Wishing on Willows

---

 BONUS CONTENT

The Cast

Behind the Scenes with Robin Price
Behind the Scenes with Ian McKay
Behind the Scenes with Amanda Price

Discussion Questions

• This story follows three characters—Robin, Ian, and Amanda. How has life not turned out as expected for these three? In what ways has your life turned out differently than you expected?

• Interspersed throughout the novel are short chapters told from Robin’s first-person point of view. Which of these were your favorite and why?

• In this story, Ian and Robin have conflicting goals. Who’s goal do you relate or sympathize with the most and why?

• Amanda is young and impulsive, but means well. Do you agree with the way she handled things with Ian and Robin? Why or why not?

• Do you think Robin and Ian are well-suited for each other? Why or why not? What was your favorite Ian-Robin moment?

• Robin often feels like an Israelite wandering in the desert. Talk about a time in your life where you felt the same. Looking back, what did you learn or how did you grow through that experience?

• Ian has a hard time going to his church back home because of his divorce. He feels like a failure and a disappointment. Have you ever felt this way? What verses, songs, or words of wisdom have you found helpful when you or a friend is battling feelings of shame or unworthiness?

• Robin experienced two big losses in her life—her mother and her husband. Have you ever lost someone close to you? How was your experience similar to or different from Robin’s?

• This novel explores the importance of fathers. We have Ian, who grew up in a home with an involved father, and Caleb, who is growing up in a home without a father. How important do you think fathers are in shaping who we are? What role has your father played in your life?

• If you were Robin, do you think you’d have an easier or a harder time moving on?

• On the top of p. 270, Robin poses a difficult question to Amanda. Do you agree with Amanda’s answer? What might you have said if Robin would have asked you for advice?

• Robin struggles with fear, especially fear of letting go of what’s familiar and comfortable and stepping into the unknown. Can you relate to this? Talk about a journey you’ve thought about taking, but haven’t yet because of fear. What blessings might you experience if you were to step out into those uncharted territories?

• Robin processes and explores her emotions through piano music. What in your life helps you process your feelings?

• Ian’s mom says that sometimes, God’s grace comes in a messy package. What do you think she means by this? Have you experienced this in your life? If so, please share.

• Do you think Ian made the right choice in the end? What repercussions might his decision have on the people he cares about? In his position, would you have done the same thing or would you have chosen differently?

---

ENDORSEMENTS

Ganshert (Wildflowers from Winter) tackles difficult topics head-on, dealing honestly with themes of loss and redemption while creating believable, sympathetic characters. Karen Kingsbury fans will delight in discovering a promising new author.

– Library Journal

This is a wonderful story of the possibility of starting over after tragedy and having a second chance at love. The characters are well rounded and very well thought out. Ganshert has hit a grand slam!

–Romantic Times

“Have you ever been through a painful season in life and wished for something new, something fresh, or even something healing to come along? Take this journey with Robin Price, a widow and single mother with a big heart and passion for those closest to her as she wades through trying to live, let go, and love again. Wishing on Willows is a story of hope that will find you stepping up to the willow tree and daring to make wishes”

—Cheryl McKay (Co-author, Never the Bride / Author, Finally the Bride: Finding Hope While Waiting)

“What I’ve come to admire about Katie Ganshert’s writing is how skillfully and compassionately she creates memorable characters and weaves into their lives authentic struggles. From the very first line “The first time I lost my husband…” to the last line “The whispered words came without fear or guilt or hesitation” we are given the gifts of grieving and letting go told with humor, realistic trials, characters I want to go on telling their story and the longings of the human heart. This is a fine, fine novel.”

—Jane Kirkpatrick, New York Times bestselling author of Where Lilacs Still Bloom.

“Just like a willow tree, Wishing on Willows evokes grace, humility, and beauty. A well-penned story of sacrifice, second chances, and love, Ganshert’s second novel is as poignant as her first. A must-read for any reader seeking to find comfort beneath their own proverbial willow.”

—Besty St. Amant, author of Addison Blakely, Confessions of a PK

“In Wishing on Willows, Katie Ganshert delicately weaves together a story of healing and renewed hope. Will young widow Robin Price choose to fight for what she had or to relinquish the past for the chance to love again? Ganshert deftly writes of grief and wounds that leave us shattered, pointing her characters—and her readers—to the One who provides the strength to embrace life again.”

