Like Never Before (22 page)

“You're grinning. You think Colton's happy? We did good?”

“
You
did good.” The end of her scarf batted in front of her, and he reached to wind it back in place.

“Wasn't just me.”

No, but she'd had all the ideas. She'd made it happen. “I can't believe people showed up, though. I mean, in a blizzard.”

“I have lived in this town for a few years now, Logan. I know people. They lo
ooo
ve to complain about snow and the cold. But offer horse-drawn sleigh rides, and they can't dig out their long johns and boots fast enough.”

The lineup of sleighs waited off to the side of the depot, horses covered with blankets. “But where'd you find the sleighs and horses?”

“I did a story on J.J.'s Stables last summer, and it helped out their horse-boarding business. J.J. owed me.”

She shrugged as if her efforts amounted to nothing more than a last-minute dinner party for friends. “It may not make as much money as Colton hoped for, but then again, I'm not sure money was his end goal so much as moral support for the Parker House. It's not the sit-down fancy dinner you'd planned. No spinning glitter ball, either.”

“There was never going to be a glitter ball.” He couldn't stop smiling.

“No? I'm strangely disappointed by that.” A snowflake caught in her eyelash, and she blinked it away.

He remembered the umbrella hooked around his arm. In a spurt of movement, he lifted the thing and popped it open. “Here, you're getting pelted by snow.” He lifted it over their heads.

“So where's Charlie tonight? I've been looking for her.”

He took a steadying breath. “When Rick and Helen heard we moved this thing outside, they didn't like the idea of Charlie being out in the storm. Maybe they had a point.”

“Are you kidding? You would've bundled her up, and she would've had a blast. She would've loved a sleigh ride.”

She would've especially loved that. One of the puppets the therapist loaned him was a horse, and she broke into laughter every time he fake neighed for her.

“I don't know, things are weird with my in-laws right now. I don't know if they're just sore that they don't get to see her more or think I'm a bad parent or what. But something's off.”

Charlie's fall from the tree a couple weeks ago and Logan bringing her home when she had the flu last week instead of
letting Helen care for her at their house had only made things worse.

“If they think you're a bad parent, Logan, they're the ones who are off. Charlie couldn't ask for a better dad.”

Was she
trying
to get him to kiss her again? And shouldn't they talk about that at some point?

He turned away from the stage to face Amelia. “Hey, so about this afternoon . . .”

Her eyes were still on Bear, but he had a feeling it wasn't just cold rosying her cheeks now. Snowflakes tapped on the umbrella above them.

“If that was, like, in any way inappropriate or . . . well . . .” Maybe he should've figured out what he wanted to say before opening his mouth and botching this.

She bit her lip over an amused half smile. “It wasn't inappropriate, Logan.”

“We were in a supply closet, though. Like it was high school or something.”

Now she turned to him. “It
was
in a high school.”

She was laughing now, and he was too, and oh, maybe they didn't need to talk about this. Analyze what had happened or define what had changed in their relationship this afternoon or what it meant for tomorrow or next week or whenever. Maybe tonight, for now, they could just enjoy this bubble of time.

Bear's song slid to a close.

“Hey, there's one thing I haven't told you about tonight. One other change I was thinking we could make.”

The wind shifted direction, and he tilted the umbrella to shield her. “What's that?”

“Come with me.”

She started for the depot, hair bouncing against her shoulders underneath her cap. He followed.

They reached the shoveled boardwalk that circled the depot,
snowdrifts packed against the building's baseboards and their steps pounding on the wood underfoot. Amelia pushed her way in, the warmth of inside reaching out to pull him in behind her.

He blinked to adjust to the lighting, gaze roaming the space. It still shone with new paint and gleaming displays after the renovation following last summer's tornado—not to mention their cleaning a couple weeks ago.

Amelia disappeared down the hallway, moving in the direction of his father's office. She reappeared seconds later carrying . . . a guitar case?

