Between Now and Forever

CHAPTER ONE GABRIELLE

CHAPTER ONE

G AbrIELLE

B e careful. You never know which way that pickle’s gonna squirt, Gabs.”

My laughter fills the small kitchen. The sound cuts through the dust particles dancing in the sunlight, adding another layer of magic to the room. As much as my cousin Cricket tries to remain steadfast, the corners of her lips lift.

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” she says, removing her latex gloves. The rubber squeaks as it slides off her fingertips. “Why do you have to make everything so dirty?”

“ Oh, come on. You’re the one talking about phallic-shaped items squirting. You went there. Not me.”

Cricket huffs, her perfect bright-red curls bouncing at her shoulders. “Fine. I’ll put it another, more straightforward way: you can’t always predict the outcome of home improvement projects, Gabby. It may look like a simple drywall patch. But the next thing you know, you find termites and have to call a contractor to rebuild the walls.” She lifts a brow, eyeing me carefully, like her mother, my aunt Diane, used to do when I was a little girl. “Just ... go slowly . Don’t jump into a bunch of projects at once.”

I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. She’s probably thinking about the grid incident.

“Yes,” she says. “This has everything to do with you single-handedly bringing down the electric grid for half a city block.”

“That’s so unfair. How was I to know you can’t hook outside lights to the main electric line coming into your house? Doesn’t that seem, I don’t know, like the point ?”

She tosses the gloves into the trash bin. “What about when you hooked water pipes to the drainpipes under the sink in some half-cocked plumbing project?”

“Forgive me for not knowing that not all those pipes ... piped.”

“Only you, Gabs. Only you.”

“Don’t you have better things to do than catalog all my do-it-yourself adventures?” I ask, putting a hand on my hip.

Cricket laughs. “Yes, actually, I do. But when you choose to call me every time you’re standing next to an emergency vehicle, the EMT tending to the results of your do-it-yourself adventures , it makes them hard to forget.”

“I don’t recall hearing you complain when the fire chief asked if you were single.”

Her cheeks flush as she waves a hand through the air. “Oh, don’t start with that. He only saw me through FaceTime. Besides, the man was nothing short of a baby. His idea of a night out probably came with a curfew.”

I lean against the cabinets and smile, watching her collect what’s left of the cardboard boxes scattered around the room.

Despite travel fatigue, strongly scented cleaning supplies, and a lack of appropriate caffeine levels, it feels good to be home .

Waking up the last two mornings in the small, sleepy town where I grew up has been a balm to my soul. Pine trees scent the air. The sun is brighter— warmer —on my face each morning. Having family and neighbors stop by to say hello has been wonderful.

It’s everything I hoped it would be. Everything I needed it to be.

“There,” Cricket says, surveying our handiwork with satisfaction. “I think that’s the last box. Is there anything else in the garage?”

“Nope. Your micromanaging talents ensured that my new house was cleaned from top to bottom, and all our possessions were put away.”

“In just three days, despite your insistence that it would take at least fourteen.” She rests her hip against the wooden table I’ve had longer than my children. “How does it feel to be settled in and ready for your new life in Alden?”

The sun chooses this moment to peek out from behind the clouds and shine into the kitchen.

Despite a pinched nerve in my shoulder from the fourteen-hour drive from Boston to Ohio, fatigue deep in my bones, and the deflating effect of being on the other side of an adrenaline rush, I’m cautiously optimistic about the future. It’s been years since I’ve felt so confident, so sure that I’m making the right decision. But admitting that out loud feels like inviting the universe to prove me wrong. So I tiptoe right around her question.

“It feels like my new life in Alden is calling for a hot bubble bath and a bottle of something red,” I say, hopping onto the counter.

“That sounds delightful. Peter will be home shortly, and I need to start dinner. Would you and the boys like to come over? I’m fixing herb-crusted chicken and potatoes like Grandma used to make. Remember them? She’d smother them in cheese.”

My stomach rumbles, and my heart warms at the memory. “That sounds incredible, but we ate at your house last night. We need to eat at home and start new routines.”

“But what will you have? You haven’t gone to the grocery store yet.”

“We’ll order a pizza or something. Does Thompson’s in Logan still deliver in Alden?”

“Yes, but will the boys want pizza for dinner?” She’s slightly horrified. “Didn’t you feed them that for lunch?”

I laugh. “They’re fourteen and seven. I’m pretty sure they’d eat pizza for every meal and be happy.”

“Give them a month, and I’ll have them requesting vegetables with their meals like Kyle.”

“Cricket, your son is an anomaly.”

She grins smugly. “Maybe so. But I’ll do my best to get Dylan and Carter on the anomaly train with him.”

“Good luck with that.”

