The Wishing Season (4 page)
“Is school all right?”
“I guess so. It’s almost over, thank God.”
An ex-boyfriend had started rumors about her last year, and she’d had a lot of male attention ever since—the wrong kind. The girls at school had turned on her, and it had become a real mess. He wished Greg and Becky, her foster parents, would talk to the principal or something. Cole was counting the days until Lizzy turned eighteen next April. She was working hard to graduate
early. He hoped to God he’d have a place for her to go. She was young and so vulnerable.
He heard a noise on her end.
“I better go,” she whispered. “I’m supposed to be in bed.”
“I’ll call you Friday. Tell Greg and Becky I said hi.”
He put his phone in his pocket so he’d feel it, just in case she needed him. If that old boyfriend was giving her trouble again, Cole was going to hunt him down and teach him a lesson.
Just eleven more months and she’d be out of foster care. Greg and Becky would make room for a younger kid. They had good hearts. But Lizzy was way too naïve to be on her own.
Please, God. I need that house
.
Not just for Lizzy but for the other kids. There are so many.
He felt small and incapable of the monumental task. One kid at a time, he reminded himself.
He sank down in the seat and nestled against his duffel bag again. Thunder cracked. He was never going to get any sleep.
PJ
CLIMBED THE STEPS OF THE
C
OACHLIGHT
C
OFFEEHOUSE
, her heart knocking against her ribs. She barely noticed the beauty of the brick Victorian building or the wide, cozy porch bustling with late-afternoon customers.
When she entered the shop she drew a deep breath, the robust smell of coffee filling her nostrils. A quick scan of the crowded room turned up no Mrs. Simmons or Cole Evans. She was early but hadn’t been able to help herself. She wanted to know, wanted to know
now
. She hadn’t been able to decipher a single hint from her brief phone call with Mrs. Simmons. Was it a good sign they were meeting here instead of at the house? Or did it just indicate a sudden caffeine craving?
PJ ordered an Americano with heavy cream and carried it to a four-top along the side brick wall. Across the room Daniel Dawson seemed to be in the middle of a business meeting. He was the town’s mayor and, more importantly, her new brother-in-law.
He caught her eye and nodded in greeting.
The bell over the door tinkled as it swung open. Cole Evans filled the frame. His form was silhouetted, emphasizing his broad shoulders and narrow waist. This wasn’t the weak, injured man she’d left in her shed. This man oozed raw male energy. She
wondered where he’d come from. If he had a girlfriend waiting somewhere.
She shook the thought away, reminding herself who he was. That his love life was none of her business. That after today he’d be gone
. Please, God.
She felt, rather than saw, his eyes find her. Something inside her hummed.
He approached the table, his movements slow and purposeful. The wood floor creaked under his feet, audible even above the chatter.
He reached for the nearest chair. “May I?”
“Of course.” PJ leaned back in her own chair, needing some space.
His knee brushed hers under the table. She shifted away and took a sip of her coffee.
“Mrs. Simmons not here yet?” he asked.
“I should warn you, she generally runs late.”
“What’s another ten minutes?”
She looked him in the face for the first time since he’d arrived. He seemed weary, despite his stoic expression. She wondered where he’d been staying. She’d half expected him to remain in her garden shed, despite her withdrawn invitation. He did have a concussion after all. Speaking of which.
“How’s your head?” Just because he was her adversary didn’t mean she couldn’t be polite. Besides, she was going to win, and the poor guy was going to walk away with a knot on his head for a consolation prize.
“Better.”
“You should probably see a doctor when you get home.”
He tweaked a brow, his eyes homing in on hers.
She hadn’t meant to be so presumptuous, but she’d given this a lot of thought since Wednesday. She was the local girl, the one who cared about the town. And her plan was a winner for the community. Maybe Mrs. Simmons was a bit eccentric, but she wasn’t foolish.
“What?” she asked when he continued to eye her.
“Little sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
PJ took a sip of coffee. “Nothing wrong with a positive attitude. You seem a little tired; you should order something. They make a great Americano. My sister Madison is a big fan of their coffee beans, though she had to cut back, and my other sister, Jade, swears they make the best mocha frappe on the planet, though I wouldn’t know because I don’t like milk.” He was staring at her funny. “What?”
