Chapter Two Parker
Chapter Two
Parker
“Are you sure you ordered the right one?”
“I’m positive I pointed to green, Parker.”
“But which green?”
“There’s more than one?”
I sigh, shaking my head at my business partner. “You’re exhausting, Ax, you know that?”
He grins, his dark brows lifting high. “Only because you remind me daily.” He scratches his thick red beard. “Though I did order green. I’m not sure why they sent ... Well, I’ll be honest. That looks like baby shit.”
I wrinkle my nose, staring at the paint can’s offensive color. The wrong color. “It really does.” I jut out my bottom lip. “I wanted sage.”
“Sage, shit. Pretty close, no?”
I cut him a glare. “Not even kind of close, Axel.”
He chuckles, still messing with his beard, a nervous habit I’ve caught on to over the years. It doesn’t mean he’s lying, but it does mean he knows he messed up. Again. “Well, I tried. I guess we’ll need to reorder if you can’t work with this one. It will set us back a few days, but I suppose it’ll be worth it.”
He supposes it’ll be worth it? There is no way I’m going to smear this hideous green on the walls of Rossi Café, which I’ve spent the last two months perfecting. I have everything planned around sage, not ... well, whatever this ugly color is. We have no choice but to reorder, which means we’ll have to tell our clients we’re behind schedule ... again .
I replace the paint-can lid, smacking it into place with my rubber mallet with more force than I’d typically use.
Axel doesn’t miss it.
“You mad?” he asks from behind me.
I shrug. “No. Yes. No. I’m not really sure.”
“I’m sorry I screwed up.”
I slam the mallet against the lid a few more times—not because I need to, but because I want to—then exhale and turn around.
“It’s just frustrating because you’re right—this will cost us a few days. Which means I’m going to have to disappoint Gianna again. Greta again. Heck, I hate disappointing anyone, and I feel like that’s all we’ve done lately. First, there was the wrong lumber on the Krueger house. Now it’s the wrong paint for the café after having to pull out and replace the wrong countertops. That’s a lot of major screwups in the last eight months. If we keep this up, we’ll be out of business before the end of the year, and we’ll never get to complete the theater project I’ve been dreaming about for the last decade.”
And I really don’t want to blow my big dream. I’ve been working toward it for far too long to let it get messed up now.
Axel’s brows are now nearly touching his hairline. His brown eyes are wide, and his lips curve up just slightly. How has my outburst amused him? This is serious!
“How are you smiling right now?” I bark at him.
“Oh, this?” He points at his grin. “It’s just a coping mechanism because I’m a little scared you’re going to hit me.”
I rear my head back. “Hit you? What? Why would I hit you?”
He darts his eyes downward ... right to the rubber mallet I’m still holding. The same one I’ve been pointing and swinging in his direction this entire time.
“Oh.” I tuck my hands into the pockets of my overalls, securing the mallet safely inside. Honestly, it never occurred to me to hit him, but now that he’s mentioned it, maybe a good whack upside the head would do the guy some good. Perhaps teach him not to keep messing everything up.
I sigh, shaking away the thought. That’s not entirely fair. This is our business. We’ve said that from the start. Yet I haven’t bothered to look at the finer details of things, like orders and invoices, and instead focused solely on the design aspects of the business. And if I’m keeping my head buried in the sand, then at some point, this becomes my fault too. All it takes is a simple request to review things and ensure he’s ordering the appropriate materials.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “It’s just—”
“I know,” Axel interrupts. “I know how important this is to you, and I promise I will do better. Things have just been a little hard at home with Mary and the kids, you know? Lots of late nights and very little sleep. It’s been tough trying to keep up with it all.”
Warmth spreads through me, and it’s the same thing that always happens whenever Axel talks about this adorable little family he’s created. He’s a good dad. A doting one. A much better father than I ever had, that’s for sure.
And while I love how important his family is to him, this is still our business, and we need to learn to run a tight ship despite the outside noise.
“I know that. I do. But we all have things at home distracting us.”
Those dang brows of his lift high again, and this time they say, Are you serious?
Heat creeps up my cheeks. Fine. So my at home problems are a little different from his. I have a destructive cat who loves to knock over the Christmas decorations I refuse to take off my fireplace mantel. Axel has four-year-old triplets and another baby on the way. But we’re still dealing with distractions. That counts, right?
He laughs, crossing the café and returning to the front window he’s spent a good deal of the morning reframing after an incident with the glass. He begins packing his tools, a sign we’re done for the day. “I’m not trying to use it as an excuse. Yes, it has been kind of rough lately, but I still have a job to do, and I need to learn to do it right. And not just for you and the business—which, by the way, is doing great, and we won’t be broke by the end of the year—I need to do it right for our clients too. They deserve that.”
