Silent minutes ticked by—only the hum of the furnace and swishing papers filling the quiet as Amelia’s hands knotted in her lap.
Finally, Jonas reached the last page. He once again lifted the stack, straightened it into a neat pile, and re-secured it with a binder clip. “Well, I commend your attention to detail. You wouldn’t believe how many people come in here, hoping for ten, twenty, a hundred thousand dollars but haven’t even managed to complete the application in full or, just as bad, it’s full of typos and errors. Never bodes well.”
She should’ve taken Jonas up on the coffee offer, if only for something to keep her from fidgeting. “You can chalk that up to my slight compulsion when it comes to proofreading.” Logan had taken to teasing her about it every production day. Said he couldn’t believe they ever managed to get a paper out the door.
“You’d go on editing forever if there wasn’t such a thing as a deadline.”
That’d been just last week. Before in one innocuous request—or apparently the opposite of innocuous—she’d ruined things.
“You’ve done a wonderful job prepping for this, and no one would doubt your zeal for the News—or this town, for that matter. Hard to believe you’ve only lived here two years.”
“Almost three.”
“One would think you’d been born here, considering what a part of Maple Valley you’ve become. I still remember Lenny and Sunny Klassen talking about the girl who wandered into town and showed up on their doorstep. ‘Just the right tenant,’ they called you.”
They’d also called her an answer to prayer. The daughter they’d never had. Where she’d seen simply a classified ad and an affordable place to live, they’d seen a hurting heart and a chance to help.
“It’s people like Sunny and Lenny who make me so passionate about why I’m here today. Did you see the story last summer about Lenny crafting his five thousandth chair in his woodshop? A small-town newspaper captures not only the personality of the community, but the people who live in it. It chronicles all the little things that make a place like Maple Valley so special.” Amelia leaned forward in her chair. “If the News is sold off to a chain, chiseled down to a little section in a larger regional publication, we lose the chance to preserve the legacy of people like Sunny and Lenny in print.”
“And you’re certain Logan Walker’s going to sell?”
Yes. No. She didn’t know. Just like Owen had said, she’d become so caught up in chasing the Kendall Wilkins story, had sunk so quickly and easily into a friendship with Logan that just felt right, that facing their cross purposes when it came to the News faded more and more from her radar.
Then Saturday, he’d kissed her. And for a few dizzy hours she’d started to think . . .
Well, she didn’t know what she’d thought. Except that she’d started to wonder if she really needed to go through with this bank loan application after all.
But the reality had come pummeling in later—when she’d upset Logan by asking him to sing. After the fundraiser, she’d gone home and finally finished the loan application.
“Yes, I’m pretty certain he’s going to sell,” she said now.
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Amelia. And I have no doubt that if we secure financial backing, you’ll pour yourself into this.”
She heard his but before he went on, breathed in the sour disappointment that came with it in a long inhale tainted with paint fumes.
“But I have to be honest with you: the numbers simply may not add up. You don’t have much in the way of collateral. You don’t have any experience owning and managing a business. You don’t have a college degree.” He pushed her application aside.
“But I worked closely with Freddie for two years. And even in just the past couple months, I’ve learned a lot.”
“There’s also the fact that the paper doesn’t have much in the way of a profit margin. That doesn’t mean it can’t turn around. But what we like to see in these cases is someone with a track record in fixing what’s broken.”
Fixing what’s broken.
No. No, she had no track record there.
“So, you’re saying no?”
“No.” His tone was soft, compassionate. “But unfortunately, I’m not saying yes, either. I need more time to study the numbers, confer with colleagues, see what options we might have.”
The tiniest murmur of hope feathered in. And Jonas must’ve seen it on her face because, as his fingers curled around his coffee mug, his expression suggested caution.
“I’m not going to tell you not to be optimistic, Amelia. But, well . . .”
He didn’t have to finish. “Is there anything else I can do to boost my chances?”
He took a long drink of coffee. “Yes. Find someone to co-sign the loan. Someone with collateral.”
Jonas saw her out of the office minutes later, a disenchanted weight dragging her steps. Find someone to co-sign her loan, he’d suggested. As if it were as easy as picking a dandelion from a wide-open field.
As if she weren’t . . . alone.
She stopped at her car, a prickly wind sharpened with sleet gusting around her as the truth settled in. For all the friends she’d made since moving to town, all the ways she’d worked to become a part of this place and these people, she was still just . . . Amelia.
On her own.
Seth Walker had his uncle to support his dream.
All the Walkers had each other.
Eleanor had gone back to Des Moines, once again wearing her engagement ring. Sure, Amelia had heard from her a couple times since last week. They were tiptoeing their way back into a real relationship.
But she wasn’t here.
And ironically, the one person who’d somehow rummaged his way deeper into her life than anyone else in Maple Valley was the same person on the brink of selling out her dream.
“You have to be on cloud nine. Tell me you’re not on cloud nine.” Theo’s ecstatic voice bounded through Logan’s speakerphone as he pulled up in front of Rick and Helen’s Tudor-style house—brick exterior and sloping roof. Since when had they uprooted the giant maple tree that used to slant through the front yard? Why hadn’t he noticed that last time he was here? “Hey, where’d that expression come from anyway? Cloud nine.”