“You talk a lot.”
Of all the—
“Well, someone has to.”
“Why’s that?”
“Why’s what?”
“Why does someone have to talk?”
Her lips parted. Was he being serious or just goading her? She couldn’t tell. “Some people happen to like it. Some say my energy is contagious, and my way with words is a gift. It’s called conversation. You should try it.”
“I would if I could get a word in edgewise.”
PJ clamped her mouth shut, narrowing her eyes. Where was a potted plant when she needed one? She went back to her Americano, determined not to say one more word until Mrs. Simmons appeared.
From the corner of her eye she saw Cole open a newspaper, spreading it in front of him. Thank God he’d be going soon. They couldn’t go three minutes without bickering.
A few minutes later Mrs. Simmons entered. She went first to the counter to order a drink, then she approached, cupping her pink smoothie.
Cole pulled out the chair for her.
Nice touch.
Mrs. Simmons patted his hand. “Thank you, dearie. Hello, PJ. I’m sorry to keep you both waiting. Snowball got locked in the moving truck, and it took forever to find her. Poor thing was traumatized. I think she’d do anything to avoid that airplane crate, but I can’t have her in that dark truck all by her lonesome all the way to Colorado, can I?”
“Of course not.” PJ eyed Mrs. Simmons’s bejeweled hand, still curled around Cole’s. Not good.
Unless it was sympathy. That’s what it was. Sympathy.
Mrs. Simmons offered Cole a drink, and he politely declined. She set her other hand over PJ’s. Could she be turning them both down? Maybe she had decided to sell the house after all and open a new hospital wing instead. A fresh wave of anxiety made PJ’s heart pound.
“I’m sorry it’s taken so long to reach a decision. After Wednesday, I knew I had a lot of thinking to do, and these days that takes a lot of time.”
PJ traded smiles with her. She didn’t look at Cole. He wasn’t even here. Wasn’t in this race.
Please, God
.
“Well, I know you’re both anxious to hear my verdict, but the truth is . . . I just can’t decide.”
PJ frowned. Then tried to smile because she didn’t want to
offend Mrs. Simmons. Her eyes darted to Cole. His expression was as unreadable as ever.
“I—what does that mean exactly?” PJ asked.
“I need more time. I need to see your plans in action.”
“But,” PJ said, “that’s not possible.”
Mrs. Simmons’s eyes sparkled like diamonds. “That’s what I thought at first! But then I thought, why, the house is so big. Plenty big enough for Cole’s kids and PJ’s restaurant.” She squeezed both their hands. “So for one year you’ll share it. You, my dear, will open your fine dining establishment.” Her eyes swung to Cole’s. “And you will have your transition housing!”
Cole ran his knuckles over his jaw, still quiet.
“I’ve got it all figured out.” Mrs. Simmons fanned her aged fingers out. “Those kiddos of yours need a place to stay while they finish high school. PJ, you’re opening a restaurant, and you need a staff. Voila! Built-in employees.”
She looked between the two of them like she’d just discovered the key to world peace. Apparently seeing their lack of excitement, she continued, “Don’t you see? Your kiddos can live in the house and staff the restaurant to earn their keep, develop a strong work ethic, maybe even pick up new skills that’ll make them employable. See?”
PJ saw all right. She saw teenagers who couldn’t fry up a grilled cheese sandwich trying their hand at coq au vin. Saw kids who didn’t know the difference between rice and risotto cooking in her kitchen, handling her fresh produce.
“But . . . but . . .”
“You have one year to show me what you can do. I’ll check in with you from time to time, and on June 1 of next year you’ll
do another presentation for the board. This time you’ll have real-life statistics, and I’ll be able to see which opportunity is truly the best fit for my family home.
“In the meantime, the community will benefit from the restaurant—we don’t have anything grand for miles—and your children will get a temporary home through their senior year.” Mrs. Simmons pressed her palms together. “It’s just perfect, isn’t it? I know there’s a detail or two to work out, but I’m certain we can handle it.”
“That’s a very . . . creative approach, ma’am,” Cole said, finally finding his voice.
“The community will love it—a hearty competition being played out right in front of them. Plus a lovely restaurant and a noble cause to boot.” She sat back, looking so proud.
