© 2016 by Melissa Tagg
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-2943-4
Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Faceout Studios/Kara Davison
Melissa Tagg is represented by MacGregor Literary, Inc.
“With profound truths on one page and laugh-out-loud hilarity on the next, Like Never Before quickly became one of those novels I didn’t want to end. Melissa Tagg has penned a delightful story that took hold of my heart and didn’t let go. Superbly well done!”
—Katie Ganshert, bestselling, award-winning author
“In Like Never Before, readers are invited to revisit the much-loved Walker clan in a story that delivers on the promise that even if lost once, love can be found again. In true Melissa Tagg style, the dialogue is smart and the romance is real and raw in all the right places. This series is witty storytelling at its best.”
—Kristy Cambron, author of the HIDDEN MASTERPIECE series and The Ringmaster’s Wife
“Like Never Before is a gem of a story. I never knew Iowa could be so charming until I met the Walker family from Maple Valley. Logan and Amelia’s story is pure delight—funny, sweet, romantic, poignant—and it even has a touch of historical mystery! The perfect weekend read—Melissa Tagg just keeps getting better and better!”
—Susan May Warren, RITA® and Christy Award-winning, bestselling author of the CHRISTIANSEN FAMILY series
“In Like Never Before, Melissa Tagg once again delivers a wonderful romance—and a fun little mystery!—with her signature swoon-worthy characters and laugh out loud moments that will make every reader fall in love with both the story and the author. As always, a wonderful read by a very talented writer!”
—Sarah Price
“Like Never Before is like a warm embrace from the Walkers with the added sweetness of a heroine who feels like your best friend. Amelia just wants a home. Logan just wants to keep moving. Both are burdened by deep pain from the past. In Like Never Before, you will be reminded that love is worth the risk no matter what has hurt you in the past. And by opening your heart, you may just find a home. This is another keeper from an author who somehow makes each novel better than the last.”
—Cara Putman, award-winning author of Shadowed by Grace and Where Treetops Glisten
“In Like Never Before, author Melissa Tagg once again welcomes readers to the fictitious town of Maple Valley, even as she crafts characters you come to care about like real-life friends. The story, woven through with Tagg’s trademark humor, highlights an abiding love of family and the importance of anchoring yourself to God when life is hard. One of my favorite books by this author!”
—Beth K. Vogt, 2015 RITA® Finalist, author of Crazy Little Thing Called Love
“Warm, witty, and insightful, no one crafts a romance like Melissa Tagg. After just a few pages, I found myself sighing with happiness—prepare to be charmed!”
—Hillary Manton Lodge, author of Reservations for Two
“Reading a Melissa Tagg novel is like sharing coffee with a close friend in cozy diner where the conversation and laughter flow freely. Like Never Before offers readers a charming setting with passionate characters, snappy dialogue, heartfelt moments, and threads of faith woven throughout the story to pull everything together. Another book on my keeper shelf.”
—Lisa Jordan, author of Lakeside Redemption
To my nephew Ollie
Someday you’ll be old enough
to read this and understand
how much your strength
and personality inspire me.
For now, I’ll settle for spoiling you
every chance I get.
I love you, buddy!
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Endorsements
Dedication
Epigraph
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
Epilogue
A Note From the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Melissa Tagg
Back Ads
Back Cover
For I am about to do something new.
See, I have already begun! Do you not see it?
I will make a pathway through the wilderness.
I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.
—Isaiah 43:19
1
To: Logan Walker
From: Amelia Bentley
Subject: Hello?
Hi, Logan,
Yep, it’s me again. Amelia Bentley. I know, you’d think after three unanswered emails I’d give up. But reporters—even small-town Iowa ones—have spunk. Except, hmm, maybe you’re some Lou Grant–type and you hate spunk.
In that case, I’ve got persistence, determination, and, fine, a fair bit of stubbornness.
Which is why I’m writing you this third email to see if you have any interest in coming back to work for the News. Since Freddie passed away, we’re short a reporter. I know you live in LA now, so this is probably crazy talk. But you told me yourself you miss the newspaper world. So I can’t help asking . . .
Amelia Bentley
Editor, Maple Valley News
p.s. It just occurred to me that maybe the reason you haven’t replied is you don’t remember me. I was the reporter at your sister’s boyfriend’s nonprofit’s grand opening last month. (World record for most possessive nouns used in one sentence?) We talked for a few minutes. You complimented my Nikon.
———
To: Amelia Bentley
From: Logan Walker
Subject: RE: Hello?