— Beth K. Vogt, author of Wish You Were Here (Howard Books, May 2012) & Catch a Falling Star (May 2013)

“Katie Ganshert’s Wishing on Willows is rich in symbolism but as down-to-earth as its Midwestern heroine, a young widow juggling the roles of single mom, business owner, and ministry volunteer. I was thoroughly drawn into her changing seasons of love and loss, memory and hope. Like a May basket left at a neighbor’s door, this is a generous story filled with charm and surprises.”

— Meg Moseley, author of When Sparrows Fall

---

BOOK DETAILS

Publisher: Katie Ganshert
Copyright @2022
Kindle ASIN: B09SQ9ZMMY
Paperback ASIN: B0C9SJ2NTL
Amazon Paperback ISBN: 979-8393797232

---

SAMPLE CHAPTERS

D’APETURA

The first time I lost my husband, we were in Italy on our honeymoon. For the briefest of moments, as he walked toward me with our train tickets tucked in the back pocket of his jeans, the sunlight swallowed him. Even though he came back into view not more than a second later, my breath caught. I had this terrifying thought that something could happen. That moments were fleeting, and with the snap of a finger, he could be gone.

Before the idea could settle, Micah wrapped his arm around my waist and we boarded a train that took us up the coast to Cinque Terra—a cluster of five towns precariously built atop cliffs rising from the sea. With Micah’s warmth beside me and our train window framing a fire-burning sunset over the Mediterranean, life felt so intensely beautiful and limitless and vibrant that my heart ached. I understood why my mother had never wanted to vacation anywhere else.

We stayed at a bed-and-breakfast in the town of Riomaggiore. The next morning, instead of joining the tourists walking the main road, Micah and I went exploring, holding hands while a gentle breeze carried the scent of baking bread through the streets and church bells chimed in the distance and multicolored clothes danced on lines outside opened windows.

That’s when we discovered Caffe di Luca.

It was small and squat, and not nearly sturdy enough to support the jumble of buildings stacked on top. But happy chatter lured us inside and we ordered in broken Italian. Then we sat by the window and drank the world’s best coffee, wondering out loud how anyone could tend and harvest vineyards that grew on vertical hills. We stayed through another two cups until we were giddy with caffeine.

Discovering Caffe di Luca was like finding a pearl in the belly of a clamshell—wonderful and unexpected. Like dedicated pearl divers, we spent the rest of our honeymoon searching for more, making a game of who could order in the best Italian, and later, French. Sipping café au laits. Eating pasticiotti and macarons. Taking silly pictures and dreaming about the children we would have and the memories we would collect with each passing year.

Ending such a magical time in Paris felt too cliché. Too American. So instead, Micah picked the second largest city in France. Which is how we wound up in Marseille at Café de Petit, an inconsequential establishment hidden behind a pair of olive trees.

In what I still claim to have been impeccable French, I ordered coffee— black for me, a double shot of espresso for Micah—and chocolate brioche to share. We took our treat outside and sat beneath one of the trees.

Even now, eleven years later, I can still taste the flaky brioche melting over my tongue. I can hear the canopy of leaves rustling with the warm breeze. I can still feel Micah’s arms around me as I rested my head against his shoulder.

“We should do this.” His chest vibrated with the words.

“Do what?”

“This.” He motioned toward the doors behind us, his arms tightening around my body. “A café.”

I laughed. “You’re nuts.”

“No, seriously.” His lips brushed my temple. “I’ve seen you fall in love with every single one we’ve gone to. Your eyes light up. I’ll miss seeing that when we go home.” He turned me around and kissed my nose, ran his knuckles across my jaw. “I want you to have a café, Robin.”

I leaned into his touch.

“Plus, you’d be the world’s sexiest café owner.”

He kissed my lips then. Long. Slow. Delicious. One of a thousand delicious kisses he’d given me over the last three weeks. And this magical, light, tantalizing feeling captured me—that even though we would soon be leaving, even though our honeymoon was drawing to a close, this was just the beginning. Micah and I had the rest of our lives to plan. To have children. To open a café. To come back here when we were old and gray, to Marseille and Cinque Terra and every other town we stopped at along the way. To celebrate the life we would build. The life we would share together.

