Willowleaf Lane Read online

  She made a hmmph sort of sound. “Funny. I don’t remember you giving me much choice.”

  “You couldn’t have been bored. Every time I saw you, you were doing something. Swimming in the pool, trying the machines in the weight room, hanging out in the lobby with your computer. It looked like you made a few friends.”

  She shrugged, her eyes still on her phone. “Not really.”

  “I saw you talking to some girls.”

  From his perspective, she had looked animated and even happy, but the next time he had walked past, she had been sitting alone with her computer again, with no sign of the other girls.

  “I guess.”

  Little Miss Loquacious, apparently. “Were they nice?”

  She hesitated for a moment then shrugged. “Sure. Until I told them who I was. More important, who you were. Then they wanted to ask me all kinds of questions about you and about Mom and everything.”

  His hands tightened again, this time with anger directed at himself. He hated that his child had been affected by the hot mess created by the adults around her.

  And this, kids, is what happens when a stupid nineteen-year-old boy jumps into the deep end before he learns to swim and signs a multimillion-dollar contract, which attracts all the wrong sort of women.

  He would give anything to go back and fix his mistakes—except that would mean he wouldn’t have this smart, funny, beautiful girl for a daughter.

  He just had to hope that things would get better for both of them.

  “I don’t know what we have to fix in the groceries I had delivered. Feel like going out somewhere tonight?”

  “Whatever.”

  Ah, there it was. He fought down a sigh and turned his SUV toward downtown, knowing just where he wanted to go.

  He found a parking place on Main Street, across from the bookstore and coffee bar he’d stopped at his first night in town.

  He had heard it belonged to Maura McKnight. Her kid brother Riley had played ball with him, though he’d been a few years older. Maura had once been married to Chris Parker, lead singer of Pendragon—one of Peyton’s favorite bands.

  He wondered what might be his chances of swinging an autographed poster or something, though he couldn’t imagine that would be enough to make Peyton hate him less.

  “Where are we going?” she asked as he moved around to open the car door for her.

  “Remember how I told you I washed dishes at the café Charlotte’s dad runs? I thought you would like to see the place. You might enjoy imagining me elbow deep in dishwater.”

  She looked intrigued as they crossed the street, with its historic reproduction streetlamps and hanging flower baskets.

  “What was her name?” she asked after a minute.

  “Who?” he stalled.

  “Your mom. You said this morning she had been a waitress there. You never talk about her. She would have been my grandma, right?”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t know what to say about her. He had loved her fiercely and had once beat the crap out of a punk at school, Corey Johnson, for calling her a drunk.

  When she was sober, she had been funny and bright, full of stories and jokes. She had played ball with him in the backyard and had taken him cross-country skiing.

  Through his teen years, she hadn’t been sober very often.

  “Her name was Billie,” he finally answered. “She grew up here in Hope’s Crossing but left to go to college in California, where she met my dad. She was a really talented artist and loved to read.”

  He could see the wheels turning in Peyton’s head. “Really?”

  “She used to draw funny cartoons for me on the napkin she packed in my lunch.”

  Until his dad died, when everything had fallen apart.

  “How did she die?”

  He didn’t want to tell Peyton that the talented, beautiful artist drank herself to death. “She just got sick one day and didn’t get better.”

  It was the truth, anyway. Her liver had finally given up after years of abuse. He had spent New Year’s Eve of his senior year in high school not at the big party his friends were having but at the hospital with her while doctors told him she wasn’t going to live through the night.

  “That’s really sad,” Peyton said.

  “Yeah. It was.” Even more tragic because of all that wasted potential.

  He didn’t want to think about Billie, but it was hard to escape it here in this town. With a weird feeling of déjà vu, he pushed through the door into the Center of Hope Café.

  Not much had changed. Oh, it looked like the walls had been painted and Dermot had put a few new paintings on the wall to freshen things up—one that looked like it was done by his favorite artist, Sarah Colville, whom he had heard lived in town. Other than that, he could have been a kid again, running in late after baseball practice for his evening shift.

  A tall hearty-looking man with a white apron tied around his waist stopped dead when he and Peyton walked inside. The man gazed at him, an arrested look in eyes the same blue as one of the glacier-fed lakes that dotted the mountains.

  “Why, as I live and breathe. Spencer Gregory himself.”

  At the welcome in those eyes, warmth washed through, sweet and cleansing. To his shock, emotion welled up inside him and he had to clear his throat before he spoke.

  “Dermot. It’s been too long.”

  “That is has, son. That it has.”

  After a moment, Dermot Caine—almost as tall as Spencer—reached out and hugged him hard, not at all afraid to show affection to another man, apparently.

  That emotion welled up again and he realized how very much he had been in need of a friendly face in town, someone who didn’t seem to paint him with that ugly brush.

  Dermot stepped away, wiping at his eyes with the edge of his white apron. “Why ever have you stayed away so long?”

  “That’s a damn good question,” he said, not quite sure how to answer. He could have said that he had lost his way, that he had been too caught up trying to prove himself. Dermot seemed to understand without the words.

