Like Never Before (7 page)

“I don't even want to know how much ink you used printing this.” Mae flipped to the last page. “You could have at least printed double-sided.”

Maybe Amelia should have left her a second plate of cookies last night. She might seem huffy now, but Amelia had seen her munching on one of the treats this morning. “The printer jams whenever I try that.” Amelia propped her elbows on either side of her half-guzzled Diet Coke. “I promise, guys, this won't take long. We'll be done by the time the food arrives.”

Like most nights since The Red Door had opened last summer, a local crowd filled the tables dotting the hardwood floor. The historic bank-building-turned-eatery boasted a perfect mix of trendy and downhome with its thick redwood beams overhead, dim lighting, and amber-colored walls. In the corner tonight, a fireplace crackled while Bear McKinley wooed patrons with his Martin and a voice smooth as velvet.

To think, Seth Walker—cousin to the Walker siblings—had started this place with nothing more than half a vision and a love for a decrepit building. Well, that and the old cobblestone he'd salvaged when the city had decided to pave Main Avenue. He'd used it to create the restaurant's counter in back. She'd written the front-page story herself, the one about how he'd stored the cobblestone for years in a shed on his uncle's property, never quite sure why, until he'd finally decided to pour his savings into renovating the bank building and opening a restaurant.

It must be a Walker thing—landing on a dream and making it happen. Look at Kate and all those movies she'd written. Logan and his success.

She cupped her hands around her pop glass. “This summer is the 100th anniversary of the paper. Freddie wasn't going to make a big deal of it because he wasn't sure he'd even be around. If he'd lived, the
News
would've been sold by now.”

“So we're going to put out an anniversary issue?” Mikaela fingered through the pages in her folder.

“Yep. In May—exactly one hundred years after the very first issue. It's not our usual production day, but that's okay because this won't be our usual paper.” She stirred her straw through her Diet Coke, ice cubes clinking as her excitement built. “Kat, Kaela, Abby—you guys are going to sell ad space like never before. Ledge, we're going to triple our usual print run. Everyone in town gets a copy, subscribers or not. Taylor, we'll need to line up extra delivery guys that week. I know it's almost three months away, but the lead time is good.

“We'll offer a special subscriber rate that week. Between the extra advertising and hopefully new subscribers, we'll convince the new owner we're worth hanging on to.”

That is, unless the new owner swooped in and sold them off before they could get to the special issue. But whoever he was, he was taking his sweet time announcing himself. Maybe the lawyers hadn't even located him yet. Maybe it was some long-lost relative of Freddie's who lived off in Alaska or Hawaii or South America.

She could hope.

Their food arrived then—a still-sizzling burger and fries for her. Her stomach rumbled at the sight. Across the table, a waiter lowered some sort of fancy salad with a see-through dressing in front of Owen. He'd barely looked at her while they talked. Was he really that upset she'd invited everyone else along tonight?

The next few minutes passed in a blur of clinking silverware and satisfied eating. Until Ledge looked up from his plate. “I think it's a good idea, Amelia.”

The burly older man, bald with ebony skin and kind eyes, rarely spoke up. The most noise he ever made was with the press. But his simple statement was enough to quiet the rest of the crew.

“You do?”

He nodded, then looked around the table and seemed to prompt everyone else into doing the same. Even Mae.

Except Owen, who lowered his fork and finally looked at Amelia. “Yeah, but what's going to actually fill this thing besides ads?”

“Stories about the paper's history. Old photos, maybe even some old articles.”

“No actual news?” Skepticism clouded his tone.

“Oh, there's going to be news.” She leaned forward, fingers lacing around her glass. Her favorite part, this. “I'm finally going to solve the Kendall Wilkins mystery.”

She'd expected a few
oohs
, maybe some
ahhs
. Not the blank expressions that stared back at her.

“The town loner?” This from Abby. “Didn't he die?”

“He was more than a town loner. Half the buildings in town wouldn't have been built without him. He lived to be 101. He saw more world history than most of us have read about in textbooks.”

He was Maple Valley's most famous citizen. Businessman, philanthropist, collector. He'd lived through the Great Depression, fought in World War II, and made millions after the war, which he then poured back into this community. In the seventies, he'd donated his mansion to the city. Now it housed the public library.

And perhaps the most interesting of all his stories—he'd been
in Paris in 1927, stood on Le Bourget field as Charles Lindbergh made his historic landing. Even had a black-and-white photo of himself standing next to the record-setting aviator and the
Spirit of St. Louis
.

Logan had said to write a story she was passionate about. Well, she'd wanted to write Kendall Wilkins's story for years.

“He might've been an interesting guy, but no one ever knew him.” Kat forked her grilled asparagus. “Believe me, I grew up here. The man was a legend, but not necessarily a well-liked one. For all his philanthropy, he never came to a single town event. Never got involved. And then he pranked the whole town when he died. I'm not sure putting his face on the cover of a special issue will do us any favors.”

“But that's just it. I don't think he meant to prank anyone.”

It was town lore these days, the story of Kendall Wilkins's will. Five years ago when he'd died, he'd left the contents of a safe-deposit box to the city of Maple Valley. The town made a big deal of it, gathered a crowd to open the box . . . only to find it empty. Everyone assumed it was the elaborate hoax of a hermit.

But they didn't know the Kendal Wilkins she'd known. Oh, she'd never met him in person, but she had . . . well, she definitely had insider knowledge.