 

CHAPTER ONE

Amidst a pile of discarded tops, inside a closet she used to share with her husband, Robin Price deliberated between high heels and flats, but her mind was on her house, a disaster zone of plastic dinosaurs, old maid cards, and Thomas the Tank Engines littering a path from Caleb’s room to her own. Unfazed by the chaos, or perhaps just accustomed to it, Robin’s sister-in-law held pendant earrings by one ear, gold hoops by the other. She seemed more her old self each day.

“These would look great with your black top,” Amanda said, jiggling the hoops by her left ear. “But these really match the blue one.” She held the pendant earrings up to her right.

Behind her, clomping around in a pair of high-heeled brown boots, his beloved John Deere toy combine clutched in his fist, Caleb looked so much like Micah with his flyaway cowlick and those big hazel eyes that it stole a little of Robin’s breath. “Look, Mommy,” he said. “I’m a cowboy! And I’m gonna get those bad guys with my shooter.” He raced down the hallway as fast as the too-big shoes allowed.

Amanda held the earrings up higher. “So what do you think?”

“I think we’re overthinking this.” Robin plopped onto the bed and brushed wisps of hair from her eyes.

“Your first date in over four years? Impossible.”

“You have to stop calling it that.” Robin’s palms were clammy enough at it was. Not to mention her stomach hurt and her nerves were messier than the house. “It’s not a date.”

“A single man asked you to dinner. I hate to break it to you, but that’s a date.”

With a groan, Robin fell back onto the mattress. “I’m an awful, horrible woman. Somebody should lock me up and throw away the key.”

“Wanting to get back out there does not make you awful.”

“But that’s just it. I don’t want to get back out there.” In fact, the only living male Robin had any interest in spending time with was currently wearing her high-heeled brown boots—and those dates usually entailed her flannel pajama bottoms, heavily buttered popcorn, and the umpteenth viewing of Pete’s Dragon. She flung her arm over her eyes and shook her head. “This whole thing was one giant misunderstanding.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Kyle mistook my suggestion. He probably thinks I was fishing for a date, but I honestly just wanted to chat about the meet and greet on Sunday.” Kyle was the new director for One Life, a beloved storefront ministry attached to Sybil’s Antique Shoppe. One Life did everything, from delivering meals to equipping the unemployed to offering free after-school programs to hosting a support group for people battling addictions. It was located next door to Robin’s café, which meant she could bake to her heart’s content, because whatever she didn’t sell for the day, she’d bring over to One Life, where the food never went to waste. Yesterday, when she dropped off some apple fritters and mentioned they should find a time to discuss the event, he’d said, “How about tomorrow night over dinner?” and in the midst of her shock, she said yes. She said yes! “Oh my goodness, I’m leading him on. I am a leader-on-er.”

“You are not.” Amanda dug through an opened jewelry box on the dresser. “For all you know, you could totally hit it off.”

Robin blinked at the textured ceiling and the layer of dust on the wooden fan blades. Two of the three light bulbs in the fixture were burnt out. She would wait for the entire room to go black before she took the time to change them. It had been one of Micah’s pet peeves. Robin could picture him standing on their bed, faded blue jeans slung low around his hips, twisting in a fresh bulb. “What would you do without me?” he’d always ask. “Go blind from squinting,” she’d say. As it turned out, she did not go blind, but the house was dimmer. She frowned and sat up.

Amanda pulled something black from the pile of clothes in the closet.

“Caleb’s just getting over his cold.”

“Your son will be fine. That’s one of the perks of having me as your roommate. Built-in baby-sitter.” Amanda set the gold hoops on Robin’s knee. “Black top. Gold hoops. It’s too late to cancel now.”

As if on cue, the doorbell rang.

The sound made Robin jump up from the bed, her nerves swooping and twisting—not the excited kind of nerves she’d had on her first date with Micah either, but the nauseous ones. She pulled the black top over her camisole, put the gold hoops in her ears, slipped her feet into a pair of black flats, and hurried down the steps, Caleb chasing behind her with an empty squirt gun.

She placed her hand over the doorknob and took a deep breath. Inhale—this was not a date. Exhale—this was not a date. Amanda was making a bigger deal out of this than it was. Forcing her lips into a smile, she pulled open the door.

Kyle stood on her front stoop with neatly trimmed hair, a navy-blue polo, and a single red rose.

This was totally a date.

“Wow,” he said, holding out the flower. “You look great.”

Her stomach didn’t swoop. Her heartbeat didn’t quicken. But she thanked him and took the gift. “Come on in.”