Amelia—
I do remember you. And your Nikon. Sorry that I haven’t responded until now. My inbox is like something out of a horror movie.
And I remember telling you I miss reporting. I have to be honest: That might have been mostly small talk. Yeah, I miss it now and then. But I don’t have a ton of desire to go back to writing about school board meetings and really tall asparagus. :)
—L
———
To: Logan Walker
From: Amelia Bentley
If that’s a crack at how often small-town newspapers run photos of oversized produce . . . well, then, okay. (This is Iowa, after all
.)
So would you consider coming back if I promised to cover ALL the school board meetings?
Just kidding. I knew it was a long shot. But aren’t the best reporters the ones who chase long shots?
—Amelia
p.s. Is signing off with just an initial an LA thing?
———
To: Amelia Bentley
From: Logan Walker
There are long shots and then there are looooong shots.
But hey, it’s almost graduation time. Check with the area colleges. I bet you can find a journalism major in need of a job.
—Logan James Walker (There. More than an initial this time. Happy?)
———
To: Logan Walker
From: Amelia Bentley
I don’t want a journalism major. I want you.
And yes, I realize how that sounds. Don’t get smug or anything! I’m just saying, your award plaques still line the office walls. When you worked here, subscriptions topped 5,000. Freddie talked about you constantly. If you change your mind . . .
—Amelia Anne Bentley
———
To: Amelia Bentley
From: Logan Walker
The only thing I’m smug about is the fact that I finally figured out the Lou Grant reference in your earlier email. Mary Tyler Moore Show, right?
By the way, I should’ve said earlier: Sorry about Freddie. He was a good guy, great editor. I wish I could’ve made it home for his funeral. When I heard he died, I kept kicking myself for not keeping in better touch since moving out here.
—Logan
———
To: Logan Walker
From: Amelia Bentley
He knew you were busy. And he always talked about how proud of you he was.
Truthfully, Freddie was ready to be done with the newspaper biz long ago, too. The flood last year did a number on him (not to mention our equipment). He was in the process of selling the paper and retiring before he passed. He only passed on the editor mantle to me a month ago. It’s all up in the air now—we don’t even know who our current owner is.
That’s not meant to be a guilt trip, by the way. Just letting you know why I’m grasping at straws and trying to talk an Iowa boy home.
—Amelia
———
To: Amelia Bentley
From: Logan Walker
I get it. And I do appreciate you asking me to come back. Believe it or not, I did actually consider it for a few nostalgic seconds. Most of my five years at the News were good ones. But my life and work are here now.
Besides, I’m not a reporter anymore.
———
To: Logan Walker
From: Amelia Bentley
Aw, come on. Newspapering gets in a person’s blood. You don’t just stop being a reporter.
—Amelia
———
To: Amelia Bentley
From: Logan Walker
Whatever you say, Hildy.
———
To: Logan Walker
From: Amelia Bentley
Hildy?
———
To: Amelia Bentley
From: Logan Walker
You’re a reporter. Figure it out. :)
On days like this—when sunlit snowflakes fell like tiny, glistening jewels and a crisp quiet brushed through the cold—Amelia Bentley could almost believe she’d never led another life.
Never stood in front of an altar one morning to begin what a hastily scrawled signature, smudged by tears, would eventually end. Never carved open a chamber of her heart, only to later lock it tight, hiding away the goodbye she’d never asked to say.
Amelia pulled open the front door of the Maple Valley News office, bells chiming overhead as she stepped into a cocoon of warmth and familiarity.
Today there were no brick-heavy yesterdays. Only the inky scent of newsprint and the embrace of this wintry town—her town. Well, and the yipping voice at the back of her mind reminding her she was—
“You’re late.” The News’s receptionist peered over thin bifocals, silver-tinted hair coifed with enough bobby pins to pick every lock in the county.
Amelia loosened the turquoise scarf at her neck, camera bag slinking down her arm. “I know. Just need fresh batteries for my flash. But Mae . . .” The rubber soles of her fur-lined boots squealed against the laminate floor as she slid to the reception desk. Her voice lowered to an awed whisper. “It’s snowing.”
“You think I don’t know that? You’re tracking it all over my space.”
Amelia glanced down at the puddle forming around her feet. “Sorry. It’s pretty, though, don’t you think?”
“If it were December, sure. But it’s the middle of March. No way you’ll hear me calling snow pretty in March.”
“You just said snow the way most people say oral surgery. Or taxes. Or beets.”
