Long Shot (9 page)

“And now you’re back to run the games?” Rob asked skeptically.

Jen folded her hands and tried to look as professional as an admitted thief could. “Just for this year, yes.”

Leith touched the older woman’s shoulder. “And this is Bobbie, Rob’s wife.”

As Bobbie shook Jen’s hand, Rob pinched his wife’s butt. He said, “We met online.”

“How nice,” Jen said, not knowing how to take that.

“Yeah,” Leith said with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Bobbie’s a bit of an . . . Internet celebrity.”

Please, please don’t let that mean what they’re making it out to mean.

“You two need to stop doing that,” Bobbie said, slapping Leith’s arm. “You’re giving people heart attacks.”

“She’s got one of the biggest followings of any scrapbooking website,” Leith amended.

Jen let out a relieved laugh. “Scrapbooking. Oh! There used to be a store across the street.”

A pained, regretful look crossed Rob’s face while Bobbie swished the air with one graceful hand. “I should’ve known it wouldn’t work,” the older woman said. “It was always a dream to own my own store. I thought the online success would translate to a physical presence in my lovely new town, but it didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Jen said, and meant it.

“My belly says we need to go,” Rob said abruptly, and then the couple—
please don’t let their last name be Roberts
—left, hand in age-spotted hand.

As Jen and Leith turned back to the counter, the disgruntled former employee slid their plates in front of them. Jen eyed hers skeptically, wondering if he’d spit in it, but Leith shoved his fork into a mound of scrambled eggs and took the biggest bite she’d ever seen.

“The Roberts are good people to know.” He washed down the gigantic bite with a swig of orange juice.

“No way. That’s really their last name?”

“Heh, no. It’s just what everyone calls them.”

They talked and ate, with nearly everyone in the Kafe either coming up to Leith or him calling them over to their spot on the bar. At one point, a woman dressed in a pristine, belted dress and sunglasses the size of her face came in. Leith said she was Irene, married to a Hemmertex manager who’d chosen to retire rather than relocate out of New Hampshire, and one of Leith’s few remaining lawn maintenance clients.

By the time Jen’s belly was distended with perfect hash browns and homemade bread slathered with honey, Leith must have introduced—or reintroduced—her to half the town.

Sue McCurdy and her breakfast companion watched all the exchanges, and as Jen rose to leave, Sue’s friend gave Jen a slow nod that might have actually bordered on approval.

Chapter

8

J
en and Leith left the Kafe together, exiting into a brilliant morning. Sun sparkled through the thick tree boughs that draped themselves over the main street, their massive trunks tucked behind the old buildings. Jen squinted, imagining the storefronts filled with merchandise, their signs lit, and tourists ambling up and down the sidewalks. It filled her with such purpose, with such hope, that she smiled.

Leith stood next to her at the corner, hands in his back pockets. An unspoken, comfortable companionship laced them together. She tried to recall feeling this way ten years ago, but they’d been different people then, all nerves and excitement, completely oblivious to anything beyond that day, that moment.

A car slowly rolled past; the driver, a man with two children whom Leith had introduced her to, honked politely and called out a farewell, adding a “Good luck with the games” to Jen. She’d been here three days now and no one had wished her that.

Then it hit her, what Leith had just done.

She turned to him. “Thank you.”

He shrugged and threw her a sideways grin. “Not exactly the first date I’d have normally picked, but the eggs were good.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She touched him without thinking, her fingers sliding around the firm warmth of his forearm. There was power under that skin, as well as a generosity and a kind soul that she’d thought she understood, but really had only just begun to uncover. It made her heart hurt, to wonder about the man he’d become, to think about what she’d once given up.

Regret was the ugliest feeling in the world.

He winked, gently tugging his arm from her grip. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He started to cross the street in loping strides. “If they start to see you as the Jen that knows this place, that cares about it, and not just a big-city girl swooping in to shake up their town and then leave, they’ll listen. They may not push back so hard. And they’ll definitely come to the games to see what you’ve done, when so many of them haven’t gone in years.”

“Who was the woman sitting with Sue?”

“Vera Kirkpatrick. Town council. She was watching you the whole time.”

“Thank you,” she said again, which was answered by yet another one of his shrugs. She couldn’t decide if he really was denying his actions, or if he honestly thought they were no big deal.

The Kafe door pinged across the street and she watched Aimee and Ainsley exit and head in the opposite direction, toward the Thistle.

“You raised her right, little sis.” Behind her, so close, Leith’s voice had gone deep and soft. “The years here have been good to Aimee. You can see that, right?”