  “You’re here now. That’s the important thing. You’re here, and it looks like you’ve brought me someone.”

  Spence angled his head down to find that Peyton stood a half pace behind him.

  “Yes. Dermot, this my daughter, Peyton. Peyton, Dermot Caine is one of the best men I know.”

  Those blue eyes looked pleased and seemed to water a little more as he reached a hand out and solemnly shook Peyton’s hand. “Welcome to our little town, my dear. I hope you’ll feel most welcome.”

  “Mr. Caine, you’re related to the lady who owns the candy store, right?”

  His features creased into a handsome smile. “Why, yes I am. Charlotte is my only daughter after six big, smelly, farty sons. She’s the light of an old man’s eye, she is.”

  “She’s nice,” Peyton said with a shy smile that warmed Spencer’s heart. “She gave me a big bag of fudge yesterday.”

  “And doesn’t it taste delicious? You need to try her toffee. Better than anything you’ll find in a tin, I’ll tell you that much.”

  “Looks crowded tonight,” Spence said. “Any chance you’ve got a free booth for us?”

  “For my best dishwasher, always. Let’s take a look.”

  He led them to a booth in the front that overlooked Main Street and the bustle of tourist traffic.

  “We’ve changed a few things over the years but I think you’ll still find some of the old favorites. You don’t fix what’s not broken, right?”

  “Thank you, Dermot.”

  The man paused beside the booth as Spence and Peyton slid in on opposite sides then handed the menus to them and poured water from a pitcher into their glasses.

  Before Dermot walked
away, he rested a hand for just a moment on Spence’s shoulder. How was it possible that one small gesture could convey so much meaning? Sorrow, comfort, concern, happiness at seeing a long-lost friend. It was all there.

  Spence sipped at his water glass and opened the menu. Across from him, Peyton frowned.

  “Wow. Is there anything not fried on the menu?”

  He had barely taken a look but he didn’t exactly remember Center of Hope being famous for its diet food. “Turkey wraps. Those look good. Or I see a couple salads.”

  She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, and he thought how thin her wrists were. She did not need to be worrying about her weight at twelve, unless she was trying to figure out how to pack on a few pounds.

  Jade had been obsessed with her weight, tracking calories, exercising at least two hours a day. He never could figure out how someone so concerned with being thin, ostensibly taking care of her body, could then abuse it with any little pill that made her feel good.

  “I’ll just have a hamburger,” Peyton finally said. “I guess all that swimming today worked up an appetite.”

  He couldn’t be too worried about Jade’s obsession trickling down to Peyton if she could order a hamburger.

  “That actually sounds good. I think I’ll have one, too.”

  Dermot sent over a young shaggy blond snowboarder type to take their order. He wondered if Della Pine still worked there. She had been quite a character.

  Peyton blushed a little when she ordered and kept her eyes on the menu.

  “Good choice,” the kid said after he wrote down their order. “The burgers here are killer. Seriously.”

  Not the most ringing endorsement, but Spence would take it.

  They lapsed into silence and Peyton once more pulled out her cell phone, her favorite conversation-butcher of choice, and started sending a text. He looked out the window, wondering how the hell he was going to reach her, when she looked up at a new arrival.

  “Hey, isn’t that...” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. “Wow, Dad. Way to go. You broke Charlotte’s leg.”

  He turned around to the door behind him and watched Charlotte, bright and lovely as any Hope’s Crossing evening, hobble in on a pair of aluminum crutches.

  He muttered an oath. Had she broken her foot this morning? He really should have taken her to see a doctor instead of just leaving her at her house.

  Wasn’t it just his luck? He had one real ally in this town, Dermot, and apparently Spence had just broken the leg of the man’s beloved only daughter.

  Dermot rushed out of the kitchen, his distinguished features a study of paternal concern. “Now what’s all this?” he demanded.

  “Nothing. I’m fine,” Charlotte assured her father, but Spence had an up-close-and-personal acquaintance with injuries of various sorts and knew she was lying. As one who had endured his own aches and pains, including his career-ending shoulder injury, he recognized the pale set features of someone fighting to hide great discomfort.

  “You’re not fine or you wouldn’t be using crutches, now would you?” her father countered. “Tell me what happened to my girl.”

  Even from here, Spence could hear her sigh. “It’s nothing, I promise. I fell while I was out running this morning and sprained my ankle. Dr. Harris assures me I only need to keep weight off it for a week or so, and I’ll be good as new.”

  Her father frowned. “Well, then, why are you standing up? Come on with you. Let’s get you to a place where you can sit.”

  Before he realized what Dermot intended, the man led his daughter to the booth right next to his. So far, she seemed so preoccupied with wending her way on the crutches through chairs and customers to notice him and Peyton until her father helpfully brought their presence to her attention.

  “Here you go, my dear. And look who’s here, too? Our Spencer has come back at last.”

  He wasn’t sure how it happened but one of the crutches tangled with a chair leg at a nearby table and she started to topple. Dermot, more spry than a sixtysomething man ought to be, managed to catch her and right her, then help her into the booth.