She scurries around the kitchen, tidying up a few areas. I appreciate her attention to her work—truly. But the house will never be this clean or organized again. Whatever code in her DNA is responsible for her domestic abilities, I didn’t get it in mine.

Cricket and I have always been opposites. Growing up, she played with baby dolls while I canvassed the town, trying to find enough kids to form a kickball game. In high school, she was the homecoming queen. I had a spare key to the school gym. She was tall with a perfect smile and her mother’s good sensibilities. I was barely five foot one, flirting with scoliosis, and harboring my mother’s propensity to daydream.

Despite our differences, we were always great friends. I’d never seen her cry as hard as she did when I left town for college. She begged me to stay and commute to a university closer to home. I might have done that if the only scholarship I was offered wasn’t over two hours away. And unlike her parents, my single mother couldn’t pitch in on tuition.

“Is that your doorbell?” Cricket strains to hear the faint echo ringing through the house. “It sounds like a sick cat.”

I listen, making a sour face. “It does sound doorbell-y in a tortured, haunted way.”

“We need to have someone fix that,” she says, heading into the foyer. “ But not you. That could be an electrical issue, so hands off.”

I roll my eyes and slide from the counter. My feet hit the floor as the door opens and shuts.

“Gabby, this is Della Kendrick,” Cricket says, returning to the kitchen with a gorgeous blond woman at her side. “She’s lived in Alden for a couple of years. Her house is the green one across the street.”

Della gives me a warm smile that reaches her blue eyes. “I’m sorry I haven’t come to say hello. And I’m sorry I don’t have a plate of cookies or whatever you bring to new neighbors.” She pauses, grinning mischievously. “Although, if I made the cookies, you probably shouldn’t eat them.”

We all laugh.

“You grew up here, right?” Della asks.

“I did. I left for college, met a boy, and never returned,” I say.

“Until now,” Cricket chimes in. “She’s back with two boys of her own. Dylan is fourteen, and Carter is seven.”

“Well, I don’t know what Alden was like back then,” Della says to me. “But it’s a nice little town now. Our street is pretty quiet. Kyle’s truck is the loudest thing on Bittersweet Court.”

Cricket grimaces. “That thing is an embarrassment. I have no idea why he thinks having his truck announce his arrival from a block over is an achievement.”

“If that’s the worst thing he does, take it .” A pain fires through my shoulder at the mention of teenage behavior. “Dylan has been giving me a run for my money. I’m hoping life here will slow him down a little. I’d love to see him enjoying the simple things, like Betty Lou’s Diner for burgers and riding bikes around town like we did growing up.”

Della raises a perfectly manicured brow. “Cricket rode a bike?”

“Me?” my cousin asks, offended. “Oh, heavens no. The only time I rode a bike ended in stitches. After that unfortunate incident, I stayed home while Gabby rode around with her more thrill-seeking friends.”

“Gabby, you’ll be unsurprised to discover that Cricket is still uncool,” Della says, just before getting an elbow jabbed into her side. She laughs. “I mean it with love.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cricket says, straightening her cardigan. “I’m fun.”

“Oh, come on,” Della says, rolling her eyes. “I called you last week to see if you wanted to go out for lunch, and you were ironing your drapes.”

“Yes, and they’re lovely.”

Della looks at me. “See what I mean? Tell me you’re fun, Gabrielle. I need a fun friend.”

“You’ll be happy to know that my to-do list includes three things: keeping my children alive, keeping them out of the juvenile hall, and having more fun. In that order.”

Cricket leads us to the foyer. “Please compare definitions of good time before leaving home with Della. I watched two men do the walk of shame out of her house a month ago.” She turns her attention to her friend. “At the same time.”

Della’s smile is wicked. “If you think that’s shameful, you should’ve seen what happened a few hours before.”

I sigh, opening the door for them. “I’m in the middle of the longest dry spell known to man, so no judgment here. Get it.”

“Dry spell?” Della asks. “I can fix. I’ll get your number from Cricket and then call you this week. We’ll make plans.”

A shiny black sports car honks as it rolls down the street. Cricket’s husband, Peter, waves from the driver’s seat.

“Of course he’s home early tonight,” Cricket mutters. “I haven’t started dinner yet.”

“You better get going,” I say. “I want to bathe before the boys return from the rec center.”

Cricket starts down the steps with Della at her side. “I mean it, Gabby. No new projects until we talk.”

“Settle down,” I say, leaning on a porch column. “I’m just trimming some hedges, painting the front door, and maybe reinforcing the rail around the back of the house before it’s fully rotted.”

“That sounds fine and good, but I know you,” Cricket says over her shoulder. “You’ll be on a ladder trying to reroof the place in a week, and I’ll have to visit you in the hospital to remind you of this conversation.”

