Chapter 8
Sawdust on his T-shirt, hammer clipped at his hip, rough stubble on his pronounced jaw, gray eyes like a late-summer storm, and a frown on his handsome face.
Cort didn’t say anything to her, just walked in and set his toolbox on the counter.
She couldn’t help but notice how gently he did that, although his eyes contained emotions she could tell were anything but light.
“What are you doing here?” she managed to ask. It didn’t feel like she hadn’t seen him in a year; it felt like the kiss, and his rebuttal, had happened the night before.
“Considering I just saw Eli Walsh leave here, I should be asking myself the same thing.”
He clenched his jaw, looked around at the mess, then back at her. “Why didn’t you call me? Were you planning on avoiding me for another year?”
“You’re busy,” she said weakly. “Over on Spyre Street.”
“I’ll be done with that job in a day or two. And if you hire Eli Walsh, this place will fall to the ground.”
“It won’t,” Rebecca said stubbornly—but she knew he was right. “It’s just a few small repairs.”
He cast his eyes around the diner again. “A few of these repairs are going to take some doing. Especially if you want to maintain the character of the building. You need me.”
“I do not need you.” But she was thinking about the familiar way he was looking around, imagining him coming to clean up the flowers and taking stock of what needed to be done at the same time. “I didn’t ask you to come here,” she said, and her voice sounded defensive in her ears.
He nodded as if he could read her thoughts, and she wanted to tell him to stop it, but how could you tell someone to stop doing a thing that wasn’t real? Cort, and whatever she felt, was all in her head. He wasn’t reading her mind. He didn’t know her thoughts or her heart.
“Right,” he finally said. “Well.” He ran a hand through his sandy hair, which had darkened to a brown-blond over the years.
But he still looked like the boy she had known once, standing in that very spot, wearing a letter jacket, holding a book bag.
“When I was here the other day, I noticed the back door lock was stripped. I wanted to fix it for you, but I didn’t have my tools. ”
“No one locks their doors in this town,” she said, defiant. “I don’t need you, Cort.”
His gray eyes blazed suddenly, flashing silver. “Just let me help you,” he said. “You should at least have doors that lock.”
“I don’t need your help,” she said firmly.
“Really, I have it all under control.” But as she said that, the bell above the door jingled again, and Crispin Klune walked in.
His hair, as always, was perfectly combed and overly gelled.
He had been wearing it like that since high school, when he ran for class president—and always won, because no one bothered to run against him.
The crease on his black pants was as sharp as a knife, his white shirt looked freshly starched, and Rebecca was sure she could see a watch chain peeking out of the pocket of his houndstooth vest. He was juggling three clipboards, a rolled banner, and—for reasons currently unknown—a megaphone.
Then: “Welcome home, Rebecca McIntosh!” he boomed into it, revealing the need for the megaphone.
Rebecca flinched. “Crispin—”
He put the megaphone down on a table and unfurled a sign that read THE brAMLEY HOLLOW BIA WELCOMES YOU HOME, REBECCA MCINTOSH!
“What in the…”
Now he reached into his breast pocket and perched owl-round glasses on his long, thin nose. “Per regulation 50b, any resident away for more than one year receives an official welcome sign and an official town welcome.”
Cort was rubbing his temples. “Broke the fifties on regulations, did you, Cris?”
“Ages ago,” Crispin said. “We’re into the seventies now, Cort. You would know, the signage on your own property being the reason for regulations 67c and d.” Crispin rerolled the sign with military precision.
“How could I forget?” Cort muttered through gritted teeth.
But then he forced that trademark smile and she tried to steel herself against the heart flutters it caused, turning back to Crispin as he said, “Now. As per our phone conversation, Rebecca, I wanted to check in to make sure you know that the clock has started.” He pulled out his pocket watch and tapped its face for emphasis.
“You have twenty-nine days to bring this property into compliance. Also”—he checked a clipboard—“your BIA fees are in arrears. And they’ve increased thirty percent, which I’ve billed retroactively.