“Probably meteorologists. They used to number clouds depending on altitude, and nines were high in altitude.” He mumbled the explanation while he watched Rick O’Hare clear a path down the sidewalk in front of the house. Even with the car still running, he could hear the jagged scraping of a shovel against cement.
Like the grinding of his nerves ever since Rick had called Sunday night, asked him to stop by this morning. Without Charlie.
Actually, no, that wasn’t right. He’d been on edge long before Rick’s call. Ever since he’d been a jerk to Amelia Saturday night.
“Trust you to know the origins of an overused cliché.”
“‘Overused cliché’ is redundant.” And now he was being a jerk to Theo. He turned off the car.
“I’m going to ignore that because USA Today just called you—and I quote—‘as winsome as he is enigmatic.’ How old was this reporter anyway? Because I’m thinking maybe it’s more than your speechwriting savvy she liked.”
Logan glanced at the copy of the newspaper in his passenger’s seat. Dad had gone and bought a copy—ten copies, actually—before Logan had even finished his first cup of coffee this morning. He’d forced himself to read it, tried to muster the pleasure he should be feeling at how well it’d turned out.
At least Theo was happy.
“You weren’t just calling about the article, were you?” Outside, Rick perched his shovel against the side of the house and went inside.
“No, just wanted to make sure you’re really going to be on the plane this Thursday. Because—and I quote—‘Walker is equally at ease in his LA office, penning winning words that eventually end up on a teleprompter screen, as he is back in his hometown, where’—and this is where it really gets
good—‘kin and kindness, family and fellowship take top priority.’”
“She likes her alliteration.”
“To be sure. But read the article a second time and there’s a pretty clear underlying question. She paints you as a man torn, Walker.”
Yeah, he’d picked up on that, too. Read the question she didn’t spell out: Which world did he really belong in?
“She writes personality profiles, Theo. She was just looking for a way to make me more interesting than I am.” The curtain at the O’Hares’ front window swooped. If they hadn’t known he was here before, they did now. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you in D.C.”
He hung up seconds later and let himself out the car. Anxiety weighed each step as he walked to the house where he’d spent so many evenings through the years. Dinners with Emma’s family when they’d first started dating. Rotating Thanksgiving and Christmas gatherings once they’d married. Weekend trips home after they’d moved to California, doing their best to squeeze in time with both families.
He passed the blunt, snow-covered stump where the old maple tree used to stand.
Helen opened the front door as he climbed the steps. Her red-tinted hair—so like Emma and Charlie’s—was pulled into a braid. Her smile was genuine, if not entirely relaxed.
“Good to see you, Logan. We missed you in church yesterday.”
Yes, because he’d skipped. Frustrated at the night before. Sleepless from the memories it summoned. Emma. Amelia.
Helen took his coat inside the entryway, then beckoned for him to follow. The house smelled of lavender and vanilla, like always, and also like always, it was spotless. Vacuum tracks still trailed the carpet.
Rick was already in the living room when they entered, settled on a flower-printed couch with a beige blanket draped over the back. He leaned forward to shake Logan’s hand as Logan lowered into the wingback chair opposite the couch. An oval coffee table filled the space between them, a display of nature magazines splayed over its surface.
Helen moved aside a throw pillow and sat next to her husband, but then popped back up. “I’m sorry, I should offer you something to drink before we . . . talk. Coffee?”
“No thanks. You’ve had my dad’s coffee before, right? He makes it so strong, one cup lasts an entire day.”
Helen nodded and lowered once more, her obvious unease feeding his own. Was something wrong here? Was one of them sick?
Or maybe they’d heard from Waverly.
On instinct, he glanced to the wall, where a collage of photos surrounded a large family portrait. Probably nearly a decade and a half old now, it displayed a beaming Rick and Helen standing behind their daughters—Emma with those luscious curls and the braces she’d hated in high school, and a six- or seven-year-old Waverly, whose smile bent more toward a smirk even then.
Charlie’s mom.
No, her birth mother. Emma had been Charlie’s mom from the second she’d held her.
“How’s Waverly?” He couldn’t stop from blurting out the question. He knew Rick and Helen didn’t like to talk about her. Getting pregnant in high school, frankly, had been only the beginning of Emma’s sister’s troubles. There’d been alcohol-infested parties, drugs, a couple arrests.
Last he’d heard, she was staying in a halfway house down in St. Louis. Did she ever think about the daughter her brother-in-law was now raising alone?
Rick’s long exhale made Logan regret the question. “We tried to call her about a month ago, and the number was disconnected.”
“I’m . . . sorry.”
“We pray for her every day,” Helen added softly. “One day . . .” She let the sentence trail.
Rick cleared his throat. “Of all the bad decisions Waverly has made, though, giving Charlotte up for adoption wasn’t one of them. We’re very glad she went through with her pregnancy, and well, that leads into what we’d like to talk to you about.” Rick and Helen shared a look before Rick went on. “Logan, you’ve done a fine job with Charlotte. Many men would’ve buckled under the pressure of single fatherhood and a rising career.”
