“Hand over the hammer, Hunziker.”
He blinked, almost as if stunned out of a moment of reflection. But he covered it with a lazy smile. “Come and get it.”
With an annoyed huff, she hefted herself onto the roof. Don’t look down, don’t look down.
“Nice PJs, Red.”
She looked down.
Her robe gaped open to reveal the flannel pajama top underneath. Lovely. “Has anyone ever told you you’re exasperating?” She scooted to his side, feeling stares from the second-floor windows and the tingle of winter’s approach in the air.
“Has anyone ever told you it’s dangerous to crawl around on rooftops in slippers?”
She stopped in front of him, knees digging into the porch roof. This thing would hold both of them, right? Autumn reached for the hammer at his side, but Blake’s fingers closed around it first. “Not so fast.”
Eyes narrowed, she made another attempt, but he slid it behind his back. In her failed lunge she ended up inches from his face, balanced on one arm and disarmingly aware of the still-wet tips of his hair and the soapy, mint smell clinging to him.
He only grinned at her, flecks of gold twinkling in his eyes.
She gulped, straightening, backing up . . . finally turning to plop down at his side.
“Giving up that easy?”
“I’m on a roof in my pajamas. Give me some credit.”
His laughter floated away with the breeze, and she followed it with her gaze. From the porch roof, the view of the lake was stunning—threads of blue and foamy white weaving up to a fiery sunrise. She’d completely missed the beauty of it in her rush from her house. But now it pulled her focus in a gentle tug.
“Why are you up here, Blake?”
“I told you last night I’d help out around the place. It’s obvious you need it.” He fixed his eyes on her. “And I need you. Please help me with the festival.”
So he wasn’t giving up. The sincerity in his voice, the hint of a plea, was almost enough to push past her resistance.
But how in the world was she supposed to help coordinate an event when she had an inn to run? Dominic Laurent to wow. A move to prepare for.
“Do you have any idea what goes into planning the festival? We’re less than four weeks out. It’s a massive undertaking.” And how were they supposed to work together with the past glaring like a theater marquee between them?
“Georgie already had a lot of it in the works. We’ll pick up where she left off. Besides, I like a challenge.”
Yeah, well, she already had enough challenges staring her in the face. Even so, something about the mix of enthusiasm and desperation in Blake’s countenance halted an outright refusal.
There was more at stake for him in this whole thing, wasn’t there. She wasn’t exactly sure what, but for a moment there, his goofball exterior faded to reveal a man with deeper layers.
“You know, before you came up that ladder, I was sitting here thinking about how Ryan and I used to go up into our parents’ attic and climb out the little window onto the roof. We did it all the time in the summer, never once got caught.”
She blinked at his sudden shift in topic. “And you’d do what?”
He shrugged. “Nothing really. Just sit there, talk. He’d talk about football, I’d talk about flying. We’d both talk about girls. Did you know he had a crush on your sister as early as seventh grade?”
“I had no idea.” Except it wasn’t that surprising, really. Ava—tomboy tendencies and all—was the family beauty, the one all the boys fell for. And once she and Ryan had braved their way past the barrier of family rivalry, there’d been no tiptoeing. Oh no, they’d practically barreled their way into a relationship, regardless of parental consternation. They’d been so blissfully happy, Autumn had figured an engagement wasn’t far off.
But that was before Ryan’s football injury his senior year of college. The surgery. The end of his NFL prospects. The painkillers.
“Of course, he didn’t get up the nerve to ask her out ’til college, and then—” Blake broke off, fists balling where they dangled over his bent knees. “Anyway, sorry I came too early.” He slid the hammer to her. “Truce?”
She wrapped one hand around the wood handle, the sleeve of her robe flopping at her wrist. Then, still holding on, she scanned the surface of the porch roof, Blake’s quick handiwork obvious. “Truce, and thanks.”
“For the record, I’m happy to help with anything around here even if you say no to the festival.”
“But . . . why?”
His gaze returned to Lake Michigan. “Because I had the chance to help once . . . and didn’t.”
