CHAPTER THIRTEEN
T he sun was shining, birds were chirping, and a light breeze carried the sweet scent of Amelia’s perfume through the air. She smelt like blooming flowers and vanilla. We strolled hand in hand as we had several times since our road trip, and I felt happy. There was no easier way to say it. I felt a lightness in my chest and a strong sense of peace.
We reached my favourite picturesque spot by the river, where the willow tree branches peeked over the riverbank and filled the water with shadows. The golden rays of sun brightened the surface of the water and highlighted the hundreds of green lily pads, each emerging from the water with delicate petals that ranged from shades of pink to yellow. It was a beautiful sight.
The gentle sound of water flowing was my favourite sound, even as a teen, there was no better way to soothe my brain than the sound of the Magnolia River. I was grateful that I got to share the experience with Amelia. She turned to face me with a twinkle in her eye. She leaned in and placed a soft kiss on my lips, and I almost melted to the gravel path below like an ice cream on a ninety-degree day. She had that effect on me.
Our conversation under the Spanish moss still played on my mind, but a week had passed, and I tried to avoid any further talk of our future, despite the possibility of a future becoming more and more likely. Amelia had extended her time at the B & B. She stayed at my house most nights, but she still needed a base. Mrs. Bakers old place was almost secure enough to live in. The overall renovations would take a significant period of time, after all, Amelia’s budget was limited, which meant a very small workforce, but the cracked window had been replaced, and a stronger less eroded door had been fitted.
The workforce consisted of myself, Amelia, my dad, and Brittany on occasion, whenever she felt the need to gossip and throw unwanted items from a second story window. She did provide baked goods though, so she had her advantages. My dad provided the tools, and as much as he tried to be supportive from afar, the decades of giving orders were so engrained that it stopped him from leaving. My mom alluded to the fact that he secretly liked being needed, so I needed him a lot more after that.
I stuck to my word in supporting as often as I could. I persuaded a few of the locals to help out. In return I offered to help plant trees, bus tables, coach a little league baseball team, and clear the riverbanks of litter—whatever it took. Some days it felt like a community project, others it was just me and Amelia working away until the calluses on our hands appeared.
The past week had gone quick, but slow, if that was possible. My days at work flew by. I often came home with town gossip, much of it about the lieutenant and the new “Baker girl”, as I was told people referred to Amelia. We laughed about how only a small town could find such a miniscule piece of news important. I half expected the front page of the newspaper to feature a picture of me in my uniform with the headline reading, Lieutenant Wilson, lonely no more .
I had to laugh. The whole thing was amusing. After years of people telling me I needed to settle down and find a nice girl or speculating that some terrible childhood trauma must’ve made me so unable to love, people were sold on the idea of me being happy. It was sweet but also pressure. I attended a robbery call, and the first thing the employee asked me when I returned with the stolen goods was, “How are things going with Amelia?” She said it casually, as though that was a normal thing to ask the police officer trying to help you. Small towns could be a blessing and a curse. I truly believed that.
“My mom called earlier, she’s doing a dinner this weekend,” I stalled.
I still contemplated our boundaries. Amelia had met my mom on numerous occasions, only briefly, but the conversations had been unforced. However, a formal invitation to a dinner party was a step up, certainly more intense than a brief hello in the street.
“Would you want to come?” I asked.
“Erm, is that you inviting me?” She raised her eyebrow.
“Yes,” I said, hesitantly.
“You sound very unsure.” She laughed.
“I don’t want you to feel forced is all. My mom can be a lot, especially at dinner parties.”
I was being polite. My mom thought she was Martha Stewart when it came to dinner parties. She put so much pressure on herself to outshine the last one that it became quite the glamorous affair.
“If you’d like me to be there, then I’d like to come,” Amelia said.
“Okay, it’s Saturday at six.”
“Do I need to bring anything? ”
I shook my head. “Martha Stewart has everything covered.”
Amelia stared, waiting for me to elaborate.
“It doesn’t matter.” I laughed.
We strolled a few steps further, one deep breath at a time allowed me to relax and appreciate the rare cool summer breeze.
“I’m surprised you’re so calm and collected about meeting my whole family,” I said.
“Your whole family?” Amelia stopped dead. “You said your mom was having a small dinner party.”
“I never said the word small,” I clarified. “A Wilson dinner party is anything but small.”
With a shaky smile, she nodded. “Huh, okay.”
“Is that okay?” I asked.
“Sure.” She nodded. She didn’t seem confident in her answer. A few seconds later. “Okay, how many family members are we talking?”
“Well, there’s Katherine and her husband, my dad, and my uncle who came by the house the other day to drop off the saw, my grandparents will be coming over, my other uncle is coming into town with his family, probably four or five of my cousins, maybe my aunt and her new husband, but that’s always a little awkward, so she might give it a miss, erm—” I racked my brain trying to run through the larger extended family. “The numbers usually end up in the twenties.”
“Oh. That is a big dinner, and your mom cooks for all those people?” Amelia asked innocently.
“No,” I laughed. “She likes to let people think she does, but she’ll decorate the top of the Hummingbird Cake with pecans and leave everything else to the caterers. Don’t tell her I told you. ”
“Okay,” Amelia smiled. “It sounds terrifying but fun. I’ll come.”
The invitation was accepted.
We continued along the riverbank, our steps falling in sync. I leant in and whispered gibberish in her ear. She hated the feel of warm breath on her ear. I’d discovered the playful giggle that erupted in response a few days earlier, and now I found myself desperate to hear it again.
