Chapter 25
twenty-five
“Desire is a bonfire that burns with greater fury, asking for more fuel.” - Sri Sathya Sai Baba
The sky had faded to pale blue, stars just beginning to glimmer like the sparkles from a princess costume she’d worn once. Jocelyn remembered her mama spending hours bent over the sewing machine, specks of glitter dusting her cheeks like metallic freckles.
The air still carried the day’s heat, trapped like an oven long since shut off, heavy and stifling.
But it wasn’t the weather that made Jocelyn falter—it was the sight of townsfolk and tourists laughing together in the square.
For a moment, regret at agreeing to come twisted inside her.
She could’ve been at Uncle Joe’s house, buried in notes, chasing answers.
She had plenty to dig into, especially after that newspaper clipping she’d gotten.
And that was reason enough to turn right back around.
She hadn’t told Cole about it. The opportunity had been there earlier, but something had stopped her.
Maybe it was his nerves about asking her to the bonfire.
Or the way her heart had reacted to seeing him.
But she hadn’t figured out where the newspaper clipping was from, even though she’d spent hours the day before searching. And because of it, the investigation continued to feel unfinished, making her itch for progress.
That almost made her turn back to the car.
Almost. Then Cole appeared from amid the crowd, moving with purpose, his gaze locked on her.
He crossed the street without hesitation, and the heat under her skin surged.
Every rational part of her screamed that this shouldn’t be a date.
But the way the bonfire’s reflection burned in his eyes made her pulse stutter, and—oh, crap—a much larger, and less wise part of her, wanted this to be a date.
He stopped in front of her, closer than comfort but careful not to touch. Relief and disappointment warred in her veins. Her fingers twitched with the urge to clutch his shirt and pull him near. She shifted back instead.
“Thought about makin’ you chase me through the crowd,” he said, mischief in his gaze, “but figured you’d just turn around and leave.”
The teasing eased her nerves a little. “Smart man. I would’ve.”
He gave her a half-smile. “Ready?”
Time to dive in, she thought, taking a breath. She stepped up beside him, and her hand brushed his.
He arched a brow. “Careful, Darlin’. I’d almost think you want to hold my hand.”
Her breath caught, and she felt that tug of war again between date and not date, wisdom and desire. “You promised to keep them to yourself.”
He nodded, solemn. “I did.”
“But I didn’t.” She slid her hand into his, making the decision, even though her stomach flipped. The callouses of his palm scraped hers, sending a tingle straight up her arm.
His expression softened with wonder before he squeezed her hand. “Not a date, though, right?”
She rolled her eyes, trying to hide her smile. “Shut up.”
He grinned as he led her forward.
The bonfire roared high, unnecessary in the clinging heat but mesmerizing all the same. Shadows danced through the crowd and across Cole’s face, making him look caught between light and dark.
“So, this is the bonfire night,” Jocelyn murmured. “Can’t imagine what kind of hootenanny Harvest Fest must be.”
Cole’s mouth tightened. “It’s more important to them than it should be.”
She frowned at his tone. “But this is nice. To have community.” Her voice caught on the word, touched by a longing she couldn’t quite shake. Her mama hadn’t had this—not really. Not after Daniel Abbott’s family pushed her out.
The thought of her father hit her like a bolt. What if he was there? The memory of their brief encounter the day before made her stomach pitch. She still wasn’t ready.
“You doin’ okay, Darlin’?” Cole asked, nodding at a passerby as he walked her in an easy loop, letting the crowd get used to her presence—or maybe the other way around.
“Fine,” she answered automatically.
He lifted their joined hands. “My numb fingers say otherwise.”
Her face flooded with heat, and she loosened her grip. “Sorry.”
“You don’t always have to say ‘fine,’ you know.”
She squinted at him.
He smirked. “Might feel better if you just said what’s really botherin’ you.”
“I am fine,” she insisted, her voice too even.
“There’s that word again.”
She glared at him, and he laughed.
