“Go crazy, most probably.” Ethel pulled at a chain around her neck from which dangled the key for the old-fashioned cash register. “Most definitely.”
Riley was grateful for Ethel’s sense of humor, a grace note to her day. She walked back to the café. “Anne, I’m stealing a muffin. Put it on my bill.”
Anne laughed. “Yeah, that bill is starting to look like the national debt.”
Footsteps sounded behind Riley and she moved toward a customer she hadn’t heard enter the store. His voice seemed to come from far away, and yet was right behind her. “I’ll take one of those muffins, too,” he said. “You can put it on
her
bill.”
Riley felt the voice vibrate below her ribs. She turned quickly on her heels, stumbled and righted herself with her palm on the counter. Coffee splashed out of her mug and slid across the linoleum surface. He smiled; her heart emptied and filled in a single moment. “Mack,” she said.
Like a vivid dream, he stood in the middle of her bookstore. His brown curls fell across his forehead. Hints of a boy’s face showed beneath the mature bone structure and the stubble on his cheeks and chin. The lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened, but his smile was the same, wide and ready for fun. He wasn’t any taller than the last time she’d seen him, six feet at the most, yet somehow she’d pictured him still growing.
She nodded, unable to find the words she’d stored up to say to him. “Hey,” she said.
“That’s it?” He reached forward and pulled her into a hug. “Hey? That’s all I get after thirteen years?”
She hugged him back—too hard, too long, her cheek landing higher on his chest than it had all those years ago. He let go first. “I’m so glad you decided to come to this celebration,” she said, her words sounding stiff. Thoughts flew through her mind like a flock of sandpipers startled off the shoreline: she hadn’t taken a shower; she looked tired; she wasn’t prepared.
“Well, thank you, ma’am.” He smiled at her. “When did you get so formal?”
She punched the side of his arm.
“There she is, the girl who thinks she can beat me up.”
“When did you get into town?”
“Late last night.”
The back door opened, slammed against the wall, and a fresh wind burst through the café. Brayden stood in the hallway. “They left me,” he said.
“Oh, Brayden.”
Riley moved toward him, but he held up his hand. “Now my entire day is ruined. And it’s all your fault.”
Mack laughed. “Now this must be your son because only a mom can ruin a boy’s entire day,” he said.
Riley nodded. “Brayden Collins Sheffield.”
Mack walked toward him. “Hello, I’m Mack Logan, an old friend of your mom’s. There is no way she ruined your day.”
“Yeah, right. She didn’t wake me up in time and I missed the boat and now I can’t go fishing.”
Mack said something to Brayden, but Riley couldn’t hear the words. Was she in a dream in which Mack Logan stood talking to her son about boats, fishing and tides? Dizziness threatened. She took a long sip of coffee, and then a deep breath. She attempted to smooth the hair back from her face. They both turned to her.
“Sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean it.”
“I know, cutie.” She smiled at him.
“Ah, don’t call me that. Can I go fishing with this guy?” Brayden pointed at Mack.
Riley felt momentarily confused by the question. What world was this?
Mack made eye contact with her while still talking to Brayden. “I’ll take you fishing, to the same place I won every bet against your mother, but only after she shows me around my old house.”
“Your house?” Brayden asked.
“The Logan family lived here before Gamma bought the building and made it into the store,” Riley explained.
“You’re a Logan?” Brayden squinted at Mack.
Mack narrowed his eyes back at Brayden. “Depends what you’ve heard about us.”
Riley held her breath—what
had
Brayden absorbed through the years?
“Nothing, really. Just heard the name, that’s all.”
“Then you don’t know how I beat your mom at the fishing tournament, at the sailing race, at the badminton competition?”
“Like she’d be hard to beat.” Brayden rolled his eyes.
Mack laughed. “Actually, she was. And I’m exaggerating a bit. She’s just being polite not mentioning how many times she beat me.”
Brayden looked at his mother as if he didn’t know her. “You did?”
“Of course.”
Mack touched her elbow. “You too busy to show me around right now?”
She shook her head. “Just let me check on the book club and Ethel, and then I’m all yours.”
He laughed. “Yeah, right.”