“I’m sure they will.” He prodded PJ with his look.
“Um . . .” PJ cleared her throat. “Mrs. Simmons, this may be more complicated than you’ve figured. I mean, how can high school kids be expected to cook fine cuisine? And where are we going to live in the meantime?”
“Why, you’ll teach the kids, dear! You’re a McKinley. I’m sure you’re up to the task. And there’s plenty of room for the both of you. PJ, you’ll take the first floor, and Cole will take the second. It won’t take much at all to add a little kitchen up there. I’ve thought it all through. I’m having the agreements drawn up as we speak, and they’ll be ready to sign next week.”
She squeezed both their hands. “Now, I really hate to run, but Snowball is traumatized from her difficult morning, and I really must get back to her.”
She gave one last slurp of her smoothie, her wrinkled red lips
pursed around the straw. “I’ll call you next week, and we’ll meet to sign the papers. I’m so excited! I can’t wait to see how it all turns out. Have a lovely afternoon, dearies.”
PJ watched her leave, watched the door fall shut behind her. A squeak escaped her throat. More customers entered and exited. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the door.
Cole broke the silence. “What just happened? We can’t share the house, and my kids aren’t serving in some froufrou restaurant for rich people. They’ve had enough people looking down their nose at them.”
PJ glared at him. “Now you find your voice? Where was it two minutes ago when Mrs. Simmons was sitting right in front of you?”
“You didn’t tell me she was nuts.”
“She’s not nuts. She’s . . . eccentric.”
“Well, we have to talk her out of this.”
PJ closed her eyes, past experiences with Mrs. Simmons flitting through her mind. The community garage sale, the theater ticket incident, the annual auction.
“What?” he asked.
“You don’t know how stubborn she is. She’s not changing her mind.”
“We have to talk to her. Make her understand it won’t work. We can’t pour all this money and energy into a house we might lose.”
“You’re right, it won’t work. So why don’t you just do the honorable thing and back out?”
“Since when is quitting honorable? And if you’re so fond of the idea, why don’t
you
back out?”
Had she thought his green eyes mesmerizing? She bit her tongue, literally, and looked away. They had to fix this. It couldn’t work. Could it?
He leaned into his elbows. “Listen, I need this more than you—”
“How do you figure?” She was out on her own with hardly a penny in the bank and working in a freaking candy store.
“These kids need this.”
She pictured the images from his poster board and felt a stab of guilt. “And my business venture is self-serving, is that what you’re saying?”
He clenched his jaw and looked out the picture window.
“My enterprise will help this community. And it’s
my
community.
My
home.
I
belong here.”
He looked at her. Something flickered in his eyes before they shuttered.
She remembered his foster kid childhood and felt another prick of guilt. He probably hadn’t felt as if he’d ever belonged anywhere. An ache swelled in her gut. “Listen, I’m sorry, I—”
“This isn’t feasible. We can’t get along for five minutes, much less live under the same roof for a year.”
She shrugged. “We don’t necessarily have to live there.”
“Speak for yourself, Sunshine.”
PJ crossed her arms, the ache inside fading fast. He had her all pegged. “You don’t know me.”
“We need to talk to her, and we need to do it together.” He gave her a pointed look.
“What? You don’t trust me?”
“Why would I? You’re a stranger.”
“I nursed you back to health!”
“You gave me a concussion.”
She glared at him. She wasn’t getting anywhere with him. Just like she wouldn’t get anywhere with Mrs. Simmons. The woman would talk in circles until their minds were spinning like blender blades and their signatures were scrawled across the dotted lines.
“Fine. We’ll talk to her. But don’t get your hopes up.”
PJ
SHUT HER CAR DOOR AND PULLED HER SWEATER TIGHT
against the evening chill. Gravel crunched under her Sperry’s, and a cricket chirped nearby. She walked around the side of her parents’ farmhouse, breathing in the smell of freshly cut grass. In the distance newly planted cornfields stretched over rolling hills all the way to the setting sun.
Home.
After the day she’d had, she needed this. The conversation with Mrs. Simmons had gone just as she’d suspected. She and Cole, slightly dizzy from the older woman’s monologue, had left the house with signed copies of the contract.