“It doesn’t have to be me,” he said. Then he winked. “But I am good at keepin’ secrets.”
Her chest warmed in a way that felt a little dangerous. But surely he was safe, far enough removed from her family drama to handle what was on her mind. Maybe that’s why the truth slipped out before she could snatch it back.
“I was thinking about Daniel Abbott. Worried he might be here.”
Cole hummed. “You can relax. The Abbotts rarely bother with this.”
She cut a dark look across the crowd, taking in the revelry, the smiles. “Beneath them?”
“Lydia, yes. Daniel’s too busy cuttin’ deals and pushin’ folks off their land.” His tone matched what she felt.
“Land? Why?”
Cole shrugged. “Developers want acreage. As the big real estate guy around here, he’s approached a lot of locals. Even me.”
“You?”
He shrugged. “Fifty acres makes for a nice-sized, cookie-cutter neighborhood.”
“Fifty acres.” She shook her head, still struggling to picture it. And, damn, could she. The roughness of his palm against hers told a story of hard and loving labor, and she could see him pouring it in.
“It’s small.” He shrugged.
She snorted.
“The house,” he clarified, drawing a full laugh from her.
He gave her a grin as they drifted toward the dessert table.
Jocelyn eyed the selection, lingering over a classic lattice-top apple pie. “If only there was ice cream,” she murmured.
“A damn shame,” Cole agreed.
“If it needs something with it, it ain’t worth the vote.” The older man proctoring the table scooted over to them, leaning over as if sharing some secret.
Jocelyn didn’t recognize him, and he smiled at her like he hadn’t the faintest clue who she was, either. Or maybe he just didn’t care.
“That’s my cousin Ellie’s pie,” the man continued, his wrinkled brow folding. She expected him to beam with pride, but he looked concerned. “I worry she mixed up the sugar and salt when baking this thing. Don’t taste right.”
Jocelyn laughed, drawing a smile from both men.
“What’s your favorite then?” Cole asked.
“Uh-uh!” A new voice chimed in, a woman Jocelyn also had never met.
“You’re in trouble now, Clyde,” Cole said under his breath.
“You can’t sway anyone’s vote. That’s called cheatin’.”
“How’s it cheatin’, Dottie? It ain’t like I’d win if I give my opinion.”
Cole and Jocelyn exchanged an amused look as the woman marched over.
“It’s voter tampering,” Dottie retorted, planting her fists on rounded hips. Thin, wispy hair was twisted up at the back of her head, the shiny silver locks held in place by a rhinestone barrette.
“I’m just saving them a little time,” Clyde argued, turning back to Cole and Jocelyn. “The five toward that end are the only ones worth votin’ on.”
“Clyde Johnson!”
The pair continued their bickering, and Cole’s hand landed lightly on the small of Jocelyn’s back so he could nudge her down the table.
She glanced back at the couple, who were now engaged with a new set of taste-testers, and Jocelyn caught the way Clyde surreptitiously gestured for them to head on down the table as well.
Cole’s hand pressed against her back again so she turned back to what was before them.
But it was impossible to taste the desserts when all she thought about was the way her skin ignited under his touch.
She scrawled a vote blindly, spinning to face him just to break the contact and give her nerves a break.
He leaned close to grab his own slip, his smile soft enough to steal her breath. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her. She sidestepped instead.
He looked up from writing on his paper. “You keep dodgin’ like that, folks’ll think I’m trouble.”
It took her a moment, but she found her footing, even if it was a little unsteady. “Aren’t you?” She raised a brow.
He straightened, folding his paper as a sly grin curved his lips. “Definitely.”
A breathy laugh escaped her, and she turned to search the crowd as a distraction. She recognized some faces; others were foreign. To her surprise, not many glances lingered on her the way they once had. Maybe they could get used to her being here.
“I, uh, hate to break the mood,” Cole said, drawing her attention back. “But I took that note of yours up to my folks’ place.”