I sink back against the counter with relief because he gets it .
I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s been a good partner since Day One, never making me feel like anything other than his equal.
If someone had told me when I was eight years old that one day, I would not only be friends with Axel Cooke but also running a successful renovation company with him, I’d have laughed right in their face.
The red-haired mammoth standing before me with three—going on four—children, who likes to spend his weekends coaching Little League baseball or peewee soccer or baking cookies for the local nursing home, is the same guy who used to make fun of me for being a theater geek almost daily. He’s the same guy who would “accidentally” look at my tests in science class and then tell the teacher I cheated off his paper. The same one who once loudly regaled the whole cafeteria with a story about how the one time we played spin the bottle in sixth grade, I kissed him and cut him with my braces, ensuring I wasn’t kissed again until I was in eleventh grade.
He was a thorn in my side throughout school, but when I needed someone after my best friend left town, surprisingly it was Axel who was there to help pick up the pieces.
It’s pretty spectacular what getting out of a petty high school environment can do for someone’s personality.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “It’s just that with the theater project coming up ...”
“You think I don’t know that’s what has you stressed?” He dumps one of his many drills into his beat-up leather tool bag. “If I added up all the hours I’ve spent listening to you go on and on about that damn theater, then added the triplets’ ages together, we’d be about even.”
“Are you saying I talk about it too much?”
“It’s your dream. There’s no such thing as talking about it too much.”
His words warm me. Who would have thought such a sweet guy was hiding behind all those insults over the years?
“You’re a really good friend, you know that?”
My words have the opposite effect on him, and he groans, rising to his feet. “Stop saying shit like that to me.”
“Why?” I ask, pushing off the counter and setting about cleaning up my workspace, a much smaller task than his since I’ve basically been here all day, installing the coffee station and putting up the herringbone tile on the backsplash behind it. “It’s true. You’re like the best friend ever.”
“We’re adults, Parker. We don’t use the term best friends .”
“That’s bull poo, and you know it.”
“Just say shit ,” he says for likely the thousandth time in our friendship. “You’re an adult. Adults cuss.”
“Just like adults don’t have best friends ?”
“Exactly,” he calls over his shoulder as he kneels and grabs a stack of lumber we’re done with and then tosses it onto his shoulder like it weighs nothing, pushing himself to his feet like he didn’t just add at least a hundred pounds to his already massive frame. Who needs to hire a big crew when I have six-foot-six Axel around to do all the heavy lifting? I swear, the man looks like he benches buses for fun.
“You’re just saying that because you’re embarrassed that Potty Parker is your best friend.”
You have one accident just one time and you’re forever branded as the girl who peed her pants on the playground.
The nickname haunted me all through elementary, middle, and high school, and I had nobody to blame but myself.
Axel snorts out a laugh. “That’s embarrassing for you, not me, Potty Parker .”
Hearing the name roll off his tongue so effortlessly sends a wave of mortification through me, and I pick up the nearest thing to me—my rubber mallet—and chuck it right at his back.
Being the giant he is, it bounces right off as if I never threw it at all.
“Did that even hurt you?” I call after him as he pushes through the front door of the unfinished eatery.
“Tickled!”
“Darn it!”
He laughs, the door closing behind him. I watch as he carries the lumber to his truck, his shadow monstrous behind the plastic we have covering the windows so as not to spoil the remodel’s big reveal.
My phone, which is tucked into my front-center pocket, buzzes against my chest, and I don’t even have to look at it to know what it is. It’s the same notification I’ve been getting every day for six months at this time—a countdown.
It’s just as much a reminder of how behind I am as it is a ticking clock to the one thing I’ve been wanting for over a decade.
I look around the space that’s filled with workbenches and boxes of tables and chairs that still need to be put together, covered with dust from all the drilling and sawing. It’s Monday evening, and this project must be completed this week. We’re running out of time, and we still have to finish the molding, complete the accent wall along the back of the café, mount the display cases, paint the walls, and decorate this place from head to toe by the wee hours of Friday morning at the very latest.
Because Friday? It’s the Big Day. The day we kick off the theater renovation.
Our small town has been without a theater since I was eighteen, which, in my eyes, is a true travesty.
Erected by one of the town’s founding families, the Goodman Theater was once an integral part of the community. When I was younger, I’d heard so many stories through the years of the elaborate plays that were put on there that I knew I had to be part of it.