She knew then, he was talking about the day she’d sought him out over spring break. She hadn’t wanted to, but Ava had begged. “Please, Autumn. I promised Ryan I wouldn’t tell his family. He’s already mad at me for confronting him. But I didn’t promise I wouldn’t tell mine. Maybe if you talk to Blake . . . tell him what I saw.”
So she’d given in. Told Blake about the orange bottles Ava kept finding in Ryan’s apartment—the ones with someone else’s name in the prescription. He’d brushed her off, disbelieving. It was the last time she’d seen him until his brother’s funeral, three months later.
Looking at Blake now, maybe really seeing him for the first time, she didn’t see the adventurer, the goof-off unable to take anything seriously. She saw a regret-filled man still tortured by the loss of his brother. Compassion, unbidden and surprising, unfolded in her.
He released the hammer. “Come on, it’s too cold for you to be up here without a coat.”
“You’re not wearing a coat.”
“Do you argue about everything, Red?”
“I do about nicknames that come from nowhere.”
He reached over to muss her hair. “Not from nowhere. In the sun, it’s totally red.”
“It’s auburn.”
He stopped at the ladder. “Ladies first.”
After he’d helped her over the edge, she stopped, glanced up at him. “All right, I’ll co-coordinate the festival with you.”
The dimples in his cheeks deepened as genuine gratitude overtook his expression. No teasing or playfulness now. “Seriously?”
“And if the offer still stands for help—”
“It does. Mornings I’ll help out here. Afternoons we’ll work on the festival. Deal?”
She stepped down a rung. “Let’s flip-flop it. Festival in the mornings.”
“And she doesn’t think she has a problem with arguing.”
Not with arguing. But very possibly with agreeing to things that were probably a really bad idea.
He had a feeling Autumn Kingsley didn’t even know why she’d said yes.
But all that mattered was, she’d said yes. Right?
Blake hopped the curb, the sticky sweet smell of glaze and fruit pastries greeting him he passed under the awning of Gable’s Bakery. When he entered, a bell above the door chimed in tune with the growling of his stomach.
Just like he recalled, an eclectic mix of tables and colored chairs dotted the downtown bakery. Bright yellow walls contrasted with the overcast shadows of the morning. But there were fewer patrons than Blake remembered from his youth.
And the few people who did fill seats offered furtive glances rather than smiles. Riiight. So he probably shouldn’t expect a visit from the welcome wagon anytime soon.
“Blake Hunziker, it’s about time you stopped by.” Kip Gable, the bakery owner, raised a sloshing coffeepot in greeting. He stood next to a booth, his apron covered in flour and the same Whisper Shore Ravens cap he’d always worn atop his head.
“Blake? Well, I’ll be.” The patron in the booth next to Kip rose, bobbing her silver-almost-blue hair as she turned.
“Mrs. Satterly.” Blake skirted through the maze of tables to reach the elderly woman. His first-grade teacher still had the stature of a woman in charge of her classroom. “You still eat breakfast here every day?”
“Like
clockwork,” Kip said, filling her cup.
“You’re old enough to call me Pam now.” She clasped Blake’s right hand in both of her own. Thick veins ribboned over her frail hands, and yet their warmth matched her welcome. “You’ll sit with me, won’t you? I’m so happy you’re home.”
One more roving glance around the place and he lowered into the vinyl seat. “You might be the only one.”
She harrumphed. “Don’t let them bother you. Half of them haven’t had their caffeine yet and the other half are too stubborn to know they need it.”
Blake’s chuckle was accompanied by the clink of a mug atop the table as Kip placed it in front of Blake. He filled it to the rim with the muddy coffee the bakery was known for. “Besides, you’re the closest thing we’ve got to a celebrity. They’re all just curious. What can I get you to eat?”
“I’m not too late for breakfast, am I?” His mouth watered.
“For one of the Hunziker boys, I’d serve breakfast at sunset.”
