Like Never Before (15 page)

“You're kidding.” He leaned over, elbows propped on his knees, fingers rubbing his forehead.

“I never kid when stranded in a different state with a man in the car who may or may not handle this kind of situation well. I know your writing style, Walker, but not your emergency-situation style. Not that this is much of an emergency. My GPS says we're less than a mile from the turnoff for the Glorietta. That's the name of the lodge.”

He lifted his head. “You really do talk a lot in the morning.” More amused observance than accusation, but what he wouldn't give for a mug of Dad's swampy coffee right now. Most the time he had to add water to get it down, but today he'd have gulped it as is just to keep up with Amelia. “You said we're only a mile away?”

“Right, so . . . we walk?”

He nodded.

They got out of the car, the morning breeze brushing cool air over Logan's cheeks. He pulled on his puff vest, zipped it up, and burrowed his chin inside. He looked across the car's hood at Amelia. “Where's your coat?”

“Didn't bring one. It was so warm in Iowa yesterday.”

South Dakota wasn't exactly a frozen tundra at the moment, but she needed more than that flimsy hoodie. “Pop the trunk. I've probably got something in there you can wear.”

He rounded the car and found a fleece jacket as she came up beside him. “Here you go. You'll drown in it, but it'll keep you warm.” He helped her into it, reached for the zipper, and
pulled it up to her chin before realizing what he was doing. “Sorry. Habit. Charlie.”

Except standing this close to her, the wind blowing her hair in his face, well, those weren't exactly paternal feelings pooling inside him. He stepped back, but she only stared, a hint of a grin tugging at her lips.

“What?”

“Just thinking about what a good Boy Scout you must've been. Look at this trunk. Emergency kit. Blanket. Jug of water. Tool box. Extra jacket.” The sleeves of his jacket flopped over her wrists as she spoke. “It's like whoever came up with the ‘Be Prepared' motto was picturing you.”

“I can't tell whether you're mocking or complimenting me.”

“Good. I like retaining a hint of mystery about me.”

“That's very Lauren Bacall of you.”

“Now
that
is a compliment.”

He closed the trunk. “But don't think for a second I need you teaching me to whistle.”

Her nose wrinkled at the comment, and he could almost see the cogs in her brain turning. “Reference?”

“You'll figure it out. But I'll give you a clue: Humphrey Bogart was in it, too.” He pulled the keys from her hand, locked the door, and started walking.

She hurried to catch up. “That's not a clue. They were in, like, twenty movies together.”

“They were in three movies together.”

“Showoff.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, accompanied by only the sound of their shoes on gravel and the swish of grass. In the distance, a bird's
caa
pealed through the air. If they had to finish the trek to their destination by foot, this wasn't such a bad day to do it. Cold, maybe, but the fresh air filled Logan's lungs with something fresh and energizing.

He pushed up his glasses with one finger. Was he smiling? He felt like he was smiling.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Amelia reached into the bag slung over her shoulder and pulled out a silver package. “Pop-Tart? I saved you one.”

“I haven't had a Pop-Tart in fifteen years.” A gravel turnoff came into view only yards ahead.

“Well, you're missing out.”

He took a bite. Admittedly, not the worst thing he'd ever eaten. “Clearly you've never experienced a Walker breakfast. We do it right. Everyone in the family has a specialty.”

“What's yours?”

“Omelets. Not going to lie, they're amazing.”

“What do you do? Stuff them with kale and tofu?”

“Joke all you want, but I'll make you one someday, and you'll eat your own words, somewhat literally, and—”

He broke off at her sudden stare—past him, down the lane they'd reached.

He followed her gaze to see what had to be the Glorietta. The lodge was carved into the side of a hill, two stories that jutted out from a tree-lined ridge. And it was . . . bright.

Teal siding encased the rectangular structure. Dirt-caked windows were framed by peeling pink shutters. “Holy 1980s comeback.”

More details came into view as they approached. The dilapidated balcony poking out from the north end. A lone car in the parking lot. An unfilled outdoor swimming pool hardly larger than a bathtub.

It only got worse inside. Mustard-yellow shag carpet and brown walls, the scent of potpourri both overwhelming and yet not enough to cover the lingering smell of cigarette smoke.

“And we've gone back another decade.” He whispered the words—not that he needed to. The woman with peroxide-blond
hair behind the check-in desk had earbuds in both ears, magazine open in front of her.

“Who leaves Maple Valley to work in a place like this? And why go from nursing to . . . whatever she does here?”

“Didn't you say her family owned it? People have made bigger career and geographic moves for family.” Look what his dad had done for Mom. When she got sick, he'd given up an office at the U.N. building and moved their family of six back to small-town Iowa. “Anyway, we've got a source to find and another nine-hour drive back home, so let's do this, Nancy Drew.”

She rolled her eyes at the nickname but approached the desk. When the receptionist didn't acknowledge them, Amelia tapped the Ring for Service bell.

The woman's head jerked up, mouth dropping open and bubble gum landing on her open magazine. She pulled out her earbuds, then unpeeled her gum and stuck it back in her mouth. “I didn't hear y'all come in. Need a room?”

“No, actually, we're looking for Marney Billingsley. We understand she works here?”

Amelia's tone was pure business. Did she have any idea how comical she looked, trying to play serious reporter with her hair windblown and static-y from his fleece jacket hanging past her waist?

“That's my sister. But she's not on shift now.”

“Any chance we could talk to her?”

The woman blew a bubble with her gum. “I don't know who you are. I'm not inclined to go looking all over the place for her on account of a couple strangers.”