As soon as he stepped inside, he crouched down to toddler height and stuck out his hand. “You must be Mr. Caleb, the man of the house. My name’s Kyle.”

Caleb pressed his face against Robin’s hip and made a sound that was half whine, half huff. A wordless “I don’t wanna.” Her boy wasn’t shy and he certainly was not a brat. So why did he choose now to act like it? “Caleb, when somebody says hi, the polite thing to do is say hi back.”

He made the sound again and wrapped both arms around her thigh. Oh, good grief. She was not going to have a power struggle with her child in front of this man before her first accidental date in four and a half years.

Kyle straightened to his full, lanky height and waved his hand, a gesture that said not to worry, he wasn’t offended. Robin moved to get her purse but Caleb wouldn’t let go of her leg. She looked at Amanda. “Don’t forget to give him his medicine. It’s the pink bottle in the fridge. Dr. Dotts was very clear that he needed to take it for the full ten days, even if all the symptoms are gone.”

“I know. I know. Stop worrying and have a good time.”

“I want to come with you,” Caleb said.

Handing the rose over to her sister-in-law, Robin peeled away Caleb’s arms. “Honey, you’re going to stay and play with Aunt Mandy.”

“But I wanna come with you.” He stuck out his bottom lip and grabbed onto her leg again, but Amanda grasped his shoulders and pulled him away. Caleb was having none of it. He dug his feet into the carpet and began to cry.

“We can watch the dragon movie,” Amanda said.

“I want to go with you!” His cry turned into a full-fledged wail.

Heat rushed into Robin’s ears. Caleb—her wonderful, kindhearted, happy-go-lucky, almost four-year-old boy—was throwing a temper tantrum that would rival the most terrible of two-year-olds. Robin stared, completely mortified, until Amanda wrapped her arms around her traumatized son and mouthed the word go.

So she did. With the sound of Caleb screaming behind her, she stepped outside and closed the door and smiled at Kyle, feeling lonelier than she had in a long, long time.

* * *

Her favorite canvas hung slightly off kilter, tilting to the left, as if trying to slip away from the chaos in the café. Despite a broken appliance and an employee who had called in sick, Robin breathed in the steam rising from her coffee and smiled, because it was her chaos. And nothing could ruin Saturday mornings. Not even the empty table next to the counter where Mayor Ford usually read the newspaper while enjoying a white chocolate caramel latte and homemade cinnamon roll.

A loud sound, like a hammer on pipes, clanged from the kitchen.

The chatter of her three table mates paused, then resumed.

Robin needed to corral the grief support group’s conversation toward more productive things, like who would visit Jed Johnson and take him meals throughout the month. Instead, she twirled her wedding ring, relishing each of the ladies’ smiles—especially Linda’s. A year and a half ago, the woman hadn’t wanted to take another breath, let alone go out in public. Nowhere she sat, appetite back, ready to support those whose grief was a little fresher.

Robin took a sip of her coffee, contentment resting in her chest. She was so proud of everyone’s progress.

“So…” Cecile Arton’s face lit like a Christmas tree. She wore a loose- fitting pink track suit embossed with rhinestones and her gray roots gave way to teased, bottle-blond hair. “How was your date last night?”

Robin’s attention snapped into place. “My date? How did you hear about that?”

“Richard saw you at Shorney’s Terrace with a certain someone.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but that certain someone is only a friend.”

Cecile folded her hands beneath her chin. “Shorney’s isn’t exactly the kind of place you bring a friend.”

Robin was well aware of that fact, especially after spending an entire meal surrounded by smitten high school couples bedecked in prom clothes. Nevertheless, she had cast aside the awkwardness and used the opportunity to get to know the new director of One Life. Robin loved his passion for the ministry, but even in her unguarded moments, when she made herself consider the possibility of something more, she only missed Micah. “We were discussing the meet and greet on Sunday. That’s all.”

The kitchen door swung open and out came Lenny, her trusty repairman, a tool belt slung around his waist. Caleb trailed close behind on his tiptoes, arms folded up to his chest like a T. rex. When he woke up this morning, the fiasco from last night had been completely forgotten.

“Just need to grab something from the van,” Lenny said, saluting Robin and the ladies with her. Caleb mimicked the salute.

“Hey, Wild Man, why don’t you come over here and color for a few minutes while Lenny fixes the oven?” Robin said.