“I think there was supposed to be something in that box. I'm going to figure out what it was and what happened to it. And that, my friends, will be our front-page story.”

She could sense the skepticism threading through the group, but they were either too hungry or too nice to voice it.

Except for Owen, who pushed back from the table—abrupt, annoyed—and stood. “I'm . . . not hungry.” He swiped his coat from the back of his chair and tromped away from the table.

The rest of the group looked as confused as she felt. “Owen,” she called after him, the wallop of the closing door punctuating his exit.

She followed him outside, shrugging into her jacket as she stepped into the snow-salted outdoors. Moonlight slanted in to highlight the scowl on Owen's face as he stopped and turned under a flickering lamppost. She hurried toward him. “I know you're from the big city, Berry, but you can't dine and dash in a small town.”

“I just needed some air.” He huffed the words, crossing his arms and refusing to look her in the eye.

Her steps slowed as she reached him. “What's wrong with you? Do you hate my idea?”

“It's not that.”

“Is it that I invited everyone else tonight?”

He peered down at her. “Yes. All right? Yes. Finally, after a year and a half of working with you, I go for it. I ask you out. And you invite the entire staff on our date.”

“Date?”
The word slipped out before she could stop it, enough disbelief embedded in it she couldn't have masked her surprise if she'd wanted to. “You thought tonight was . . . a date?”

And now it wasn't only irritation in his expression, but embarrassment.

“I didn't realize . . . we hang out lots.”

“Rarely just the two of us. I went out of my way today to ask you and only you. You said, and I quote, ‘It's a date.'”

“That's an expression.” The reply did nothing to loosen his grimace. She lowered her voice. “You're twenty-four, Owen. I'm six years older than you.”

“Which isn't exactly May-December.”

A chilly breeze slinked through the fabric of her lightweight coat and scuffed over her cheeks. “I'm flattered, really. But—”

He cut her off with a raised hand. “Don't.”

She barreled on anyway. “But even if I had known what this was, you know the two of us wouldn't work. You can't wait to
leave Maple Valley. You're constantly saying you didn't go into debt getting a degree in journalism to write about Division III sports and Little League forever. Me? I adore it here. I never want to move away.”

Snowflakes dusted Owen's shoulders and hair, disappointment lurking in his eyes. “Is it because of your divorce?”

The flinch cut through her. Ridiculous, really. This many years after, she should be able to hear the word without feeling like the stitches in her heart were coming loose.

“Is that why you've been oblivious to me? And the UPS man, who everyone knows is crazy about you? Oh, and that math teacher at the high school? You haven't been on a date in the whole time I've known you.”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Of course I don't. Because I barely know you. Because as much time as we've spent together, you never talk about your past. It's all the paper and Maple Valley and how much you love snow and life in this weird town. I don't know why I thought you'd let someone close enough to actually take you on a real date.” He turned.

“Owen—”

He brushed her off with a wave of his hand. Wind tugged strands of hair free from her ponytail as she watched him walk away, his steps scuffing through snow until he turned the corner.

Oh, Owen.

The sigh feathered through her. She'd hurt him. She'd hurt him, and she hated herself for it. He'd always been so sweet. Winsome. She'd just never looked at him like
that.

But he was wrong about her. So she didn't talk about her life before Maple Valley. So what? She'd been a different person then.

“Amelia?”

She turned at the sound of Seth Walker's voice. He stood
just outside the restaurant's bright red door, the words
First National Bank
still etched in cement overhead. “Everything okay? I saw you standing outside by yourself . . .”

“Uh, Owen had to leave. I was just saying 'bye.”

“Your burger's going to get cold. I can send it back to the kitchen if you want. Reheat it or get you a new one. I know how you love your burgers.”

See, this was what she loved about this town.
You're wrong, Owen. People
know me here.

Seth held open the door for her as she reentered the restaurant. “So what's up with your whole staff being here tonight? You all planning a mutiny against Logan or something?”

She stopped halfway to her table. “What?”

“Trust me, if you guys are surprised about Logan being the new publisher, triple it, and that's how surprised he is.”

Her brain fumbled to connect his words. “Logan . . . Logan Walker is the new owner of the
News
?”

Seth flipped a towel over his shoulder. “You didn't know?”

Amelia really did live in a barn.

Logan stared at the building set back from the road at the edge of town, where a residential neighborhood thinned out and gave way to sweeping fields. The Klassens lived in the last house on Second Street, and across the gravel drive that leaned into their yard, right next to a cascading willow tree, sat Amelia's home. Moonlight painted a blueish tint over its red paint and glowing white trim.

Logan cut the engine of his car and climbed out. He'd kind of thought Raegan was joking when she said Amelia lived in the barn on Lenny and Sunny Klassen's property. Figured he'd get here and discover the older couple had turned their basement
into an apartment, like Dad had for Seth, or even that woodshop out back where Lenny worked.

But the barn?

An owl
hoo-
ed from the line of craggy trees, black in the dark and shivering in the wind behind the property. A yard light buzzed and flickered on as he approached the barn. Must be motion-sensored.

Hopefully Amelia wouldn't mind him showing up at this time of night—especially at her house. But when he'd gotten Seth's text, letting him know he'd accidentally spilled the beans about Logan owning the paper, he'd figured he owed Amelia an explanation. And with it being Friday night, it's not like he could find her in the office in the morning.

He knocked, cold raking over his cheeks. Snow shaven from a drift that edged up to the barn swirled around his feet.