couldn’t help it.

He lined up with his back to her, corded muscles rippling in his arms as he threw his first blow. It sank deep, but it took him a second to yank it free.

The next, an underhand blow, sank farther, a better hit.

He raised his ax for a down hit, and to her horror, it skimmed down the front of the log, the angle off. The crowd gasped as the blade plunged into the deck, narrowly missing his leg. Thanks to Darek for teaching him the right stance.

But Roark looked shaken.

Darek yelled at him from the side of the stage, and Roark looked over at him, nodded. He picked up the ax, blew out a breath, and brought it down.

A perfect blow, and he yanked it out, down, around, and back into the wood. A beautiful trapezoid chinked out of the wood. He added another up hit, two more down hits, and the wedge came out.

His competitor had moved to the other side, his hits hard, but his V seemed lopsided.

Roark lined up, wood chipped on his shirt, and drove in an up hit, then another.

Then he rose up as tall as he could and brought the ax down, severing the top from the wood.

It skidded off just as his competitor finished his log.

Amelia glanced at Seth, saw his mouth in a tight, dark line. But it vanished as he glanced at her. “Want a fish burger?”

No. What she wanted was a chance to talk to Roark. To find out exactly why he’d decided to stick around and challenge Seth. Did he seriously think that he could ever belong here, in this tiny town?

And what was he doing with her? He’d dated a supermodel. Amelia had seen her photo online
 
—Francesca, a tall, shapely blonde who belonged on magazine covers.

Roark’s time came up, and Seth let out a breath. Thirty-six seconds.

“C’mon,” he said, taking her hand, and she slid out of the bleachers with him, almost out of habit.

They ate their fish burgers while watching Vivie recite her monologue, then answer her interview questions.

She smiled at her audience, pretty, poised. Quintessential Vivien.

Mona Michaels, owner of the local bookstore, played the role of moderator. “Okay, Vivien. Tell us this. When is the last time you failed? How did you handle it?”

Vivien blinked, and Amelia couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed
her smile faded for a moment. Then she sighed. “Actually, it was quite recent. I dropped out of acting school. Something I always longed to do, and I blew it because I was afraid. I . . .” She swallowed. “I actually ran off the stage during an important audition, got into my friend’s car, and drove all the way back to Minnesota.”

Amelia stared at her, unmoving.

“So I guess the answer is, I came home. But you see, that’s the thing about home. It’s here. It will always be here. It’s not failure to come home and regroup. I’ve discovered that coming home helps you remember exactly who you are and what you want. Home gives you the courage to leave again. At least, that’s my theory because I’m not giving up. Hollywood or bust.” She winked, and when she did, it landed on Amelia.

A few cheers went up as Mona moved on to the next contestant. But beside Amelia, Seth asked, “Did you know she dropped out of acting school?”

“No.” She closed her eyes. Poor Vivie. But she got it. She’d wanted to hide when she got home too. But coming home had healed her. And was starting to show her that maybe she didn’t have to stay.