Caleb let out his best dinosaur protest—something between a growl and a roar. Linda chuckled and took a sip of her herbal tea. She’d watched Caleb since he was old enough to crawl, which meant she knew better. The kid had no interest in coloring. Or anything that involved sitting still. Not when there were dragons to slay and monsters to chase and bad guys to capture.

“That’s okay, Robin. He’s a good helper.” Lenny tousled Caleb’s dark hair and opened the front door wide. Shafts of early-morning sun poured across marbled flooring. “We should have your oven up and running in no time.”

As soon as the pair disappeared outside, Cecile took a sip of her mocha, lipstick staining the mug rim. “That Lenny’s a nice-looking fellow.”

“I don’t care if he’s cute or covered in warts,” Bernie said, “as long as he fixes that oven so I can have my cinnamon roll.” She poked at the day-old rhubarb muffin in front of her. Exactly like the rhubarb muffins Cecile and Linda had eaten without any complaint. “It’s the only thing I look forward to eating anymore.”

“A nicer guy you couldn’t find. Strong shoulders. A decent head of hair.” Cecile took another drink and peered at Robin over the top of whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. “What do you think about Lenny?”

“I think he’s an excellent repairman. I also think we should be back on track.”

“You’re avoiding,” Cecile said.

“Avoiding what?”

“The question.” She dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin, leaving her lips paler. “Just because sparks didn’t fly last night with Kyle doesn’t mean they won’t with Lenny. You have to keep trying until you find the right guy.”

Robin had found the right guy. Losing him didn’t mean she should go looking for a backup.

“Caleb sure seems to have taken a liking to him.”

“Caleb takes a liking to anyone who lets him hit things with a hammer.”

Cecile placed each of her ringed fingers against her chest, dimpling the skin above her zippered top in four different places. “All I’m saying is you could do a lot worse than Lenny.”

Bernie muttered something about doing a lot better too and massaged the tops of her knees.

Robin chuckled. “How about this? If I’m ever in want of a matchmaker, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Speaking of matchmaking”—Cecile turned her attention to Linda— “how did your date go last night? Was he as charming as I promised he’d be? Did he take you to Val’s Diner? I told him to spring for something nicer than Val’s.

A slow blush crept into Linda’s cheeks.

Robin looked at Cecile. “You set her up?”

“With that handsome fellow who runs the Laundromat.”

Linda’s blush deepened. “It’s okay, Robin. Really. We had a nice time.”

Cecile’s eyes glittered. “I knew you would.”

“He’s taking me line dancing next week.”

A puff of air escaped Robin’s lips. She leaned back in her chair and studied Linda, trying to ignore the odd sensation of being lapped.

“Can I have that?” Cecile pointed to Bernie’s uneaten muffin. The old woman scooted her plate over and scrunched her nose, like Robin had served them rotten fish. “I’m so glad you’re letting go, Linda. Moving on. Living your life again.”

Robin’s muscles tightened in her chest. Then in her arms and legs. Letting go. Moving on. Why should dating be the proof for either of those things? And how could Cecile make it sound so easy when she didn’t have a clue? Cecile had lost a sister and Robin had lost a husband. While both devastating, they were not the same.

The front door swung open. Lenny and Caleb marched inside, gave them another salute, and made their way into the kitchen. The sight of her son loosened Robin’s muscles. If Linda wanted to get back out there again, good for her. Robin didn’t need to feel left behind, not when it was a race she had no desire to run. Her attention wandered toward her only customers—a middle-aged couple finishing coffee and conversation.

The woman stood and hitched her purse over her shoulder while the man brought both cups to the counter. “I’ll be right back, ladies,” Robin said.

She processed the couple’s payment and watched them walk toward the door. Their clasped hands and matching gait stretched something inside her, but she pushed the sensation away and pinned her gaze on the mayor’s vacant spot.

“Does anybody know where Mayor Ford is?” she asked, coming around the counter.

“He won’t be here today.” Cecile swallowed a mouthful of muffin and paused, long enough to make Linda lean forward in her seat. “Richard says the mayor’s working. We all know that man can’t read the comics when he’s in work mode.”

“Working on a Saturday?”

“I guess he’s preparing for a lunch meeting with a developer. Something about building condominiums in Peaks.”

Bernie laughed. “Why in the world would a town the size of ours need condominiums?”

