Trapped in Tourist Town (27 page)

Fine. She'd deal with their betrayal later.

• • •

“I don't understand.”

She slumped into a chair, absently wrapping her hand around an artisan-crafted mug. It was a blue glazed stone earthenware. Beautiful. Just what she would have chosen for her own coffee shop.

“You didn't want this. You wanted to write.
That
was your dream.”

“And it still is. Nothing has changed for me, Cady.”

“Nothing except stealing
my
dream and making it your own!” She didn't care if the rest of the town could hear her shouting.

“Listen to yourself. Why would I want to steal your dream? I'm a writer. What the hell do I know about coffee? This is your passion, not mine.”

“Then why did you open this coffee shop? Why did you steal my customers?”

“I didn't steal them. They're yours. They are loyal to you. It was actually Mr. Feeney's idea to deliberately open on Logan's Bakery's last day. One last ‘screw you, Logan!' were his exact words, I believe.”

“But I'm leaving. I was planning on packing up the truck and being on the road in a couple of hours.”

“I know. And I was hoping we ... I could change your mind. This place is yours. Well, technically I'm a silent partner, but the money that paid for the lease and all the work, supplies and furniture was yours.”

“What are you talking about? I don't have that kind of money.” Even as the words slipped past her lips, Cady was recalling a conversation she'd had with Auntie. A conversation that had taken place not too far from this new coffee shop.

Sometime, shortly after she'd arrived at the shop and been corralled into work, Cady had spotted her parents come in with Auntie. The foolish smile was still on her father's face, and this time it started to make sense. Chase, Amanda, and the baby managed a visit closer to lunch time.

Standing up, she began to wander the store's interior. The stonework on the fireplace was incredible. It was rigged for gas and operated by the flip of a switch. It would be pleasantly cozy in the winter months. The stools at the counter had backs and thicker cushions. Just like she'd wanted for her older customers. He'd done it. He had listened to everything she'd ticked off on her wish list and fulfilled them all.

“How on earth did you manage to get all this done so quickly?”

The look on Burke's face was contrite.

“I may have used a little familial influence.” He buffed the counter with an elbow, scrubbing at it with a corner of his apron while studiously avoiding her eyes.

“You'd have had to let my family and the folks in town know who you are.”

“I did. And I also let them know that this was a one-time deal. After this, Sanders is just a surname. You know I wouldn't have used my father's connections for just any reason. It had to be special, worth the trouble.”

“Was it? Worth the trouble?”

“That's something only you can decide.” He eyed her from the counter, watching as she made her way slowly around the coffee shop, stopping to run a hand over the butter-soft leather of the armchairs.

“This was supposed to be my dream, something that I made happen. Something that I worked my ass off for.”

“You did make this happen. This, all of this”—he threw his arms wide—“came out of your dreams. None of this would be here if it weren't for you and all the hard work you put into planning it.”

“But it wasn't supposed to be
here
.” She pressed her lips together, turning to face him from the opposite end of the shop.

“Baby, you really want to get technical,
I'm
not supposed to be here. If it weren't for you having encouraged me to follow my own dreams, I'd probably be packing up my own things and heading out to start my tediously boring new life as CEO of Sanders Resorts.”

“But you fell in love with Scallop Shores.” The smile on her lips was tremulous.

“I fell in love with you. Scallop Shores and all the crazy, loveable people that come with it were all a package deal.

“When I hoped we could convince you to stay if we opened up your coffee shop here, I swear to God there wasn't a single person who didn't come ask me how they could help. Do you even know how much you're loved here?”

Dammit, that did it. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks. Cady liked to think that she was so much different than everyone else in town. She didn't need them. She needed adventure, new places to see, new people to meet. But she was so wrong. Everything she could possibly want, everyone she loved, was right here in Scallop Shores.

“The morning after the storm, before Mr. Logan came in, I couldn't wait to tell you that I'd decided to stay. I thought I was going to have to fight to get you to understand that my heart was here. That I couldn't leave.