” He pulled an invoice from the clipboard and handed it to her.
“You can’t be serious,” Rebecca said after she read it. “This is two thousand dollars.”
“I am always serious,” he replied. “Furthermore, per subclause 9 of the Bramley Hollow Beautification Initiative—which is separate from the town regulations—all Main Street businesses, open or closed, must participate in seasonal displays.” He cleared his throat. “At minimum: six large pumpkins—”
“Six! Last I heard it was two!”
He ignored her. “Two large, two medium, two of your choice—and no more than three white, but no fewer than two. For accent, two gourds, one bale of hay, and a russet wreath affixed to the door with a burlap bow. No plastic.”
“But, Crispin—”
“And no buts,” he said. “Without standards, Bramley Hollow becomes just another town. Do you want that, Rebecca? Do you want the Autumn Festival to fade back into oblivion, taking the tourists with it?”
“Of course not,” she said. “I know the businesses in town rely on that revenue—”
But Crispin was talking over her, his face radiant with purpose.
“Also, due to how late you’ve left it, you may have to procure pumpkins from Milltown.
And at this time of year, they’ll be double the price.
” He nodded gravely. “Anyway, welcome home. Now, I should go. Business to attend to, as always.” And he marched out, holding the megaphone up like a trophy.
Rebecca put the invoice on the counter. She had no words and desperately wished she were alone to process this—as in, to go upstairs and scream into a pillow. Instead, there were steps on the squeaky, definitely-in-need-of-repair floorboards, as Cort came to stand beside her.
“Don’t let him get to you,” he said softly.
“Consider me gotten to. It’s my fault. I left everything for too long, procrastinated myself into this corner.
” She turned to him and found that despite how frustrated she was about Crispin, seeing Cort’s concerned expression, the care in his eyes, caused a lightness in her chest, like it was filled with champagne bubbles.
She shook her head to try to get the feeling to disperse.
She had actual problems here—ultimately, he was one of them.
“And I’m going to get myself out of it,” she said firmly.
“I could help you, Becca.”
Becca. Her gaze strayed to that corner booth, where he had sat across from her, a paperback copy of Wuthering Heights in his hands.
You look like her, Becca, he had said to her once, referring to the rendering of Catherine on the cover of the edition they had both been given by the school. It’s your hair, but also…the way you look sometimes. Like you’re somewhere else, and I want to go there.
“No one calls me Becca anymore,” she said quickly, clearing away the image. “Not now.”
“Rebecca,” he amended. “Can we try to start over? I’m sorry about—”
But she cut him off. She couldn’t talk about what had happened between them, listen to him apologize, have to look into his eyes while he explained to her exactly why he had turned her down. “No,” she said. “Let’s just move on. Please. And I think you’d better go.”
Her chest thrummed and her cheeks blazed.
Becca. In truth, she wanted him to call her that, wanted to feel that way again—like she was a version of herself she recognized.
Like she was the person he had always seen.
Meanwhile, Cort just stood there, saying nothing, so silent and stoic she wondered if he had even heard her tell him to go.
“Let me fix the lock for you, and then I’ll leave.”
Rebecca shrugged as if she didn’t care, but there was a rawness in his voice that caused a twinge, made her want to reach out and touch him instead of pushing him away.
Except, who was he to be hurt? She said, “That’s fine,” and turned away.
She heard him pick up his toolbox, listened to his footfalls as he walked to the back door.
The whirr of his drill soon buzzed through the stillness.
She found she couldn’t keep her gaze away.
She had to turn back in his direction and then found that all she could do was stand there and watch him work, his strong jaw set, his expression intense, his biceps and forearms as taut as the ropes in the tractor pull at the Autumn Festival.
When he finished with the lock, he dropped the spare keys on the counter.
“See you around, Rebecca,” he said.
The door closed behind him, and he was gone. She walked to the door and watched him get in his truck, half hoped he would look up, half prayed he wouldn’t. In the end, she turned away before he could do either.