“Didn’t you hear? That software company—Fixtel? They confirmed last week that they’re going to build outside of town. Mayor Ford is ecstatic. He’s hoping for a population boom.”

“Population boom?” Robin sat down, a little too hard. “In Peaks?”

Cecile’s bobbing head made her earrings jiggle. “Richard’s been swamped lately. Town council’s been working on a development plan. Something about revamping parts of the business district. Heaven knows the place could use a facelift.”

Robin frowned.

“It’s supposed to be the topic of our next town meeting. Condominiums will be great for business. At least for those still around.”

Something about Cecile’s ominous tone made Robin sit up straighter. “Your jewelry store’s doing all right, isn’t it?”

“If you consider all right ending each day in the red, then sure. We’re doing just fine.” The woman rested her chin in her palm and sighed. “Richard put a For Sale sign in the window this morning.”

“What?” Arton’s Jewelers was one of the oldest businesses in Peaks. If they closed their doors, it would leave Willow Tree Café sandwiched between an abandoned jewelry store and a run-down antique shop. Not exactly good for business. “Why haven’t you said anything?”

“We’re ready to retire, especially now that he’s so busy with council. And since none of our children are jumping in to take over, we thought it was time. We made the decision last night.”

“I know things have been slow.” Robin looked around her empty café. The problem was not unique to the jewelry store. “But are you sure you’re not jumping into this too quickly?”

“Honey, you’re our only regular customer. And all you ever do is polish that ring.” Cecile examined Robin beneath overly plucked eyebrows.

Robin checked her watch. The big hand crept past eight and they hadn’t accomplished any of the things they normally covered during their meetings. “We should probably discuss Jed Johnson before I leave.”

Bernie fixed her steel-gray eyes on Robin. “What about him?”

“He’s not doing well. I visited him yesterday and he looked terribly thin. I thought we could arrange some more meals for him this month. And if somebody could go check on him today, that would be great.” More clanking sounded from the kitchen, followed by a round of Caleb’s giggles. If only Robin could bottle that sound and sell it on eBay, she’d be able to fix the entire town’s financial woes. “I’d be happy to do it, but I promised I’d help set up for my brother-in-law’s birthday. Caleb can’t wait to get out to the farm.”

“Jed’s wife passed away four months ago,” Bernie said.

“Yes.” Robin drew out the word. What was Bernie getting at?

“How do we know he’s not playing this out to get free meals?”

Robin blinked at the old woman. “Playing it out? Bernie, there’s no timeline on grief. If anyone should understand that, it should be us.” Four months after Micah died, Robin was a complete wreck. If she hadn’t had her friend Bethany urging her to eat, who knows what would have happened? Especially to Caleb, who had been growing in her womb and depended on her for nourishment.

Linda patted Robin’s hand. “I’d be happy to visit him today.”

The kitchen door swung open and Lenny came out with Caleb. “The oven’s fixed.”

Robin exhaled. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Now before you go getting too happy on me, the prognosis isn’t good. You need a new oven. Either that or update the electrical. Perhaps you oughta do both. Because those two together will keep short-circuiting and if you don’t do something about it soon, I swear this place is going to catch fire.”

“Just as long as it doesn’t catch fire tomorrow.”

The front door chimed. Amanda breezed inside, her hair swept up in its usual perky ponytail. Robin met her halfway and wrapped her in a hug. “You’re a Lenny. Or a Linda. Either one works.”

“What?”

“You’re a lifesaver.”

“And you’re lucky I love you so much.”

“I’m so sorry to ask you to do this. It’s just that Joe called in sick this morning and you know Caleb will be unbearably cranky if I stay and work.” She looked over at her son, who was talking with great animation to a very attentive Lenny. “Molly should be here by eleven to take over. I really need to get to the farmhouse and make sure Bethany isn’t concocting any unholy mixtures with her cake baking.”

“Please hurry.”

Robin grabbed the empty plates from the table. “I’m sorry I have to cut this short today, ladies. I’ll go put those cinnamon rolls in right now. Bernie, you make sure and take two before you leave.”

She made her way toward the kitchen, stopping twice. Once to straighten the crooked canvas—a picture Micah took outside Café de Petit eleven years ago. Again to remove the newspaper she had laid out on Mayor Ford’s table.

She wasn’t eager to see her town lose any of its small-town charm, but perhaps the new residents would bring more customers to her café. Sharing the place she loved with more people could only be a good thing. Robin dusted her hands and pushed through the door into her kitchen.

