Chapter 3
ROAN
Istart the engine and pull the truck out from the curb in blessed silence, willing my pulse to return to normal.
I love my daughter beyond all reason, but she asks a lot of questions. And I want a minute to think about my new neighbor, and why she has me sweating like a teenager every time she looks up at me with those innocent eyes.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, I’m relieved to see that Meg is still really lost in her new book. I think I remember some of the other kids reading it when I was around her age. I was more into hockey than the library back then.
I head down Celestial Lane, knowing I should be appreciating the picturesque town and the clean, mountain air.
Instead, I’m wondering how many customers I’ll miss out on by trying to replace the bookshop window before dark. The worst part is that it wasn’t even my fault. Those dumb Manhattanites insisted on grabbing their tree themselves, and it ended up pretty much how I expected.
Now I’m stuck spending more time with Taylor and trying to ignore her bright eyes and plump lips.
And it’s not just the way she looks. It’s the way she looks at me. Everyone here knows me as “Phil Connelly’s boy” or “Meg’s dad.” Or maybe even “that poor guy Erica made a fool of.”
But Taylor is new here, so she doesn’t see any of that. It’s been a long time since a woman just saw me as a man.
And the way her cheeks got so pink when she looked at me makes me think maybe I’m her type of man.
“Are you a grump?” Meg asks suddenly, rousing me from my guilty daydreaming.
I’m not sure exactly how to respond. I probably am. But I don’t want my perfect daughter to have to think she has a grump for a father.
“Taylor said that the landlord is a grump,” Meg continues.
Of course she did.
“I know what she said,” I put in, then change the direction of the conversation. “You really like that book she gave you, huh?”
“It’s awesome,” she says, thankfully following my lead.
“What do you like about it?” I ask her.
She springs into a full description of everything happening in the book so far, which seems to me like a typical it was a dark and stormy night beginning to me, but clearly means so much more to her.
“Meg is normal,” she says in amazement, like somehow that’s a selling point. “No, maybe even bad. She tried to beat up a boy for saying something about her little brother.”
“That happens,” I say, nodding. My brother got me into plenty of trouble, so I guess I can relate to this book more than I thought.
“Do you think she’ll get more kids’ books?” Meg asks dreamily.
“I don’t know,” I say, hoping to get off the topic of Taylor.
“She said she would,” Meg says hopefully. “Do you think she’ll have Wings of Fire? And Percy Jackson? And the Dogman books?”
“Don’t you already have all those?” I ask her.
“Yes, but I like them,” she says. “It would be nice to see them in Angel Mountain. And maybe she’ll have more stuff I’ll like. She really gets me.”
How can Meg possibly think that Taylor gets her after five minutes?
“You have a library card,” I remind her.
“It’s not the same,” she says. “I like books that are mine. Plus, the bookshop’s right there.”
She doesn’t say what I know she’s thinking—that she’s about to spend practically the whole month of December sitting around the boring tree lot with me after school and on the weekends.
Last year, we sold trees for the farm out of the lot by the pet shop. Meg spent plenty of time visiting with the pets and playing on the arcade machine they had just outside. And when it snowed, she would sit under the roof overhang with a book.
I know it’s for the best that we moved to a better spot up the street, but our new location is definitely lacking in amenities for my little helper.
“We’re going to buy a new window?” Meg asks.
“Yep,” I say, nodding.
“Will we go back and put it in while she’s there?” she asks.
“That’s the plan,” I tell her. “We have to make it like it was before.”
“What about her dinner?” Meg asks.
It’s all I can do not to laugh. I’m pretty sure she was eating macaroni and cheese right out of the pan when I came in.
“She’s probably not hungry after that,” I suggest.
“The tree ruined her dinner,” Meg retorts. “It’s probably got pine needles in it. Or glass! We have to bring her a new one.”
“I don’t have time to cook for her,” I protest. Truth is, I barely have time to cook for us. We’re lucky my parents are around to lend a hand here and there. But I try not to lean on them too much.
“We can stop and get chicken,” Meg says.
I glance in the rearview mirror again and her eyes are sparkling. My kiddo loves fried chicken almost as much as she loves her books, and I suspect maybe she was doing a little steering of her own in this conversation.
“I guess we haven’t eaten out yet this week,” I hedge.
“Yes,” Meg says with a victorious grin. “We should get enough for all of us. She shouldn’t eat all by herself. Plus, you’ll be hungry after fixing the window.”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you drive a hard bargain?” I tease her.