Her sister and niece disappeared around the two-pump gas station, their heads bent together, talking.

“Yes,” Jen replied. “But—” She cut herself off. She understood what he was saying with a few carefully placed words: that Aimee was an adult and could take care of herself. But Jen also knew Aimee forward and back. With that woman, there was a wild tornado inside, constantly trying to get out. And when it busted free, take cover.

Jen drew a deep, deep breath, loving the scent of this place, how she could almost smell the nearby lake between the breezes. If she remembered correctly, the central park was just over that little stone footbridge spanning the creek, beyond those thick hedgerows. She pointed. “Does the park still look the same?”

“Uh.” His small laugh sounded strangely uncomfortable. “Yeah. Sorta.”

Well, now she had to look. “You coming?”

He twisted to glance back at his truck, taking up half the small parking lot just behind the Kafe. “Don’t you have, you know, work to do?” He gestured to the bulge of her phone in her pocket. The thing was, for once, blissfully silent.

“Let me think.” And she did. The best events captured the perfect atmosphere and reflected the host’s personality and vision. Sure, so far she’d reorganized what she could, balanced the budget, and made new plans to present to the city council, but there was still something missing. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Crossing the footbridge was like crossing over a line in time. Leith’s feet dragged. They both stopped to gaze over the side to where they’d once had a contest to see who could land the most number of pebbles on that flat, wide rock twenty feet out.

“I totally won that day,” she murmured.

He laughed. “Not how I remember it.”

She waved a hand in front of his face. “Your mind is muddied by all the other girls you brought here to throw rocks. I only have that one day, and it’s still crystal clear.” She tapped her temple with two fingers. “I kicked your ass.”

Stepping off the bridge, she turned into the park. Still exactly how she remembered it, with the gravel path following the stream, circling around the gazebo where bands had sometimes played on summer nights, and ending at the playground near the edge of the trees. There was, however, one big addition.

“Hold on . . . what is this?” She left the path and crossed the grass. Behind her, Leith groaned.

In the center of the open space, a caber—an implement thrown during the Highland Games made of a tree trunk carved into a round pole nineteen or so feet long—had been tilted onto two iron cradles, displayed for all to see. For people to set up their picnic blankets around, for kids to slam into when playing Freeze Tag. A little plaque nailed to a post declared
Leith MacDougall, Gleann Highland Games All-Around Champion
.

The first time Aunt Bev had taken her to the Highland Games and Jen had watched these huge men throwing the cabers, she’d laughed and hadn’t understood the point. Then she’d met Leith and had gone to the games the subsequent years with him and his father, where Mr. MacDougall had explained the rules of throwing a caber. The athlete held the narrower end of the caber while balancing the rest straight up in the air, then he took off on a run, flipped the giant pole end over end, and hoped the thing landed at twelve o’clock in relation to his body. Once she understood the heavy athletics’ rules and history, she’d loved them.

“Where’d they get the caber?” she asked.

When she turned around, Leith was staring off into the trees, face all scrunched up and looking supremely—gloriously—uncomfortable. So something did faze him, and it was this kind of attention.

“It was mine,” he said, looking everywhere but at Jen. “Well, it was Da’s. When I stopped competing I didn’t know what to do with it, and Chris took it and gave it to Mayor Sue. She had this built.”

“Well, I can understand that,” she said in mock seriousness. “I mean, the huge billboard out on 6 wasn’t nearly enough.”

“You can stop now.”

“Do people come here to, like, lay flowers and stuff?”

“No, really. Stop.” He was desperately trying not to smile, and failing, which pleased her immensely. Because behind his eyes she saw something else—some old pain she couldn’t begin to name. She remembered what he’d admitted last night: that he felt bad, every day, for leaving Gleann. But there was more to it; she could tell. He fought it, glossed over it, and she realized she was dying to know what it was. Dying to help him through it.

She walked down the length of the caber, trailing fingers over the wood, then came back on the other side. Leith ambled toward her with those mountains for shoulders and tree trunks for legs, all set against the delicate, lovely backdrop of Gleann. She was struck by how strongly he’d become part of this landscape. His father, too. The two MacDougall men, as big a part of Gleann as Loughlin’s orange cattle or Kathleen’s horrid cafe decor. And, from what Jen remembered, completely inseparable.