  Her expression made it quite clear he wasn’t our Spencer at all. He had a feeling she would like to ignore them—or him, at least—but their proximity made that impossible.

  “Hello again, Spence. Hi, Peyton.”

  “Hi,” Peyton answered. “Your fudge was really good. I’ve already eaten like half of it.”

  Charlotte looked surprised. “Really? I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  A clatter of dishes sounded from around the corner and Dermot cursed in what sounded like Gaelic. “That boy is going to drive this place into the ground with the cost of replacing dishes alone. Excuse me, will you?”

  He walked away to deal with the crisis and in the awkward silence he left behind, Spence could tell she would have preferred to just turn back to her booth but politeness deemed that impossible.

  “So how was your day?” She addressed the question to Peyton, who shrugged.

  “We don’t have a housekeeper yet so he made me spend all day at his work. Can you believe it?”

  “That must have been truly terrible, being surrounded by all those fun things to do at the recreation center.”

  Pey didn’t look amused at Charlotte’s dry tone. “I don’t see why I couldn’t stay home. I’m almost thirteen. It’s not like I’m three or something.”

  Charlotte met his gaze and he gave her the same argument he’d used on Peyton that morning. “It seemed a long time for her to be alone in a strange town where she doesn’t know anyone. Part of my day was spent interviewing housekeepers, though, and we’ve got somebody starting in a couple days.”

  “And then I can be bored out of my mind at home instead of at the lame-ass rec center. Excuse me. I need to go wash my hands.”

  She grabbed her cell phone umbilical cord and trotted toward the restrooms at the rear of the café.

  “Sorry about the bad attitude,” he said when she disappeared through the ladies’ room door. “She’s not really thrilled about the move to Hope’s Crossing.”

  “I kind of figured that out.” Charlotte’s gaze was almost sympathetic. “Give her time. I’m sure she’ll adjust to her new situation. Most kids do. When school starts in a month, she’ll make dozens of friends and be so busy you’ll have to be constantly on her case about doing her homework.”

  “Great. Something else to look forward to.”

  She almost smiled but straightened her mouth before one could slip out, tucking a strand of honey-gold hair behind her ear and glancing at the door.

  “Things haven’t been easy for her. We’re both trying to figure things out. With my...legal troubles and then her mother’s death, I guess you could say we’re in a rebuilding phase here.”

  Which had been going on for a year, without much forward momentum, but he didn’t add that.

  Again, that hint of sympathy flickered in her blue eyes. He didn’t want her feeling sorry for him but it seemed marginally better than the veiled animosity of the previous day.

  “Hope’s Crossing is a good place for rebuilding lives and relationships,” she said, “surrounded by warm people, beautiful scenery, mountain air.”

  “I haven’t seen that yet on one of the tourist brochures.”

  “We tend to keep it a secret or the whole world might show up.”

  “I would like to think you’re right. About Hope’s Crossing, I mean, being a good place to heal. To be honest, I could use a little hope right now.”

  She eyed him for a long moment and then turned away, and he wished he knew what she was thinking. When she turned back, her voice was a little softer than it had been.

  “I’m sorry about your wife. I don’t think I said that yesterday or this morning and...I should have.”r />
  He stared, nonplussed at the words. Did she think Jade’s death had left him heartbroken? He didn’t quite know how to disabuse her of that notion without sounding hard and calloused. He had certainly never wanted his wife dead and had grieved for what their marriage should have been, but that wasn’t something he could blurt out to someone he hadn’t seen in years.

  “Thank you,” he finally answered. “It’s been hard on Peyton. They were very close.”

  “I can imagine. It’s a tough age for a girl to lose her mother.”

  Charlotte had lost her mother to cancer at about that age, he recalled. He could remember how helpless he had felt at sixteen to watch people he cared about suffer such a loss.

  Even then, in the midst of Dermot’s own pain and grief—left a widower with seven children, two still at home—Dermot had been kind to Spence and Billie. He had shared several baskets full of leftovers from all the food people had brought to help the Caines after Margaret’s death.

  Charlotte had survived something similar to what Pey had been going through this past year. He wondered if she might be willing to help him understand his daughter a little better, offer some perspective that could give him half a clue on how to deal with her.

  “Listen, Pey and I seem to get on better with a buffer. I don’t suppose there’s a chance you’d like to sit with us?”

  Her eyes widened at the invitation. She looked disconcerted but at least she didn’t appear horror-stricken. “I... Thank you, but I’m actually meeting somebody.”

  He felt a twinge of something that felt suspiciously like jealousy. Really? Over Charlotte Caine? Where did that come from? But for some crazy reason, he found he didn’t like the idea of her sharing those sweet, hesitant smiles with anybody else.

  “Oh. Sure. No problem.”

  “It’s my... Actually, here he is.”

  He followed her gaze to the door and saw a rough-looking dude with shaggy longish brown hair and a menacing black eye patch. He could have used a shave a couple days ago and wore a grease-stained pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, odd for such a warm evening.

  It took Spence only about another five seconds before he recognized her brother Dylan beneath that badass scowl, and he realized what he had taken for a glove on one hand was really a prosthetic arm.