The subtlety of the flirting words, the deeper laugh, combined to make her feel as though her feet had been put on the opposite legs, making her clumsy. “Have a muffin on me. The chocolate-chip ones are the best. I’ll be right back.” She turned to Brayden. “Where’s Aunt Maisy?”
“She said there was no way she was going through the day without a shower. She went back to Gamma’s and said to tell you she’ll be here as soon as she can.”
“Oh.” Riley forced a smile despite her irritation with Maisy for contributing to her crazy morning. “Let me check on the book club.” She walked toward the gathered Blonde Book Club, felt Mack’s gaze follow her. Her mind went to questions she rarely considered: were her jeans too tight? Her shirt wrinkled? Her hair knotted?
The book club members waved in unison, like homecoming queens in a parade, which all of them appeared to be. “You all okay?” Riley asked the group.
“Yeah,” Kiki Anderson answered. “We’re just waiting on our coffee and muffins.” She sounded like a whining child, and Riley forced herself to smile.
“I’ll have Anne send them right over, and then my sister Maisy will stop by. You’ll love her.”
Kiki clapped her hands together. “Oh, I know who she is. It’ll be fun to see her.”
“Yes,” Riley said. “Fun.”
A fervent desire for a long hot shower came over Riley. She rejoined Mack and Brayden, her heart lifting at the thought of Mack being here. Someone called her name: she turned to see Lodge come through the front door with his camera, satchel and a wide smile. He waved.
The morning was coming at her too fast; she couldn’t seem to keep up. Lodge arrived at her side, pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Morning, Riley.”
“Hey.”
“You forgot,” he said.
She grimaced. “A little. I’m having a weird day—going to the bondman’s office is never a good way to start.”
“What?”
“Forget it,” she said.
Lodge followed her glance to the café. “Am I imagining it or is that Mack Logan?”
“It’s him,” she said. “He just got into town.”
“Oh, this is great. I can take a picture of two owners together—it’ll make a great follow-up piece.”
Riley swiped at her hair. “No way. No pictures of me looking like this. Maisy will be here in a minute—take her photo this time.”
Lodge shook his head. “You never have understood how cute you are. You look fine, Riley. Maisy can’t compare.”
She turned away. “Yeah, right.”
“To me,” he said, and walked away as he said it so she wasn’t absolutely sure he had.
Lodge and Riley entered the café, where Brayden and Mack were sitting at a table sharing a large muffin. Mack recognized Lodge, and his face broke into a smile. He stood up and shook his hand. “Man, it’s good to see you.”
Lodge laughed. “Good to see you, too.” He turned to Brayden. “Hey, buddy, how’s it going?”
“Hey, Mr. Barton. I’m good. You?”
“Just fine.”
Brayden had chocolate in the corner of his mouth. “Mom, I’m going to check out the new magazines.” He waved toward the periodical section. “Tell me when Mr. Logan is ready, okay?”
“Sure thing,” Riley said.
Mack shook his head. “This is crazy, seeing all of you. So many great memories, huh? Those days were only thirteen years ago, but a lifetime, you know?”
“Yeah,” Lodge said. “Somehow time marches on. Jobs, families.”
“Do you have a family now?” Mack sat, motioned for Lodge to sit also.
Lodge shook his head, and set his camera on the table. “Lost my wife, Tibbie, to a rare blood disease years ago.”
Mack shook his head. “I am so sorry. Any kids?”
Lodge shook his head again, and an awkward silence followed until Mack cleared his throat and said, “I wish I hadn’t lost touch with everyone. I didn’t . . . mean to.”
“We never do,” Lodge said. “And hell, you haven’t missed much. You can probably catch up in about fifteen minutes.”
“Maybe.” He turned to Riley. “Are you . . . married?”
“No,” she said, shifted her feet. Finding nowhere to put her hands, she clasped them in her lap. “Never . . . have been.” Her skin flushed at relating facts she wasn’t accustomed to speaking aloud.
Lodge filled the awkward pause. “So, Mack, tell us about life on the other side of Palmetto Beach.”