“Maybe you could call—”

“This is the boonies, honey. Cell phone reception is still five years away.”

“LillyAnn, is it?” Logan interrupted, clued in by her nametag. “That's a pretty name.”

She stopped chewing her gum and closed her magazine. “Thanks.”

“Look, I know it's probably annoying—us showing up and asking for a favor. But we drove nine hours to get here just to talk to your sister. If there's any way you could help us out, I'd be so far beyond grateful, you wouldn't even believe it.”

LillyAnn hopped off her stool. “Okay, then. I'll see if I can find her.”

She disappeared from the desk.

“Flattery? Really?” Amelia flatlined the words.

“Got results, didn't it?” He gave her his best self-satisfied grin.

“Is that how you win elections, too? Bat your perfect eyelashes at female voters, sweet talk 'em into voting for your candidate?”

“You like my eyelashes?”

“It's not even that great of a name. LillyAnn.” She jerked the zipper of his fleece. “Like someone couldn't make up their mind which name to give a baby so they just smooshed two together, and—” She broke off.

“What?”

“
To Have and Have Not.
That's the movie you were referencing. Where Lauren Bacall tells Humphrey Bogart how to whistle—that iconic line. Can't believe it took me this long.”

“Maybe you were too distracted by my eyelashes to think of it.”

Man, he liked it when she attempted to glare at him. And completely failed.

“Here she is.” LillyAnn ambled behind the desk, an older woman trailing behind her. Oh yes, he recognized Marney Billingsley. She'd been a nurse at the clinic when he was a kid. Unlike her sister, she hadn't tried to hide the gray of her hair, nor the lines on her face. Her pink cardigan ended at her elbows, purple-ish veins extending down her wrists.

“How can I help you?”

“Hi, Marney? I'm Amelia, and this is Logan, and we're here to talk to you about Kendall Wilkins.” Excited energy fueled Amelia's hurried words.

Confusion tinted Marney's expression. “Kendall Wilkins? From Iowa?”

“I know it's going to sound crazy, but we're following up on that safe-deposit-box mystery, and I thought you might be helpful.”

“You came all the way from Maple Valley?”

Amelia's nod was eager.

But Marney only sighed. “Then I'm afraid you've come all this way for nothing.”

“Wow.” A single word released in a whispered gasp. Amelia couldn't stop staring.

A lazy sun crouched behind the ridges of Mount Rushmore, craggy orange light rimming the etched faces and reaching into the sky in a blaze of sizzling color. She stood beside Logan on an outlook that gave a panoramic view of the full landmark.

“I can't believe we're here.” Wind and dust had caked her hair into stringy waves, and fatigue pulled at her limbs. But wonder awakened her senses. A husky breeze marked trails over her cheeks even as Logan stepped closer, his warmth and shadow like insulation against a day that'd ushered in a returning cool.

“We had to do something to cheer you up after that interview.”

The interview, he meant, that shed little light on Kendall Wilkins's life or death or that empty bank box. Marney had the same impression of the man as everyone else did: prickly, aloof. And not above taking a shot at the town on his way out.

“Sorry we don't have time to do a full tour or eat in that cafe.”

“Logan, you agreed to an eighteen-hour round-trip drive. Humored my wild goose chase. Sat through a pointless interview. Brought me to Mount Rushmore. And you're apologizing?”

He blinked against a piney breeze, one that billowed through the oversized jacket she'd worn nearly all day. They started walking again. “But it wasn't entirely pointless. You found out Kendall Wilkins belonged to some society or other. What did she call it?”

“The Elm Society.”

“Right. You learned he did have at least one long-time friend. Harry Somebody-or-other.”

“Wheeler.”

“And you learned he was buried with an aviator's helmet from his childhood.”

Yes, that'd been the one part of the interview during which she'd felt like she'd gotten at least a glimpse into the man she'd thought she'd known.

“So you didn't have any
clue what was in that box? What it might've had to do with Lindbergh?”

“We weren't close.
I took care of him. Drove him around. Ran his
errands. But he didn't talk to me. He didn'
t really talk to anyone. Do you know the only
true time I felt in any way a significant part of his life is after he died, when I helped . . .
prepare him?”

Marney had shaken her head.
“He truly
didn't have a single family member, so it fell to me to follow the instructions he left. He wanted
to wear a particular suit, so I had to search around. When I went looking, this old aviator helmet came
tumbling out of his closet. From his childhood, I'm
sure. He used to talk about watching barnstormers, you know.
It was the one personal touch I felt like I could give him, including it in his coffin. But other
than that . . .”

“It just doesn't match up.”

Logan's arm brushed against hers as he led the way around a curve. “What doesn't?”

“The man Marney describes. The man everyone else in Maple Valley knew. Or didn't know. I don't see how he can be the same man who wrote me all those letters when I was in college. He was funny and personable and wise.” A little laugh escaped. “He even had this love for anagrams. You know, where you take a word or phrase and change the letters around to see what other words and phrases you can come up with?”

The sun was barely a shaving now, wedged behind rock.

“I wish somebody else could've seen that side of him.”

Logan's gaze dipped, and his steps slowed. “Maybe somebody did. Maybe that Harry Wheeler guy. Or maybe it's enough that you did. For some reason, he connected with you. It's kind of cool if you think about it—you sorta filling a place in his life no one else did.”

Yes, but look what she'd gone and done with that cool thing. Drifted away. Got so caught up in her romance with Jeremy that she'd slowly stopped responding to Kendall's letters. Hadn't even finished the education he'd paid for.