Both Blake and Ryan had worked at the bakery part-time all through high school—part of their father’s desire to instill a solid work ethic in his sons. Of course, Ryan had cut back his hours every football season. And never one to hole up when the outdoors beckoned, Blake snuck out early more often than not during the summer.
“In that case, I’ll have some of your chocolate chip banana pancakes.”
Kip saluted. “You got it.”
When the baker retreated, Blake nudged his coffee cup away. “Don’t tell him, but I’m one of the world’s few non-coffee drinkers.”
Mrs. Satterly grinned. “I’m a three-cup-a-day woman myself. It’s why I’ve lived so long. Did you know I turned eighty-six last month?” She reached for Blake’s cup and poured into her already half-empty mug.
They chatted for a few minutes until Kip returned with a plate of pancakes.
Blake glanced from Kip to Mrs. Satterly as the bakery owner set the plate in front of him. “Dude, I’ve missed small-town life.”
Mrs. Satterly offered a teacherly raise of her eyebrows. “That’s what you get for leaving us, Blake Lucas Hunziker.”
“Been forever since someone used my middle name.”
Kip slid into the open space beside Mrs. Satterly. “Better than that old nickname. Blaze. Just not right. A kid sets an accidental fire or two—”
“Or five,” Blake inserted before biting into a syrupy pancake.
“And he’s branded for life. No wonder you set off for greener pastures.” Kip spoke in lighthearted tones, but Blake had no doubt both the baker and Mrs. Satterly knew full well his real reason for staying away so long. “So tell us, what’re you aiming to do now that you’re back?”
“Well, believe it or not—”
“I thought that was you.”
A shadow fell over the Formica table in sync with a voice that carried Blake back decades—to hot summer nights sleeping outside, only the thin plastic of a pup tent between him and the dewy ground. Blake, Ryan, Tim, and Shawn—pals since their first Boy Scouts camping trip—swapping ghost stories.
He looked up to see Shawn’s dad, his long-ago scout troop leader with arms crossed over a paunchy stomach that hadn’t been there last time Blake saw him. Blake stood, held out his hand.
“Mr. Baylor, wow. Been a long time.”
Gone was the paternal gentleness that used to make the man a hero and friend among Blake and his friends. Instead, an unmistakable surliness darkened his eyes.
Blake glanced down at Mrs. Satterly. She gave him a tight, hang in there half smile. He dropped his hand.
“How’s um . . . how’s Shawn?”
The second the question came out, Blake wished it back. Because if William Baylor had been gruff a second ago, now he sizzled. “You want to know how my son is? He’s been on depression meds off and on for almost six years now. Refuses to do anything with his life. Won’t step on a plane for the life of him. Walked out on his wife.” Mr. Baylor stepped closer. “That’s how Shawn’s doing.”
Blake could feel the eyes of every customer in the bakery on him. And suddenly the smell of breakfast food turned sickly sweet, enough to set his stomach churning, as the memory of Shawn’s panic the day of Ryan’s accident bulleted through him.
“Something’s wrong, Blake. Something’s wrong. I don’t see his chute. He’s not pulling.”
Blake closed his eyes now.
Oh, Shawn. The thought of his friend, his brother’s best friend—the only one whose taste for adventure ever rivaled Blake’s—morose and inactive bruised whatever conviction he’d had just minutes ago that something good might come of his return.
“Mr. Baylor, I’m truly—”
“If you try to apologize to me, kid, I swear my fist will be in your face before you finish.”
“William Baylor!” Mrs. Satterly jerked, only Kip’s hand on her arm stopping her from rising from the booth.
Blake’s focus faltered under Baylor’s stare, floundering over the heads of bakery patrons and booth backs, toward the back wall where town mementos ornamented the space. And there, near the center, Ryan’s football jersey from the year they’d taken State.
Baylor’s growl drew him back. “I didn’t come over here for an apology. Only to tell you to stay away from Shawn. It’s bad enough you’re back in town, driving around in that showy Firebird. Last thing he needs is to see it, see you, and be reminded.”
With that, the man lurched on his heel and stalked from the bakery, awkward silence dragging as Blake stood frozen beside the table.
