Chapter 3
three
JACK
Honestly, I’d been fully anticipating Bonnie Clark stopping by with an apology pie or thank-you cookies. She seemed like the type. And judging by how mortified she’d been sitting on my couch one week ago, part of me thought she might never be able to make eye contact with me again.
“Good morning, Mr. Ellis,” the child chirped politely.
“Do you need some help?” I asked after doing a quick sweep of the lobby over her shoulder.
I hadn’t spent a lot of time around children, so I wasn’t sure the age of this one. With dark brown hair held back by sparkly clips, she could have been anywhere from six to fourteen.
The little girl smiled brightly. “My name is Jamie Santiago, and I have a business proposal for you.”
I frowned and looked around again for the person responsible for this kid. “Are you lost? Do you need me to find your mother?”
She blinked her dark brown eyes at me, but her smile stayed firmly in place. “I have a phone. If I needed my mother, I’d just text her. Anyway, about my proposal. Can I have a few minutes of your time?”
This kid—Jamie—sounded like a politician or an annoying overachiever. “Should you be out on your own? Are you old enough for that?”
Jamie laughed like I was silly, and I noticed she was missing two teeth. “Mr. Ellis, I’m eight and a half.”
Like that explained anything.
“My mom is waiting in the car,” she added, tossing a thumb over her shoulder.
I peered out the glass doors of the lobby entrance, but it was too dim inside the parked cars to make out anyone’s mother. “Let’s just talk out here.” Staying planted in the doorway, I eyed her warily.
“Okay!” She passed me her clipboard. “I’m the team manager and starting midfielder for the Brookline U9 girls’ soccer club. We are in need of sponsorship for the upcoming season.”
I stared, confused. Brookline was the name of an upper-middle-class subdivision between Kirby Falls and Miller Creek.
I knew enough about sports to know that U9 meant that the players on the team were under nine years old or close to it, depending on the season’s calendar year.
Apparently, the team was made up of eight-year-old neighborhood girls.
I still didn’t know why their self-appointed leader was here, talking to me, though.
Jamie’s smile widened. Make that three missing baby teeth.
“That’s where you come in,” she said helpfully. “We all voted, and your logo is the prettiest. We’d like to have it on our jerseys.”
“My logo?”
She pointed to the window beside the front door of my business, where the Magnolia Bar logo had been overlaid in shiny gold foil. The cluster of magnolia blossoms hovered elegantly above the uppercase “MAGNOLIA,” which was underlined in decorative filigree with a smaller “BAR” beneath.
“You want Magnolia to sponsor your soccer team?” I was obviously struggling here.
“Yes,” she replied, and I had the feeling that if she’d had a gold star on her, she would have stuck it to my forehead.
“You want a bar to sponsor your soccer team for children?” I sought to clarify. “Isn’t there a rule against that or something?”
“No, Mr. Ellis. Any local Kirby Falls business can sponsor a soccer club. I’m told it’s great advertising and creates goodwill in the community.”
I blinked at the tiny politician.
“The details are all on the form I gave you,” Jamie insisted, tapping the clipboard in my grasp for good measure.
I glanced down at the paper. There had to be twenty-five bullet points and three different places requiring initials and signatures. A Kirby Falls Parks and Recreation header was at the top of the form.
“A verbal agreement would be fantastic, but a completed form would be even better.” She clicked a pen and held it out to me.
Was this kid seriously eight years old? She was frighteningly efficient. I was pretty sure I could hire her to do my taxes. She couldn’t be worse than Scooter Bates, my current CPA, who seemed afraid of me.
This request felt like a lot of pressure. I didn’t usually get involved in the community. Magnolia didn’t sponsor booths at the festivals or holiday markets. Nor did we participate in anything beyond serving tourists year-round.
My attention returned to the little scammer, who was still smiling like a serial killer.
“Isn’t there some other business you can ask?” I said.
Her enthusiasm wilted several degrees, and a tiny frown formed between her dark brows. “But you won the poll.”
I scrutinized her expression, feeling an unwelcome tightness in my chest when her lower lip jutted out. “What would you need from me?”
Jamie brightened again. “A modest, tax-refundable monetary contribution for uniforms bearing the Magnolia Bar logo, and a few other housekeeping requirements. It’s all there on the form.”
I glanced at the approximately ten million words on the paper in my hand, wondering what child talked like that.