“Life on the other side . . . hmm . . . it’s good. I have a degree in architecture, work for a firm in Manhattan. Still single, but my brother, Joe, is married now; they’re about to have their first kid.” Mack leaned back in his chair. “We definitely have changed, haven’t we? We aren’t those kids who spent summers on this beach learning to fish, sail, smoke cigarettes, fall in love and get our hearts broken by the local girls.”
Logan laughed. “Some of us still get our hearts broken by the local girls.”
“I can imagine,” Mack said.
“So, man, when was the last time we saw you?” Lodge asked.
“The bonfire the last night of summer,” Mack said without hesitation.
“Yeah, yeah, I remember now.” Lodge leaned back in his chair. “Crazy night. At least what I remember of it. That was right before we all left for college.”
Mack nodded. “Yep.” He glanced up at Riley. “You ready for that tour?”
Riley felt as though she’d been watching the scene from far away, and now that her attention was needed, she landed with a thud in the middle of the room—large and awkward. “Great. Let’s go.”
Lodge stood, lifted his camera. “Photo first?”
Riley shook her head.
Mack threw his arm around her, pulled her close. She looked up at him to tell him to let go, and Lodge’s flash went off. Torn between wanting to stay, and wanting to throw Lodge’s camera into the trash, she became immobile.
Lodge set the camera on the café table. “I’ll wait until Maisy gets here, and take one more shot for the Sunday edition. You two go on. I’ll get a cup of coffee while I wait.”
“You sure?” Riley stepped out from under Mack’s arm.
“Positive. Go give your tour.”
Riley led Mack through the cottage rooms, one by one, explaining where they’d knocked down walls, what the rooms were used for. They stopped in the Kids’ Corner, where a group of children was sitting on beanbag chairs, entranced as Ethel read
Treasure Island
out loud.
Mack leaned close to Riley and whispered, “This is so sweet. My mom would love to see it. She adores knowing that her old cottage is a bookstore.”
Riley motioned for them to move away; they walked to the main section in the middle of the store. “I think your mom read about a hundred novels every summer. She could probably start a bookstore with all her old books.”
His face held a shadow of sorrow; she recognized it because she’d seen it before. “Is your mom okay?” She touched his arm, then quickly withdrew her hand.
“She’s fine.” He looked out the window. “It’s Dad who’s not doing well. He has lymphoma. We’re taking this trip to . . . get away, remember better days.”
“Oh.” Riley’s eyes filled. “I am so, so sorry.”
“It’s been hard. I’m taking a couple weeks off work.”
“Where exactly are you working?”
“I’ve been terrible about keeping in touch, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think about you . . . and your family. I do.” He sat down in a club chair; Riley took a seat in the ladder-back chair next to him. “I design mostly commercial space for a small firm, Harbinger Associates.”
“So you put your drawing skill to use.”
“You remember?”
She smiled at him, shook her head. “Are you kidding? I remember everything about those summers.” Embarrassment at her sudden confession made her stand. “But for some reason I thought you wanted to design houses. Did I make that up?”
“No, you remember right. I somehow got . . . sidetracked. Dad is good friends with the president and well . . . here I am.”
“Yes, here you are. Come on, I’ll show you the upstairs. It’s not clean—we’ve had an insane morning—but I’ll show you around.”
Together they walked up the back stairs and entered the kitchen. She tried to see the house through Mack’s eye. The upstairs part of the house had once held all four bedrooms, yet Riley had transformed it into one tiny kitchen with a table and a sitting area open to it, and two good-sized bedrooms. She moved through the rooms, fluffing pillows, straightening baskets of books and Brayden’s schoolwork, his sports equipment. But the place still looked cluttered, worn. Yet she loved these rooms. They had held her and Brayden close.
Mack stood in the middle of the kitchen and took a deep breath. “This is amazing, Riley. My family loves books, and now our old cottage is a bookstore—and you live in it.” He looked at her. “This is why I love life. It does make for some surprising coincidences, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does. Connections,” she said, “surprising connections.”
“That, too,” he said, and laughed.
Yes, they were connected, bound together by the past and the present. And for the first time in a long while Riley’s life seemed more interesting to her than the novel on her bedside table.
NINE
MAISY