She took a slow breath, letting her arms wrap around her middle and watched his hand as it reached to rub the back of his neck.
His face twisted in a grimace. “Didn’t find a match. But didn’t rule it out, either.”
The words dropped like stones into her stomach, disappointment and dread mingling.
“But,” he went on, squinting toward the fire, “Pop mentioned a scrapbook swap.”
That had her puzzled. “What’s that?”
“The group of ladies my ma gets together with to trade their scraps and designs and books. Or somethin’.”
That sparked a little hope. And more disappointment. Because she still wouldn’t know who was leaving her these little gifts—though it took the weight of all the suspicion off of Ellen. “Who’s in this group?”
Another grimace. “The usual suspects. Notably Kiki Womack and Lydia Abbott.”
Her intake of breath was sharp, and her hands squeezed her elbows. “Could be either of them.”
“Could be,” he agreed.
Lydia Abbott had come up more than once lately. Knowing she’d spoken to Frank Leone that night, worked him up, made it clear she sure knew how to stir the pot. Writing passive-aggressive notes seemed like her style. So did that article left on her car.
With the opening there, she figured she’d better take it. “I got another one.”
Cole’s gaze snapped to her face.
“It wasn’t a note this time. Newspaper clipping. I haven’t matched the article yet, but it was one about how it was ruled an accident. Circled nice and bold so I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He looked ready to throttle someone.
She put a hand on his arm. “It’s alright, Cole. Nothing we can do right now.”
“But someone sure doesn’t like what you’re up to.”
“We knew that already,” she said grimly.
“Don’t have to like it,” he growled.
That almost made her smile. And made her want to kiss him.
The thought was barely formed when Natasha’s voice rang out. “Jocelyn, you came!”
“Hey, Natasha,” she managed, heart twisting as her sister’s arms wrapped around her before she could react.
Cole stepped back while Natasha divided a bright smile between them. He managed to mask his frustration with a half-smile.
“Are you having fun?” Natasha asked, turning to look around. An extra measure of nerves filled her voice, as if Jocelyn’s answer would be a judgment on her and not the town.
Jocelyn went with the safest answer she could muster. “How could I not?”
Cole’s hand landed low at her back again, a silent support.
“It’s a lot,” Natasha said knowingly. “But this has always been my favorite night before Harvest Fest.”
“Why’s that?” Jocelyn asked, forcing her voice steady.
“It’s cozy. Less about sellin’ to tourists.” Natasha grinned.
“Free food,” Cole threw in.
Natasha laughed. “There’s that,” she agreed, then her smile went shy. “I made one of the desserts.”
Jocelyn’s brows shot up. “Did you?”
Natasha shrugged. “It’s a recipe from the internet. My mama would never touch a kitchen. Neither would Granny. I’m learning on my own.”
“I have a great recipe, if you want it.” The words slipped out before Jocelyn could stop them. Her throat tightened, regret sparking instantly.
But Natasha’s eyes lit up, bright as the fire. “Really?”
Cole’s fingers brushed her back again in reassurance, like he knew she was second-guessing her offer.
Baking had been her mama’s passion. It’d started with Nan, but it was Mama who’d been magic with it.
The diner Bonnie worked at used to sell her homemade treats, and Jocelyn remembered sitting at the counter when people would stop in just to buy whatever she was offering that week.
Truckers went out of their way off the standard route to get one of Bonnie’s Baked Beauties.
After she died, when the pain hadn’t been quite so sharp—or maybe because she wanted to keep her daughter’s memory alive—Nan had taught Jocelyn, too, passing down the magic and a recipe book of Bonnie’s favorites.
Jocelyn bit back her hesitation so she could answer Natasha. Her sister. A practical stranger. The representation of all the things she’d never had. But she couldn’t go back on her word.
“Sure,” she said, sounding more certain than she felt. “I can email it to you.”
Natasha practically bounced. “That would be amazing!”
And Jocelyn, aching for connection, let herself give in. Just one recipe. For her sister.