“Make sure you bring oatmeal scotchies. They’ll help me heal.”

Cricket shakes her head and picks up her pace toward her house. Della gives me a final wave before jogging across the street.

I return inside and listen to absolute quiet. No car alarms blare, and no sirens wail in the distance. The neighbors aren’t shouting at each other from the backyard. It’s silent.

And it’s amazing.

I take the steps two at a time, peeling my shirt over my head as I go. The promise of a hot bath, a quiet house, and knowing the boys are with Kyle and not being heathens running in the streets is nearly more than I can take. I strip off my clothes—wishing I’d poured a glass of wine—and fill the tub.

It’s been a long time since I could take a bath before midnight. In Boston, I was racing home from work to make dinner, chasing after the kids, and then dealing with whatever fallout the day delivered. By the time I cleaned up our meal, fought with Dylan over his homework, and argued with Carter over video games, the day was expiring.

A bath in the early evening is nothing short of a luxury.

“Oh, what the hell,” I say, sprinkling the eucalyptus bath salts I reserve for special occasions into the water. Then I turn to grab my phone before climbing in, only to find it missing. “Crap.”

Sighing, I wrap myself in a towel, turn off the tap, and hurry back down to the kitchen. I immediately spot my phone next to the toaster. I reach for it, but ... “Holy shit,” I whisper, leaning closer to the window to get a better look. “Who the heck is this?”

My mouth is agape.

A man stands in front of a large pickup truck at the house next door. He turns away, giving me a clear shot of him from behind.

Broad shoulders, filling out a red-and-black flannel. Denim covers his long legs and highlights his muscled build. He moves with a confidence that is so attractive.

I pull the side of the curtain out of the way and lean even closer for a better view.

He turns toward me, giving me an amazing line of sight to his abs through the front of his unbuttoned shirt.

Pronounced brow. Deep-set eyes. Full lips. A headful of dark hair that’s a touch too long. Stubble covers his jawline, as if he forgot to shave for a day or two. It is delicious .

I can’t look away. I should—I know I should. The smart, neighborly thing would be to grab my phone and return to my bathtub, giving him privacy. But I’m only human, and he’s downright gorgeous.

It’s as if something’s connecting us, refusing to let go.

“And to think that I bought this house without anyone mentioning the view as a selling point,” I mumble, craning my neck as he moves toward the back of his truck. No matter how hard I lean against the sink, how sharply the counter bites into my stomach, I can’t see him.

My heartbeat strums steadily as shots of adrenaline hit my bloodstream. What do I do now?

The doorknob shines in the sunlight, beckoning me to grab it and twist.

I shouldn’t. I have a bath waiting for me, a quiet house, and a clean slate with the neighborhood. But as I consider heading upstairs, the pull toward the back deck grows stronger.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this tiny thrill of attraction. I’ve been too busy with life, the kids, and responsibilities to be present in my own world. But I’m here, and the flannel-wearing stud is right there. Would it be that terrible to give in and just enjoy being a woman looking at a fine male specimen for a minute?

Can’t I have just this one thing?

It’s ridiculous—and I mentally rebuke myself the whole time—but I open the back door.

The wood is rough against my bare feet; the sun is warm on my shoulders. I tuck my towel tighter around me and shuffle to the edge of the porch.

Soft country music drifts across the yard, pierced by the ping of tools against metal.

I lean against the rail and pretend to inspect the oversize lilac bushes growing alongside my house. My fingers slip over a heart-shaped leaf as my gaze slips over his driveway. The music fades against my pounding heart as I wait for him to come back into view.

“Where did you go?” I whisper into the breeze. “Come on. Come back to Mama.”

He rounds the other side of the truck. His sudden appearance catches me off guard, and whatever cool, calm, and collected front I thought I’d be able to pull off doesn’t happen.

He looks up. Our gazes snap together.

I heave a breath.

His stare is potent ... intentional . The intensity is so strong that I flinch. He watches me as unabashedly as I was watching him, as if to say, “I saw you, nosy lady.”

Get in the house, Gabs.

I drop the leaf and pull away, ready to retreat safely behind my door. But as I step back, a piece of fabric gets snagged by the rail. I whip around to prevent the towel from pulling away.

The tug was too much. It’s too late.

There’s a snap.

Then a crack.

There’s a lot of light on a lot of places it shouldn’t be.

“Ah!”

My panicked shriek breaks through the backyard as I topple, bracing for impact.

Oof.

Stems stick into my back and legs. Small branches poke me in uncomfortable places. There’s a joke to be made about the stiff shaft poking between my legs, but the flower dusting against my left breast is distracting.

I scramble to pull the towel across my front and catch my breath.

You’re right, Cricket. I wince. Only me.