Sadly, the theater was not the same magical place it once was and deteriorated more and more the older I got. Fewer and fewer people wanted to put on plays no one attended. It was finally closed for good when a huge storm blew through town and caved the roof in.
Finally, after countless meetings where I went toe to toe with some of the most influential names in this town, too-close-to-call votes, and a generous donor, a massive renovation of the theater that was such a staple in my childhood has finally been approved.
I’ve been fighting for this day for so many years, yet now that it’s so close, I’m looking forward to it less and less. Not because I don’t want to head this project—I really do. After all, I genuinely believe theater has the power to change lives, especially since it changed mine. Watching performances on that stage was once my favorite thing to do, and I want the town to experience that aliveness again.
No. I’m not looking forward to it for a whole different reason.
The donor—an anonymous one I still know nothing about—had one stipulation and one only: the theater is to be named after the now-famous actor who got his start on the very stage.
That ultra-famous actor? He’s my former best friend.
The one who pulled the same stunt my father did—left town and left me behind. The guy I haven’t seen in ten years. The guy who, in so many ways, is responsible for who I am today.
The guy I am absolutely terrified to see again.
I didn’t want to invite him, but if I wanted this theater built—which I do more than anything—I had to. So I assigned the task to one of the other committee members and shoved it out of my mind to deal with later.
Well, later is almost here, and that old gnawing feeling of guilt has been steadily rising for weeks.
“Earth to Parker!”
A giant hand waves in front of my face, and it’s so beefy it’s enough to pull me from my stupor.
Axel’s back. And from how deeply his brows are tucked together in concern, he’s been back for a while and I’ve been ignoring him. He’s even standing on the other side of the table, which means I completely missed his massive, thudding footsteps when he came back inside. That’s how in-my-head I just was.
I wish I could say it’s the first time that has happened, but it’s not by a long shot.
“You okay?” Axel asks, twisting up his lips.
I nod, grabbing my sketches and trusty iPad, stuffing them into my work bag, and slinging it over my shoulder. “Yup. Tired. Long day.”
His perceptive brown eyes narrow slightly, probably because I’m talking in short sentences, a tendency when I’m annoyed. I hold my breath, silently begging him to let it go and not hold me here for questioning, because I’m not so sure I want to get into it right now. It really has already been a long day, and I’m not in the mood to rehash my past and all the reasons I don’t want to see my old best friend. Even if I weren’t heading up the theater project that will bear his name, in a town this small, our paths would have no choice but to cross.
I guess with all the bad luck I’ve had lately, the universe decides to throw me a bone, because Axel does let it go.
My shoulders sag in relief.
“I feel that. Are you still coming for dinner tonight? Mary’s making lasagna.”
“And miss my favorite meal in the whole wide world that my mother doesn’t need to know about because she’ll be completely jealous I don’t love her lasagna the most? Of course I’ll be there. Seven?”
He nods. “Bring some wine?”
I huff. “It’s like you don’t even know me, best friend.”
He groans, which only makes me smirk. I love pushing his buttons entirely too much. “Get out of here before I accidentally call the paint store and accidentally order the wrong color for the walls again.”
I gasp. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
He has those darn eyebrows lifted high, and I know him well enough to understand that means only one thing—he’s serious.
“Fine, fine. I’ll stop,” I promise, retreating toward the door with my hands held up in concession. “But I’m bringing white wine tonight for dinner.”
“White?!” he calls as I open the door. “You know I like red with my lasagna!” he adds as I step through it.
“Parker! Parker! Dammit, Potty Parker, come back here!” he hollers as I let it close behind me, cackling the entire time.
He should know me well enough by this point to understand one thing—I’m serious.
I wish I could say I did the responsible thing when I got home—took a shower and changed for dinner at Axel and Mary’s place so I wouldn’t look like a complete mess. But I did neither.
Instead, I ignored the Christmas cards and tinsel that Pumpkin, my orange tabby, knocked off the mantel again and plopped down on my couch to snuggle with him.
That was my first mistake, because I know this couch is my kryptonite.
The number of movies I’ve started on this hunk of junk? Hundreds.
The number of movies I’ve finished? Two and a half.
I always, always, always fall asleep anytime I lie down. I don’t know what it is, but this lumpy old thing becomes the most comfortable piece of furniture ever, and I drift off into sleep as if I’ve just finished a 32k—or whatever those marathons are that those weirdos who actually enjoy running compete in.
It’s my couch’s fault that I’m racing around my small one-bedroom house like I am now, running late for something very important.
“Ugh, I’ll be so annoyed if Axel even thinks about eating my slice of lasagna, Pumpkin,” I say to my cat, who, admittedly, I talk to entirely too often.