With a hard pang, she realized she missed Mr. MacDougall greatly. During the games, he’d given colorful, delightful commentary on the competitors and their form, and in between, he’d woven in stories from back home in Scotland. Later, she and Leith would sit with him on his front porch, turning the stiff pages of his old photo albums, listening to tales of his best throwing days in Fort William, near where he’d grown up.

Those photos had been her first true exposure to a culture that wasn’t American. She’d been enraptured. She’d been enthralled by Mr. MacDougall’s accent, dulled by decades spent in his new country.

“All kidding aside,” she told Leith, “you should be proud.”

“I am. I really am. But my wins were just the Gleann games, so small compared to others all over the country. And in the amateur division, not even pro. I don’t know why they make such a big deal out of it.”

She looked at him, astounded. “It’s not small to them. It’s their world. And you’re a huge part of it. You and your dad.” She spread her hands wide on the wood. “You’re theirs.”

And you were once mine
.

The thought was so potent, so powerful, she feared she’d said it out loud. The look on Leith’s face said maybe she had. Or that he shared the same thought.

He placed his palms on the outside of her hands, his thumbs grazing her pinkies. The pinch of his eyebrows worried her.

“What is it?” She pressed closer, the caber the only thing separating their bodies.

“It’s just”—he looked up, right into her eyes—“when you say things like that, I’m even more conflicted about leaving.”

She gave him a tiny, close-lipped smile of apology. “That’s not what I meant to do.”

“I know. The thoughts are already there. Some things just bring them to the surface.”

They stood there in near silence, the only sounds the gentle splash of the stream and a single car negotiating the curve up from the small glen where Leith’s childhood house used to be. Thinking about that house, and the two men who used to live there, made her think of something. A crazy-good idea.

“I’m about to ask you to do something,” she said. “Something for the games.”

He was already shaking his head, his words overlapping hers. “I’m not throwing.”

She showed him her palms. “I get that. I mean, I don’t
really
get it, but I understand you don’t want to compete. Instead . . . would you consider being my athletic director?”

Stepping back, his hands slid off the caber. He didn’t look spooked, just surprised.

He took out that blue handkerchief—the one that reminded her so much of his dad—and wiped his hands even though they weren’t dirty. “I wasn’t planning on being in Gleann that weekend. The job in Connecticut has the potential to be huge; I may have to work.”

“It’s one day, Leith. Well, two if you count the opening party the night before. Just one day to give back to Gleann before you head out for good. Come on. Please. I need the help. I have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to the athletic events, and with so many other changes I want to make, I’m sure I’ll be needed elsewhere.”

He slowly turned his head, scanning Gleann from one corner to the next, his longer hair curling around his ears. It might have been the sexiest he’d ever looked to her.

“There’s this buddy of mine, Duncan Ferguson. We used to throw together, and he’s still really active in the circuit. He lives just across the lake in Westbury. He might even have already signed up to compete here anyway. I’m sure he could help you out.”

“But—”

“I can’t give my promise, Jen.” There was such earnestness in his voice, such belief in his expression. “I make promises, I keep them. I wouldn’t want to say I’d do it and then let everyone down.” He glanced toward town, then back to her. “And I wouldn’t want to let you down.”

She could have prepped for a week straight on how that one sentence would make her feel, and she still would have stammered. She still would have felt the stumble of her heart. “I understand.”

He nodded once, in that way men learned in some sort of existential Guy School. “I’ll get you Duncan’s number.”

“Thanks.”

That word closed a chapter in their conversation. With a tap to the caber, he wandered off toward the playground equipment. The ladder and slide and play structure were faded and weathered. Exactly how she remembered them, but sadder. When he changed subjects and asked, “Hey, do you remember the last time we were here?” she wasn’t a bit surprised.

His lopsided smile said,
Aw, yeah. Something dirty happened up there and I was a part of it.

She loved that look.

“I do,” she said, inching closer. “I also remember the first time.”

This was where they’d met, after all. She and Aimee had walked to this park their second day ever in Gleann. She’d been eight, Aimee nine. Leith had been playing here with another boy who’d moved away shortly thereafter. The four of them had quickly fallen into that easy, you’re-my-best-playground-friend thing. Except that the next time she and Leith had met, they’d resumed that companionship while Aimee couldn’t have cared less.

He leaned against the slide. “You do? Because you’re not acting like it.”

So this was it. They were finally going to talk about the past. She was surprised he was the one to bring it up, too, because he’d been so aloof. But last night had shifted something between them, cracked some walls, broke apart some dams.

She stepped into the wood chips surrounding the play structure. “
I’m
the one not acting like it?”