“We saw that USA Today article,” Helen interjected, forced cheer in her voice. “We’re very proud of you.”
“Thanks.” Kind words, but they did nothing to quell his rising tide of concern.
“It mentioned something about you being vetted as a possible staffer for a presidential campaign. Is that true?” Rick, too, seemed to intentionally inject his tone with plastic interest.
But the pit in Logan’s stomach only grew. “It’s looking that way. Roberta S. Hadley’s flying Theo and me to D.C. this week.” Why did it feel like a confession? “That’s not public information, by the way.”
Helen and Rick exchanged glances again, and no, there wasn’t a chance he was imagining the resolve in their silent conversation. He’d just confirmed something for them. But what?
“There’s no use talking around this, Logan.” Rick folded his hands as he leaned forward. “I respect you, so I’m going to lay this out on the table, straightforward-like.”
“I appreciate that.” The words were robotic as the buzz of his dread heightened.
“We think you should consider letting Charlotte stay here.”
Relief escaped in an exhale. That was all? “I know you offer your guestroom every time when we’re in town, but it just wouldn’t feel right not to stay at Dad’s—”
“No, I mean, we’d like her to live with us permanently.”
His mental reprieve cut off—jarring and abrupt. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re so busy, Logan,” Helen said, an overly gentle lilt to her words. “You’re successful, moving up in your career. But where does that leave Charlotte?”
“What do you mean, where does it leave her?” His volume lifted. “It doesn’t leave her anywhere. She’ll be with me, like she’s always been. Whether it’s in LA or somewhere else, she’ll be with me.”
“Or a nanny.” Rick dropped the statement with a thud.
Logan could only stare, disbelief slicing through him. Were they really asking what he thought they were? He tried to straighten from his sunken position in the overstuffed cushions of the chair.
Helen tried again. “We can give her a home with a mother and a father figure—”
“I’m her father.”
“And we’re her grandparents,” Rick said with force. “And we’re concerned she needs more attention than you’re able to give her. I’m sorry if this sounds harsh, but we have a right to state our opinion. Yes, you’re her adopted father, but we’re blood relatives—”
Logan pulled himself free of the plush chair and jumped to his feet. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”
“Logan, we just want what’s best for her.” Helen’s gaze was rimmed with anxiety. Perhaps apology, too.
But it wasn’t good enough. They couldn’t actually think he’d agree to this. “Charlie is my daughter. She belongs with me. I am doing the best I can—”
“We know you are.” Desperation clung to Helen’s voice.
“And I will not for one minute consider abandoning her.”
Rick shifted. “You wouldn’t be abandoning—”
“She’s already lost one parent.” Hurt strangled his voice. “I can’t believe you’d even ask . . .” He jabbed his fingers through his hair, focus shooting to that portrait again, to Emma’s teenage smile. “The answer is no.”
His feet carried him to the door, shock still coursing through him along with a lurching need to see his daughter.
“What about the fact that she won’t talk?”
He turned to see Rick standing.
“What about the fact that she’s almost four years old and has yet to form an entire sentence?”
“We’re seeing a speech pathologist. You know that. It’s going well.”
“So what happens when you pick up and leave? Disrupt the routine Charlie’s forming? You’re just going to let it go? Don’t you think settling in one place could help?”
br /> “She’s not the only therapist in the world.” He heard the dark tenor in his voice. “I’m not letting anything go, Rick.”
He grabbed his coat from the coat tree and walked out the door.
He didn’t know why he was here.
Slushy snow, dirt-stained and slickened by the layer of sleet, spit out from today’s melancholy skies, chomped under his feet, pushing against the night’s frosty quiet. The third of May, and winter held on. Dogged. Cold.
Logan rubbed his palms against the ribbed sweater that did nothing to ward off the crisp air. He should’ve grabbed his coat.
He should’ve done a lot of things today after stalking away from his in-laws this morning. Shown up at the office, for one.
Instead, he’d spent the day helping Dad fix a broken pipe at the depot, shoveling snow back at the house, attending therapy with Charlie.
Pretending Rick and Helen’s—what? request? offer? demand?—hadn’t shaken him to his core.
And now he stood outside Amelia’s house, shafts of moonlight breaking through the cloud cover and skimming over the angles of her front door. The muffled buzz of a table saw drifted from Lenny Klassen’s workshop. Amelia would probably close the door in his face after the way he’d spoken to her Saturday night.
“You gonna knock or what?”
His gaze jerked upright at the sound of Amelia’s voice. He stepped back and tipped his head until he could make out the open loft doors above, Amelia sitting at the edge, legs dangling over.
“What in the world are you doing up there?”
“Just thinking. What are you doing down there?”
Wasn’t she freezing? And how had he not noticed her?
Probably the willow tree had blocked his view as he’d parked. And during the short trek from his car to the barn, his eyes had been on the ground as he’d asked himself for the fiftieth time why he’d come here.