I suppose that’s what happens when you live alone for so long. You start talking to your pets like they’re real people while telling everyone who will listen how lonely you aren’t .
I’m not lonely—not really. I have great friends and a booming renovation business, and I’m about to work on the project of my dreams. Who cares if I spend my nights alone or hang out with my cat? That’s not lonely. It’s just ...
Oh, heck. Who am I kidding? I am a little lonely, especially now that Axel has gone all family man. Sure, he still includes me in everything, and we’re just as close as ever, but I know he needs his own space.
I push the thoughts away, saving them for another time when I’m not running late.
I hop on one foot as I slide my lace-free shoe on the other, then grab my favorite flannel jacket, which I got for a measly three dollars at the thrift shop, toss my cross-body purse over my head, and make a beeline out the door.
I’m in such a hurry that I don’t even take the time to fully admire the beautiful summer we’re having. It’s mid-June, and the flowers are in full bloom. Borgen Avenue, the main street that goes through the small town of Emerald Grove, is lined with happy couples out on a stroll, and nearly every business has its door propped open to welcome evening guests for shopping or dinner.
It’s one of my favorite things about this town—how welcoming every little nook and cranny feels. Walking into one of the cozy, usually family-owned businesses is like being wrapped in a warm hug.
Sometimes, that warm hug is all you need to lift your spirits. Or at least, it’s all I need.
I pass by my mom’s pottery shop and pause. She’s at the counter helping a customer, showing the old woman handspun vases that were just finished last week.
My mother glances over at the window as if on cue, sending me a soft smile. That feels like a warm hug too.
I’ll never know how she’s always had that superpower. I just know I’ll never tire of it, because my mother is the greatest mom in the world. Life’s thrown a lot at her—from losing her own mother early to going on tour with her band at nineteen, then falling in love with a guitar player who, as it turned out, wasn’t cut out for small-town living and left her a single mother to an eight-year-old.
She’s been through the wringer, but she’s strong and fierce, and she’s all mine.
Dinner? she mouths.
Axel’s, I respond.
She nods, then holds her thumb and pinkie finger up to her ear, like she’s talking into an old landline phone, indicating she wants me to call her later.
I nod, then connect my hands in a heart and continue on my way.
My mother is originally from Emerald Grove, and her love for this place is exactly why she wanted to move back when I was eight—so she could raise her daughter in the same small town that always meant so much to her. As much as I love it here, she loves it even more, putting her entire heart and soul into every volunteer opportunity she’s come across to keep it thriving. Despite her heartbreak, she’s done it all with a smile. Her commitment and endurance are easily my favorite things about her. She’s the most amazing woman in my life.
Well, one of the most amazing. Noel’s grandmother takes a close second spot.
“Hey, Parker!” Fran from Francine May’s Pies calls from her open shop door. I’ve been to more birthday parties in this town that serve Fran’s pie than I have parties that serve cake. And really, it’s no surprise. Wafts of cinnamon, apples, fresh cherries, and sugar delight my nose as I pause. The place smells heavenly, and I’m beyond tempted to ruin my dinner for a slice of pie, but I resist ... barely.
“Hey, Fran.” I wave at her. “Gotta jet, but I’ll be in tomorrow.”
“I’ll save you a slice of marionberry!” She shoots me a wink as I keep moving forward.
I’m only stopped twice more—once by Dr. Z, who reminds me I need to get in for a checkup, even though I haven’t been a patient of his since I was fourteen, and then by Terry, who wants me to read his script, as he believes it’s the perfect piece for our opening night at the theater. That makes me feel good because I knew this town could benefit from the rebuilt theater and that people would be excited about it.
I waltz into the grocery store with a grin; wave to Peggy behind the front counter, who gives me a curt nod; and then head straight for the wine aisle.
If I hadn’t taken that sweet, sweet nap, I would have had more time to peruse the bottles and find us something fun and new to try, but now I’m going to play it safe and settle for an old favorite.
Looks like Axel is getting his precious red wine after all.
I grab the brand I know he loves, then a bottle of white I love just to mess with him and turn toward the front.
Only there’s nowhere to go, and I smack straight into something hard.
When did Peggy put a wall here?
Did I get turned around?
“Shit.”
It’s one word.
One single, tiny word.
And it’s enough to rock my entire world.
I tip my head back, looking up, up, up and right into the eyes of someone I once thought would be in my life forever.
Into the eyes of someone I was wrong about. Someone I haven’t seen for ten years.
Right into the ocean eyes of Noel Carter, my former best friend.
And the boy who broke my heart.