“Then he told me the bakery was closing. I thought I didn't have a choice. It was killing me to have to say goodbye.”

“You always had a choice. But you were panicking and I get that.”

Closing the distance, she ran into his arms, sobbing. He held her tightly against his hard chest rocking her until she could breathe again without sniveling. Reaching across the counter for a napkin from a nearby dispenser, she blew her nose and took a few calming breaths before kissing Burke lingeringly on the mouth.

“I love you. I didn't want to leave you. I want to stay here. I ... Wait, I have no place to stay!”

Burke laughed at that.

“You're staying with me, silly. Bandit misses you.”

“And that's another thing. I have no idea where you even live now.” Cady pushed against his chest, finally getting a good look at the words embroidered on the apron.

“Oh.” She breathed.

Cady's Dream. He'd named the coffee shop Cady's Dream.

Burke looked down at the apron, then back at her.

“We can always change it. But we needed something.”

“It's perfect. You came up with it?”

“Nope. The name is all Mr. Feeney's idea.”

“God, I love that man!”

“Should I worry?”

“Nope. Love you more.”

“And don't forget, we can always visit New York any time you want … if you'll let us stay in
your
apartment.” Burke gave her a wink before swooping in to claim her lips in a scorching kiss.

Jennifer DeCuir is a busy writer mom, raising two kids and a husband. She mutters to herself, drinks way too much coffee, and can't help whining about all the rain in Western Washington. But her family loves her anyway.

She'd love to hear from you. Her favorite haunts are her website:
www.jenniferdecuir.com
, Facebook:
www.facebook.com/JenniferDeCuirauthor
and Twitter: @JenniferDeCuir.

(From
Wynter's Journey
by Jennifer DeCuir)

She was in Hell—and it had well and truly frozen over. Already exhausted from her cross-country flight, Wynter slumped from the weight of her misery as she stared at the two-story farmhouse. White clapboard and white wraparound front porch with tall white columns acted as sentries guarding the gates of Hell. And all of it blending in quite hideously with the snow that blanketed every blessed surface of the postage-stamp sized dot on the map that was Braeden, VT.

The only color breaking up the monotonous white was the bright stain of red that served as the front door. Under other circumstances, it might have been considered cheerful, bright even. But Wynter was tired and more than a little nervous. In her current state, all she could think of was blood. She shivered, thinking to herself that she should not have come.

A cough alerted her to the cab driver, waiting to be paid. Wynter closed her eyes, her trembling fingers reaching for the small fold of bills in her coat pocket—the last of her money. By stiffing the man his tip, she could keep the last precious twenty-dollar bill. Quickly, she handed the entire amount across the front seat to the driver, unable to meet his eyes for that uncharitable thought.

Cold air sucked away what little warmth the old car's heater had generated when the driver opened his door. He whistled an off-key tune, pulling her meager possessions from the trunk before he came back into view, setting her bags beside the neatly plowed walkway. He disappeared again, slammed the trunk closed and came around to help her exit the vehicle.

“Careful, it's slipperier than it looks.” The older man gripped her gloved hands, steadying her when her travel weary knees and top-heavy frame made her pinwheel first toward the snowbank on her left and then toward the one on her right.

“You sure you ought to be travelin' by yourself at this point?” He looked down at her very round belly.

“Got the all-clear from the doctor just yesterday.” Wynter smiled brightly through the bald-faced lie.

The airline had tried to give her a hard time. However, they didn't have an actual rule that she couldn't fly at 36 weeks. When Wynter had pointed out that it was a one-way flight and she promised to check in with her OB (another lie, as she didn't have a doctor lined up in Vermont), they let her on her flight.

“Well, good luck then. You go on in and sit down. Tell them to fix you up something warm to drink.” He tipped his hat, sparing a final glance at her protruding middle and got back into the cab.