“Please, Mr. Ellis,” her small, high voice said suddenly, finally sounding like a little kid.
Swallowing, I met her earnest, big-eyed gaze. Then I snatched the pen out of her hand and signed the form before she did something horrific like start crying. “Do you need the money now?” I asked.
Jamie accepted the clipboard and grinned up at me. “No, sir. You’ll be contacted by the Parks and Rec Department. They accept check, cash, or money order.” Then she handed me back a copy of the form I’d just signed. “That’s for your records. Thank you, Mr. Ellis. The team will be thrilled.”
And then Jamie Santiago hustled out of the lobby doors into the late-morning sunshine, her long hair bouncing the whole way. She climbed into a white SUV, and I stood staring after her like someone who’d been steamrolled by an eight-year-old.
The farmhouse I grew up in was about fifteen minutes from downtown Kirby Falls.
It was on a quiet stretch of road and had one of those custom mailboxes that resembled the house itself.
A two-story white traditional farmhouse with navy-blue shutters and a wraparound porch, complete with ceiling fans I’d installed a few years back and ferns hanging at intervals.
My grandmother was the only occupant since I’d moved out at eighteen. But she still kept an impressive garden in the backyard and a variety of birdhouses all over the property.
I parked my motorcycle in front of the detached two-car garage on a foggy Tuesday. The September morning was chilly as low-lying mist hid the rear of the property from view.
The doors to the outbuilding were closed, but I knew my grandmother was home.
She preferred to park her giant sedan in the grass beside the front porch.
The detached garage mostly contained my woodworking tools and equipment, but it had been a while since I’d built anything.
The hobby had taken shape after my grandmother took a watercolor class nearly a decade ago.
She’d asked me if I could make a frame for her artwork, so I’d learned how to. It turned out I enjoyed woodworking beyond the simple projects I’d managed to finish back in my high school shop class. As I grew more skilled, I experimented with making shelves and birdhouses, planters and benches.
But I’d been too busy lately to start a new project. It was apple season in Western North Carolina, and the bar would be overwhelmed with tourists for the next two months, at least.
No matter how hectic my work schedule was, though, I tried to always make time for Lia Ellis. The woman had sacrificed a lot to raise me and put me through college. She’d put up with my moody, rebellious teenage ass, too.
We usually had breakfast together a few times a week. And last night, my grandmother had texted saying there would be eggs and apple butter this morning if I wanted it.
I came in through the back door without knocking. I could hear the radio playing in the kitchen and Lia humming along.
“It’s me,” I called, though I was sure she’d heard my motorcycle when I’d arrived.
Plus, she’d had a sixth sense for when I was coming and going since middle school.
Lia had been a master of catching me sneaking in and out, some innate skill possessed by all hard-assed, take-no-shit, independent women.
Especially those who’d been on their own for the majority of their lives.
The night I’d vandalized the pastor’s shed senior year, I’d found her waiting for me on the front porch, shrewd hazel eyes narrowed and knowledgeable.
Now, I cleared my throat and crossed the threshold into the kitchen to find Lia moving a rubber spatula efficiently around a skillet. The scrambled eggs looked fluffy and bright, and I knew she must have visited Laiken Scruggs’s farm this week for a dozen.
“Mornin’, Jack,” she said, voice a little rough, like it always was.
“Good morning, Lia.” I pressed a kiss to her cheek, placing the loaf of sourdough from the bakery at Grandpappy’s onto the counter next to the butter dish.
“Ho ho, what’s this?” she teased. “You braved the masses for fresh bread?”
“It was early enough that the masses were still asleep at their Airbnbs. Besides, your apple butter deserves good bread.”
I glanced at the Orchard Bake Shop logo on the brown paper bag, my mind drifting to Bonnie Clark. It wasn’t the first time I’d thought about the petite blond disaster since last weekend, and that in and of itself made me feel . . . off-balance.
I didn’t need a reminder of why it was unwise to rely on people. Bonnie had been a wreck over her divorce and the husband who she insisted didn’t want her anymore. I wasn’t na?ve enough to assume the demise of her marriage had been that simple.
But it was one more reason why relationships were messy. The more people you let into your life, the more power you gave away—almost always into the hands of individuals who would hurt you or disappoint you. If you let them.
I didn’t need heartbroken Bonnie Clark to confirm any of that. I only had to look at the woman who raised me. The long gray hair and the weathered face. The stern frown lines that no longer went away.