Our bodies brushed against each other, and I stole a quick kiss. I was mindful of coming on too strong, but the more Amelia reciprocated, the more comfortable I felt in letting my guard down. I didn’t want to be afraid anymore. There had to be a point in our future where I saw myself unafraid to show the extent of my feelings, but I was so out of my depth I didn’t understand how to navigate those feelings.
The truth: I could see myself falling for Amelia. I only hoped she felt the same.
Suddenly, I pulled back from kissing her playfully to find a shadow looming. I immediately attempted to apologise, assuming I was about to bump into a fellow walker, but the unknown figure stood firm. I glanced at Amelia, and her face drained of colour.
“Mom?” Her eyes widened. She dropped my hand immediately.
The first thing I noticed about Pamela Baker, aside from her striking good looks, was the intimidating aura of authority that surrounded her. Her age and wisdom were apparent in the lines on her face, but her fashion sense was impeccable: a string of pearls, a bold coloured silk blouse, a vintage broach, a perfectly polished pair of high-heeled shoes. She exuded elegance. Her hair was a glossy chestnut cut into a bob and impeccably styled.
She stepped forward with purpose. Her slender posture was upright and commanding. She should’ve been a police officer, I thought. Maybe not with her track record of lying and manipulating, but in another life.
Pamela’s steely gaze penetrated me before she turned her attention to her daughter.
“Amelia, what is the meaning of this?” she demanded. Her voice was sharp and tinged with disbelief.
“Mom, what the hell?”
Pamela’s expression was a mix of shock and disapproval. “I’ve been looking all over town for you,” she said sharply.
“What are you doing here?” Amelia asked.
“I came here looking for you. When you stopped returning my calls, I grew concerned,” she expressed.
“Concerned, hmm, okay,” Amelia scoffed.
“Don’t use that tone with me young lady,” Pamela snapped back.
“Seriously, Mom. I don’t need this right now.”
“When are you coming home?” she questioned.
“I don’t know,” Amelia shrugged. “I don’t know if I want to come home,” she confessed.
It was the first time I’d heard her say those words. I’d hoped she would. I hoped a part of her felt what we had was worth exploring. My warped dream of her staying in Magnolia suddenly felt like a possibility. As the words left her lips, I saw the instant concern etched on Pamela’s face.
“So, you’re going to give up your life in Austin for what? An old abandoned house and a small-town romance? This isn’t a low-budget rom-com, Amelia. This is real life, and you have responsibilities, a family, and a career,” she snapped. Her disapproval was frighteningly evident.
“Mom!”
I understood Pamela’s concerns even though she approached them in a controlling—I’m going to lock you in a closet and chain you to the radiator until your fifty—type of way.
Magnolia didn’t have much to offer in the way of prospects. You didn’t move to Magnolia for a career, or a new exciting way of life. The residents of Magnolia lived there because it was all they’d ever known. Much like myself, generations of my family before me had helped lay the foundations of our wonderful town, but people from outside didn’t understand the appeal. They would never understand the magnetism of Magnolia.
“You’re embarrassing me,” Amelia’s tone was icy. I almost didn’t recognise her voice.
We exchanged a nervous glance. Our hands were no longer intertwined as we faced Pamela’s chilling displeasure. I couldn’t blame Amelia for the obvious distance she put between us. It didn’t help my insecurity, but having a conversation about your current sexual preference didn’t get easier as you got older.
“I should leave you to talk,” I whispered.
“No,” Amelia reached out. Her hand gripped my forearm. My escape plan of diving headfirst into the river and letting the current lazy-river me all the way back home was looking less and less feasible.
“Mom, this is Riley.”
Pamela dismissed the introduction with a wave of her hand .
“I don’t care who it is, Amelia.”
“I care about her, a lot,” she began, her voice quavering. There was something unspoken in Amelia’s stare. It felt like she was pleading, trying to forge some silent understanding with her mother, but for what reason?
Her mother’s gaze shifted to me, her eyes searching for answers.
“Can I have a moment alone with my daughter, please?” she asked, her tone challenging.
I stood tall, and my gaze met Amelia’s mom’s with unwavering determination. It wasn’t my place to battle Pamela, nor did I want to, but the urge to fight back boiled within. Regardless of whether I wore my uniform in that moment, I was still a lieutenant. I held myself to a high standard for the way I chose to treat members of the public, permanent or temporary.
I didn’t like the way she spoke to Amelia, but I wasn’t a parent, and I hadn’t known Amelia long enough to understand the past thirty years of the mother-daughter dynamic I saw before me. I was out of my depth when it came to navigating the situation.
“Sure.” I nodded.
I turned to Amelia. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Yes, thank you. I’ll . . . erm . . . call you later?”
I nodded.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Baker.”
Pamela Baker smiled, if you could call it that. The expression was forced. The outward appearance of a smile was there, but the way she turned her lips was designed to instil fear. She didn’t scare me. An overbearing mother was nothing compared to the criminals I’d had to deal with over the years, but I would allow her to feel superior for now. I was yet to fully understand her intentions, but I had no doubt she would make them clear in due course.
I had a number of questions—
Why had Amelia been avoiding communication with her mom?
Why did Pamela feel the need to arrive unexpectedly in Magnolia Springs?
I didn’t believe she was concerned for her daughter’s safety. All she had to do was tell Amelia she would be on the next plane out if she didn’t respond to let her know she was safe. I assumed she knew where Amelia was staying, so she could’ve called Cindy’s to check that she was still showing her face, which she was. No, Pamela Baker had a different motive.
Did Amelia know the motive? That was up for debate.