gave him a slip of a smile, just enough of a hint to let him know her full-blown grin would have distracted him for hours. Cut that out, Bradens. You promised no female distractions. You get sidetracked and stupid when a woman enters the picture, and too much is on the line here. She ordered a scone and some odd chai thing—soy milk and other strange ingredients—and surprised him by asking for a china mug instead of a to-go cup which made him feel obligated to do the same. It felt like cheating on his “no female distractions” policy when he slipped into the booth by the window—she obviously thought he’d meant a visit when he offered to buy her a drink, not just the purchase of a beverage. And it’d be rude to refuse, right? Sitting down for coffee. A friendly cup of coffee. Between friends. When was the last time he’d done that? He didn’t even know Karl’s would serve in actual mugs, and he lived here.
And now, so did she. Distractions...
“Extra time.” She sighed, looking around the folksy little coffeehouse. “I’d forgotten it existed. I’d also forgotten it only takes two seconds to get anywhere in Gordon Falls. I’m so used to leaving time for traffic.”
“We don’t really get Chicago-brand traffic in Gordon Falls. You can count the streetlights on one hand. Ah, but come some of the holiday weekends, just watch how the locals grumble that you can’t park within a block of Tyler Avenue.”
She gave a small laugh as she wrapped her hands around the large blue stoneware mug. She wore a dark purple nail polish and all those rings he’d noticed the other night. He couldn’t tell if the exotic spicy scent that wafted toward him was from her hair or the tea, but its uniqueness intrigued him. And that hair, that mass of dark curls tumbling around her shoulders—how had he not remembered Melba Wingate and that hair? “You were a freshman when I was a junior, weren’t you?” Clark had absolutely no remembrance of the teenage Melba. Sure, he knew her name—Wingate’s Log Cabin Resort had been a Gordon Falls staple for years before they’d finally closed up shop after Mrs. Wingate died—but nothing else about her. “What did you do after school?”
Melba sipped her tea. “I went to design school in Chicago, and then got a job at a textile import house. I figured import-export was the perfect way to see the world. I got to do a few trips and was getting ready to go on a large-scale overseas buying expedition when things got...” Her eyes flashed up at him, then back into the mug. “...complicated. Work’s been really nice about the whole thing, shifting me to handle their online catalogue while I’m here dealing with...Dad.” She used a knife to cut her scone in half. A perfect, thoughtful cut. Artistic. “You?”
Clark thumbed the name badge on his shirt pocket. “Two years of criminal justice at the local community college, but I was never the kind of guy to finish things, so I went into firefighting pretty much after that. I worked in Detroit for seven years until I came back here.”
“The big-city fireman.”
“Well, Detroit. Maybe not as big as Chicago, but it makes up for it in intensity.”
She sized him up as she ate a bite of her scone. “I never pegged you for the kind to come back home.”
It had to come up sooner or later. Clark sighed. He still hadn’t come up with a graceful way to answer comments like that. “It’s not a new story. Bad boy goes off to the big city to find new ways to be bad, hits bottom, comes home a changed man.” Clark pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking that sounded arrogant. “Or hopes he comes home a changed man. I’m still ironing out the kinks, as you already know.”
She leaned back in the booth, finger running around the rim of her mug. “I think I remember hearing something about an accident. Was that the bottom you hit?”
Calling that night an accident was like calling an earthquake a bump in the road. Talking about that point in his life was a four-hour conversation, not something for a quick morning coffee. It wasn’t the kind of thing Clark could share with just anyone, despite the warm look in Melba’s eyes. She was dealing with her life tilting in a different direction, and he knew what that felt like. Maybe that was why he felt so drawn to her. But she had enough trouble on her plate. Digging into his own mess with Melba Wingate was not on today’s menu—on this year’s menu—of good ideas. He drank down the last of his coffee and made a show of checking his watch—the only way he could think of to slip out of the oncoming conversation. “Yeah, well, that’s a story needing way more time than you or I have.”
She peered at her half-empty mug and scone with only a bite taken out of it. “I should probably head on over to the hospital.” Her words lacked any sense of hurry whatsoever.
Clark’s gut grew a black hole, and it wasn’t from gulping his coffee. He was leaving her hanging—again—and he knew it, but he also knew that the potency of that topic with this woman was a bad combination. He could not get so personal with her and keep it “friendly.” The goal here was to keep his focus on becoming the department’s new chief, and Clark’s terrible track record bore witness that any romantic entanglements would mess up the chance he had here in Gordon Falls. “No, stay, enjoy the sunshine. I just have to go... Appointment... Firehouse stuff.” He wanted to whack his forehead for how lame that excuse sounded. “Hope things go well for your dad.”
Her smile was polite but hollow. “Me, too. It’s been a rough couple of days.”
Clark made himself sit still a moment longer. “This is a good town, you know. People know your dad. They’ll want to help, so don’t be afraid to ask for it when you need it, okay? Barney knows everyone and Pastor Allen can have twelve casseroles at your house in under an hour—our deacons’ board is like a SWAT team.”
He was glad that got a laugh from her. He wanted her to get connected—it was just better if it wasn’t to him. “I’ve been meaning to get settled in a church here.”
With her words, a memory of high school Melba invaded his brain. A gawky, frizzy-haired teen girl heading up to the youth Bible study he used to make such fun of with his wild friends. How the world had changed for them both.
Chapter Three
“Okay, now, you’re settled.” Melba tucked the knitted afghan over Dad’s knees. He looked so old, the recliner’s worn cushions nearly swallowing his thin body.
“What a lot of work getting up those front steps.” She couldn’t tell if Dad’s remark was in annoyance or admission. Did he have any sense of how frail he’d become? “When did we paint them that awful green?” He glared out the window at them, eyes narrowed in the expression of a man gloating over a vanquished foe.
She could almost laugh. Maybe it was better if Dad blamed the steps. “Two years ago. And the green’s not so bad.”
“It’s all wrong. I liked them better when they were brown.”
The most amazing details from way back would pop into his mind like that. The steps hadn’t been brown for almost ten years—they’d been beige before they were green. Melba took her father’s coat and hung it on the bentwood coatrack by the door. “Maybe we’ll paint them this summer.”
“I’d like that.” The smile seemed to transform her father’s face, to roll back the years as it lit up his eyes. “I’m hungry. The food in there was lousy.”
“Nutrition is boring,” Barney declared, waltzing into the room with two sizable slices of chocolate cake. “So I’m banning healthy meals for the rest of the day.” She winked at Dad as she put the fork into his right hand. For a while they’d thought