Mae only harrumphed and turned back to her computer. Amelia nudged the camera bag back up over her shoulder, stomped the last of the snow from her boots, and hurried through the room that contained the ad department—if two women and a part-time intern counted as a department. She waved at Kat, Mikaela, and Abby as she passed. Pin-ups of ads for this week’s issue dangled from the cloth-covered cubicle wall separating their desks, and sunshine spilled in through generous windows.
She pushed through the newsroom door.
Just inside, Owen swiveled in his chair. “You’re—”
“Save it. Already got the third degree from Eeyore at the front desk.” Amelia dropped her bag onto the sprawling island counter that gulped up most of the newsroom’s space. Back issues of the News and other area papers covered the high tabletop.
“The fire chief’s already called twice.”
“I’m not even five minutes late. You told him to keep his pants on, right?” She bypassed her own cluttered desk and bee-lined for the row of pale blue cupboards lining the back wall. She hoped that at some point she’d remembered to pick up a pack of spare batteries.
Owen stood, straightening the gray vest that matched his slacks, lavender shirt underneath. He was the only sports reporter she’d ever met who dressed like he belonged at InStyle magazine rather than a small-town weekly with a circ of barely 3,500. He perched on the corner of his desk, arms folded. “No, I did not tell him to keep his pants on. I didn’t think that the best choice of words, considering your little incident last year.”
Amelia opened a cupboard, hiding her almost-smile. “How was I supposed to know they’d just gotten back from a drill? How was I supposed to know that door in the station led into the room where they change?”
Nineteen volunteer firefighters in various states of undress. Some things you couldn’t un-see.
Nor could she, apparently, live down.
“Twelve months I’ve endured the taunting of the entire Maple Valley Fire Department.” But ooh, score, a foursome of double-As loose in the cupboard. “What are the chances they’ll drop it one of these days?”
“Not gonna happen. They love teasing you. Same with the police. The EMTs. Every farmer at the co-op.” Owen moved away from his desk, unzipped her camera bag, and pulled out the flash.
Behind him, the mockups of this week’s paper still hung from two long, metal strips on the opposite wall, held in place by magnets. Twenty-four pages, final edits visible in red ink. Four spreads less than the issues they’d put out even just two months back.
But short a reporter and with both circulation and advertising down, Amelia was doing good to churn out a paper at all.
Her gaze slid to the dark closet of an office in the corner. How many mornings did she waltz in to work, still half expecting to see Freddie settled in his raggedy chair, slurping on a vanilla shake for breakfast? The window in his office looked out on the riverfront, where late afternoon brushed shades of tangerine and pink through the sky’s wispy clouds, and the Blaine River, ice-frosted and calm, cut through the center of town.
“Admit it,” Owen
’s voice cut in. “You may not be a native, but you’re the whole town’s kid sister.”
“If thirty counts as kid.” But Owen had a point. She’d wandered into town a wounded heart three years ago. The people of Maple Valley had begun sweeping up her broken pieces before she’d even decided to stay. She’d spent the time since doing all she could to repay that gift. Made sense that she’d earned some friends along the way.
“You’re forgetting Mae, though.” She took the flash from Owen. “She’s never warmed to me.”
“Mae’s never warmed to anyone. Except maybe her cat. By the way, Cranford called while you were out.”
A groan worked its way up her throat, and she chucked the flash’s dead batteries at an already-overflowing trash can. Missed. They hit the wall and clunked to the floor. “Way to bury the lede.”
“You can’t keep ignoring this.”
“Why? It’s been working okay for a few weeks now.” She reloaded the flash.
“Amelia—”
“Besides, lawyers are still hashing out if the sale was even final before Freddie died. Until I know for sure Cranford Communications is the new owner of the Maple Valley News, I don’t feel any obligation to take C.J. Cranford’s calls. Especially since I know exactly what he’ll say.” She plopped the flash back in its bag. “He’ll do to us what he’s done to dozens of small papers—dissolve us and roll us into a larger regional pub. He owns the Central Iowa Communicator, you know.” A four-color beauty of a paper with a tri-county reach. She could admit to ogling the Communicator’s zingy headlines and pretty photos each week.
Didn’t mean she wanted to see it swallow up the News.
Owen only shrugged and picked up the batteries rolling across the floor.
Maybe she shouldn’t expect him to share her worry. He was a twenty-four-year-old transplant from Omaha with his eyes on grad school. She’d seen the applications he worked on during his lunch hour, the ones he minimized on his computer screen whenever she walked past.
He couldn’t understand Amelia’s ties to this town, the paper. Didn’t know—couldn’t know—how they’d filled up the hollowed-out spaces inside her. “Did Cranford leave a message?”