“Yes,” she laughs. “You did.”
“Oh, right,” I pretend to remember.
And then she’s back in her book with a vengeance, leaving me to think about how I’m going to get us around the mountain to the nearest big box hardware store and back with supplies and a box of chicken before Taylor gives up on me.
Miraculously, the traffic is non-existent and the lines are short, so I’m pulling back into the spot in front of the tree lot with my stomach grumbling at the scent of our dinner while the sunset is still painting the sky in pinks and reds.
“We made it,” Meg says happily, undoing her seatbelt and scrambling out of the truck with the chicken before I can even turn it off.
I hop out and grab the replacement window out of the back along with a bag of other supplies, and follow her up to the bookshop.
The tree lot looks pretty lonely, though that makes sense—it’s not like anyone who stopped by would stick around to see if I was coming back.
I’m sure I lost at least a dozen sales to the commercial lot outside the big grocery store while I was gone.
That plus the cost of the window would make this a pretty unprofitable day.
But it’s probably better not to think about it.
“…and it’s already so good,” Meg is saying as I step into the shop. “Thank you for giving it to me.”
“I’m really glad you like it so far,” Taylor tells her. “It does have some scary moments, so if you don’t feel ready you can stop whenever you want and pick it up again in a year or two.”
Meg nods with an expression that tells me she won’t be doing that.
Taylor has this little smile on her face, like she’s thinking the same thing I am, and I notice that she’s in clean clothes now and her long dark hair is slightly damp.
I head to the counter with the chicken, trying not to wonder why she decided to clean up before we got back just to do even more dirty work.
But on the way, I realize the glass and pine needles are already gone. She showered because she cleaned the shop, even though I told her I would.
“I needed to do some cleaning anyway,” Taylor says, like she’s read my mind.
“We brought dinner,” Meg tells her excitedly.
“What about your mom?” Taylor asks.
My stomach drops.
“She doesn’t live with us,” Meg says simply, like that question doesn’t even throw her. “Do you like fried chicken? We got it from Doc Holliday’s. It’s the best.”
“That sounds amazing,” Taylor practically groans.
“It is amazing,” Meg gushes. “You’re going to love it.”
“You don’t have any place to sit,” I realize out loud.
Their faces snap to me and I wish I could take it back. Not really what I said, but just the fact that my voice was too deep and too loud. I probably sounded angry even though I’m not.
“Hang on,” I say, heading back out to the truck.
Knowing Meg, she’s telling Taylor not to pay any attention to me.
I grab a bag out of my truck’s storage box and try not to remember the last time we did this. It’s been a while.
“Here we go,” I say as I come back through the door, making sure to keep my tone and volume low.
“What’s that?” Meg asks, trotting over to check it out.
She doesn’t even remember, which tells me it’s been even longer than I thought.
“Picnic blanket,” I say, trying not to let her see the sadness I’m sure is in my eyes.
I pull the blanket out of the bag along with a ziplock filled with plastic utensils and a wrapped stack of paper plates.
“You’re ready for anything,” Taylor says appreciatively.
“Taylor said we could go up to her apartment,” Meg says.
“No, no,” Taylor tells her. “This is much better. My table isn’t really big enough for all three of us. Besides, doesn’t a picnic sound like fun?”
“But we don’t have music,” Meg says as I spread the blanket on the wood floor.
It actually does look really nice, like we’ve uncovered some kind of hidden treasure in the shop.
“Is the radio okay?” Taylor asks.
Meg nods her head enthusiastically and follows Taylor back to the counter, where she ducks down for a minute and then emerges with a victorious smile and the oldest looking radio I’ve ever seen.
“Does that thing work?” Meg asks, her nose wrinkled.
“It’s a pretty simple machine,” Taylor tells her. “They’re hard to break.”
I watch as she plugs it in and turns it on. Sure enough, some garbled noise spews from the tinny speaker.
Taylor spins the dial and her pretty face lights up when a song emerges from the static. It’s Dean Martin crooning “I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm.” She starts humming along and it’s a sweet, happy sound that makes my serious Meg smile in surprise.
Turning away, I remind myself that I’m not supposed to be noticing how cute Taylor is. I’m here to replace a window and scarf down some chicken.
It hits me that maybe if I do it in that order, I can avoid Taylor altogether.
“I’ll work on the window while you two eat,” I mutter, heading back to the truck for my stuff.
But when I come back in this time, the food is unpacked and Taylor is waving me over.