Not just any guitar case, he realized as she came closer.
His
guitar case. The one from high school and college, covered with stickers from his favorite bands, most peeling and some faded. She held it out to him upright. “I saw it in your room the night I babysat Charlie.”

“And it's here because . . . ?”

“Bear's got a cold. He's not going to be able to do more than a few songs.”

“Amelia, I haven't played for years.”

“I'm sure it's like riding a bike. Just sing a song or two. People will love it.”

The wind pushed against the building, shaking the hinges of the depot's doors and rattling its windows. “Sorry, but no.”

“I know you haven't had time to practice, but—”

“Amelia.” He didn't mean for his voice to sound so sharp. Hated how it made her wince and step back. But there wasn't any arguing this. “I'm not singing tonight.”

“Well . . . okay then.” She didn't meet his eyes as she lowered the guitar case. “Guess I'll go put this back.”

Regret bobbed through him as she turned.

He heard the door open behind him, felt the whoosh of cold air barrel over him even as he overheated under all the layers he wore.

“What are you doing in here, son? Party's outside.” Dad.

He spun. “Why'd you save it? The guitar?”

The bridge of Dad's nose pinched under his stocking cap. “I think I missed something.”

“I said you could sell it or give it away or even trash it.”

Dad stomped the snow off his boots. “I thought you might change your mind and want it eventually. What's wrong with you?”

He didn't know.

Okay, he did, but . . .

Amelia.

No, he couldn't play. But he could at least apologize for biting her head off when there was no way she could've known what she was asking him. He muttered an apology to Dad and took off after Amelia, trailing down the hallway.

Except she wasn't there. Only the telltale puddle of melted snow that must have drifted through the back door when she exited. And there, leaning against Dad's office door, his guitar case.

T
he gray walls of Jonas Clancy's office were like a mirror into Amelia's spirit this Monday morning—and a perfect match for the sky outside his window, cloud-laden and drab.

“Sorry about the smell,” the bank's senior loan officer said as he lowered into the angular chair behind his glass-top desk. Grayish hair and kind eyes above a crease-lined smile. “Whole place got a fresh paint job last week.”

And they couldn't have picked a cheerier color? The paint's cloistering smell had knocked into her as soon as she'd walked into the bank. If she hadn't already woken up with a headache, the heady air inside the building would've done the job.

But she pasted on a smile as artificial as the Sweet'n Low Jonas tipped into his coffee now. “Are you sure you don't want a cup?”

If she downed any more caffeine this morning, she could add a stomachache to the pounding in her head. This was why a person shouldn't wake up before five a.m. Way too much time to drink way too much coffee before an important meeting.
“I'm good, but thanks anyway. I think I've downed half a pot already this morning.”

“Nervous?” Jonas pushed aside the empty sweetener packets.

“That obvious?”

“More like, that normal. Most folks waiting on a bank loan deal get a little edgy when it's time to talk numbers.”

So she wasn't ridiculous for feeling like jitters had taken over her body. Truth was, it wasn't only the possibility of a
no
from the bank that'd rumbled around in her brain all night, even when she was asleep.

It was Saturday night. It was the look in Logan's eyes that went so far beyond annoyance.

It was the gnawing realization that she'd hurt him without even knowing how. The fact that she hadn't heard from him since. And that kiss . . . she'd relived it how many times now?

“Now, then.” Jonas tapped the stack of application papers against his desk to straighten their edges, then laid them in front of him. He scanned the cover sheet, licked his finger, and then flipped to the second page. Third, fourth. “You've done your homework, Amelia.”

“I'll admit I had help. Seth Walker.”

“Ah, hard to believe it's already been a couple years since I signed off on his loan.” The furnace kicked in, the movement of air just enough to sway the potted fern at the side of Jonas's desk. He continued through the application, fingering his burgundy tie, the one streak of color in a suit ensemble that otherwise matched the walls.

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.”