Grady Lewis couldn’t be saying what Autumn thought he was saying.
The oversized leather chair squeaked as she crossed one leg over the other, its high arms walling her in. Across his mahogany desk, her family’s longtime financial advisor peered at her through thin-rimmed spectacles. Waiting, probably, for some sign she’d processed his words of doom.
“You’re saying we should close one of this town’s most historic sites?”
Grady folded his hands, arms outstretched on his clutter-free desktop, narrow shoulders hunched. “Hopefully only for the winter season.”
Each tick of the grandfather clock in the corner lanced her confidence. Why hadn’t she suggested they meet at her office instead, where generous windows ushered in sunlight and an ever-calming coastal view? Where it might be a little harder for Grady to look her in the eye and suggest cutting off her great-grandfather’s dream.
Even if only until spring. “But how will no income for three or four months help us?”
“The inn has always operated in the red the first three, four months of the year. Profits during high-tourist season made up for the loss in the past. But that wasn’t the case this year.” Grady nudged his glasses with one finger, then spread a series of papers across his desk. “I’ve noted estimates here. Why, in staff costs alone you’re looking at a sizable savings. Add in electricity, water—”
“Wait, you’re suggesting I lay off our staff?”
“You didn’t think you’d pay them to do nothing, did you?”
What she’d thought was that Grady would tell her the bank had agreed to one final mortgage extension or short-term loan. Just enough to keep them going until Dominic Laurent saved the day.
And yet . . .
Grady’s numbers told a story she couldn’t ignore. The Kingsley Inn was inching toward a financial sinkhole it might not be able to climb back out of—especially if next tourist season fell as flat as this past summer. Didn’t help that along with the inn, she’d inherited a mortgage and bank payments. Dad had taken out a large loan in the late ’90s to renovate the inn. Then after he’d died, Mom had been forced to take out a second mortgage when business slowed.
The fiscal responsibility of it all too often felt like a dragon breathing down her neck. It had only fueled her antipathy, the irked piece of her that had wondered how Mom ever thought handing the Kingsley Inn and all its debt to her could ever feel like a gift.
Autumn’s cell ph
one interrupted her morose thoughts, jarring her and prompting a sigh from Grady. Oh yes, she’d forgotten how much the man disliked cell phones. “Sorry.” She reached into her purse to silence the thing.
Grady removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, the age spots on his cheeks stretching with the movement. The man had a gruff manner and a no-nonsense way about him, but he wasn’t cold. He wouldn’t suggest something this drastic without good cause. In fact, if she knew Grady at all, he’d probably lost sleep before deciding on his recommendation.
“If we close, what if we don’t open again? If my employees go off and get other jobs . . .” And I’m not around to make sure everything’s ready come spring.
Because she wouldn’t be. It’d be someone else at the helm by then. Maybe even Ava. The hazy hope that her sister might finally be ready to contribute to the family business had solidified sometime in the past couple days.
Yes, Ava lived in Minnesota now—worked half time as an adjunct college instructor and half time in the college’s athletic department. But maybe she would consider taking a turn running the inn. Autumn had even tried to call her sister yesterday under the guise of finding out when Ava planned to come home for the holidays. Surely she’d hear back soon.
But a thread of worry knit through her, same concern that always hit her this time of year—that one of these years Ava wouldn’t come home at all. They’d grown so distant.
Grady leaned forward. “Do you have a better idea, Autumn?”
Actually, she did—namely, Dominic Laurent. But now Grady’s concerns blasted a hole in her optimism. Because why would the Laurent company invest in a failing business? Surely they would take one look at the books, the late payment notices from the bank, and run the other way.
“There has to be something we can do.” The conviction came out breathy and closer to pleading than she liked. “The festival is coming up. That usually fills us up during Christmas week. That’s something, right?”
“Heard it might be cancelled.”
Autumn shook her head, latching on to the tiniest thread of opportunity at the interest in his voice. “Blake Hunziker’s heading it up. Well, and me too. We’re co-coordinators.”