He'd driven away before Wynter could remember to ask if he'd carry her bags up to the front door. Gritting her teeth and cursing her own brash decision-making, she slung her duffel bag over her shoulder and picked the other two up by their handles. The driveway wasn't long, but in her current condition, she was panting by the time she reached the covered porch.

Now came the hard part. Sam wasn't expecting her. More to the point, he'd been avoiding her for the last twelve years. She knew the reception she'd get wouldn't be a welcome one. But that was okay. She had her trump card—a promise Sam had made years ago. Her baby's future depended on him honoring that promise. Her means of escape having driven away, Wynter took a deep breath and knocked at the big red door.

She shuffled her feet, wishing she'd had enough money to purchase a thick pair of winter boots for her impromptu cross-country adventure. Okay, to be fair, there really hadn't been much time. One minute she held a one-way ticket to Florida, purchased by her parents, the next she had changed her destination, and hopefully, the overall direction of her life.

At one time, too long ago for her taste, Sam had been her rock, one of her closest friends and someone she could go to in a moment of crisis. Now Wynter was newly widowed, about to raise a baby on her own. She could no longer afford the apartment she had shared with her husband in California. And, at thirty years old, she was forced to consider moving back in with her parents—an option she'd desperately like to avoid. If ever there was a moment of crisis, this was it.

Why wasn't Sam answering the door? Wynter's eyes flew to the curtain-covered window beside the door, looking for movement. Did he know who was out there? Had he seen the ugly green and orange cab pull up and dump out the last person on Earth that he expected to see? Was he hiding on the other side of the door, willing her to turn around and walk the five miles or so to town?

Well, it wasn't going to happen. Wynter swallowed hard, past the lump forming in her throat. Her Sam wouldn't leave her out on his doorstep to freeze. His mom had raised him right. Even if he didn't want her there, he'd invite her in to warm up and rest. She rubbed her arms and stamped her sneakered feet. He wasn't here. She hadn't even considered that option.

A little bit wildly now, she paid closer attention to her surroundings. The next house over was barely visible through the spindly winter-bare trees on the other side of the road. Sam's covered porch offered little in the way of protection from the wind. Fear clawing at her throat, Wynter eyed the glass windows and pondered how she might break in. But any rocks were buried beneath at least a foot of snow, and the only furniture on the porch was a swing, attached to the shingled roof with thick chains.

She crumpled onto the swing, defeat sapping the rest of her strength. Making herself as small as possible, she huddled against the cold wood, tears stinging the backs of her eyelids. Her idea had been to ask Sam for a place to stay, temporarily. She knew, through his sister, that he lived alone. She'd intended to look for a job, something she could walk to until she saved up enough for a beater car. Choking on a sob, Wynter realized the futility of her hastily made plans.

She hadn't counted on Sam living in the boonies. She wasn't sure where the actual town was, or if there was even the possibility of a job. Wynter was so desperate to stay independent, to keep her domineering parents from taking over her life and the raising of her child that she'd run to the one person she could think of.

“Where are you, Sam? I need you.” And the tears that had threatened from the moment the cab started to creep deeper and deeper into no-man's land finally caught up with her.

Hunching into her thick parka and pulling her knees up as best she could, Wynter tucked herself into the swing and gave in to the hopelessness that she could no longer hold at bay. Wrapping her arms protectively around the life that grew inside her, she started to cry.

• • •

He heard her long before he saw her. The biting wind carried the great, wrenching sobs over the tall snowbanks and across the road. Sam had been shoveling out the driveway for Riley, his only neighbor, so the woman's cries had to be coming from his place. Quickening his pace, his eyes narrowed, searching. Was this person hurt? How had she gotten there? He didn't think to ask himself who it might be. It didn't matter. She was upset. She needed help.

Tossing the shovel in the general direction of his mailbox, Sam hurried up the driveway, casting a glance this way and that. He spotted the woman on his porch swing, curled up against the cold. Her face was hidden; he couldn't tell her age. It was then he noticed the pile of luggage at her feet. Okay, now he'd ask: who on Earth was she? He certainly wasn't expecting any guests.