Condominiums in Peaks.

She wondered where they would build them.

 

CHAPTER TWO

Ian McKay found himself in the real-life version of Andy Griffith’s Mayberry, with paint-chipped streetlamps and mulberry trees forming a crooked line on either side of Main Street. A bike path meandered through a riverfront park, and well-worn businesses boasted faded awnings and an assortment of window displays. He half expected all color to fade to black and white and Barney Fife to make an appearance.

He welcomed the change of scenery. Something about being out of Peoria in this small Iowa town, away from the mess of his past, bolstered his spirits and filled him with optimism. He speed dialed his father and stuck his free hand in his pocket.

To his right, a For Sale sign hung in the door of a jewelry store fresh out of the nineteenth century, and to his left, an eyesore disguised as an antique shop bookended the business district like a pathetic caboose ready to collapse on top of itself. Sandwiched between the two, Willow Tree Café possessed a charm the other places lacked. But the lone Honda Civic in the otherwise deserted parking lot told him all he needed to know.

“That was quick.” Dad’s voice lost none of its vibrato through the phone line.

“Traffic was light.”

Dad chuckled. “What do you think about the location?”

Ian peered at the sign hanging in the window of Arton’s Jewelers. One of the businesses was already closing shop. Judging by the looks of things, the other two weren’t far behind. “Mayor Ford was right. The area could definitely use some improvements.”

“We have a lot hinging on this.”

Ian plucked the cuffs of his sleeves and pictured his father, dressed in his Saturday khakis, poised behind the mahogany desk in the study while he drummed a pen against his knee and examined the framed picture taken last Christmas, the one of Ian and his mother. He could almost see the stubborn set of Dad’s jaw, as if enough determined belief in his son would restore what had been lost.

“I believe in you, Ian. I wouldn’t have given you the deal if I didn’t.”

The bloated words sat on Ian’s shoulders. Dad had made it clear—this would be the biggest deal of the year. Big enough to chase away the threat of downsizing that hovered over all of their spirits, Dad’s most especially. He was a good boss. He cared about each of his employees and didn’t want to lay off anyone. With everything going on, after all that had happened, sparing him from the burden was the least Ian could do.

“Can we expect you for dinner tomorrow evening?”

“I think I’ll stick around Peaks for a while.”

A drawn-out pause lingered over the phone line. Ian scuffed his shoe against the ground and connected with a small rock. It skittered across the cement and landed in a flower bed. “Is that a problem?”

“Your mother—”

“Will be fine.” He rubbed the back of his neck and eyed the ramshackle shutters hanging on either side of the antique shop windows. “Look, I’ll be back for the meeting on Wednesday, so it’s not like I’m going to be gone very long.”

“Will you be ready to present your plans?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll see you on Wednesday, then.”

They said their good-byes and Ian pocketed his phone. Mom would be fine. Dad would make sure of it, just like he made sure of it last time. And while his father took care of his mother, Ian would take care of the family business. He might not share Dad’s passion, but he was good at what he did. He’d earn back the respect he’d lost. Prove to himself and everybody else that he deserved to wear the last name McKay.

A breeze ruffled his hair, and a rusted-out pickup with a faulty muffler grumbled down the two-lane road. He peeled his gaze away from the For Sale sign and strode through the front doors of Willow Tree Café.

“Oomph!”

Hot liquid splashed against his chest and soaked through his button- down shirt. He yanked the fabric away from his skin and reached out to steady the woman he’d smashed into.

She tottered before him, her hand wet with spilled coffee, light brown hair swept into a loose ponytail. Her eyelids fluttered like two hazel strobe lights. She captured her bottom lip between her teeth, her attention stalling on his chest.

“Are you okay?” Ian asked. “I didn’t mean to run into you.”

She pointed to the mess down his front—lavender fabric turned rotten plum. “Please tell me that’s not a new shirt.”

“Define new.”

She slapped her palm over her eyes and groaned.

Ian smiled. “The good news is I own more than one shirt.”

“I am so sorry.”

“Really, it’s not a big deal.”

Her hand slid down her face and stopped over her mouth. “Let me go get you a towel.” Her palm muffled the words as she took two careful steps out of the puddle. “And something to clean up this mess.”

Ian watched her go, wiping at his ruined shirt. Classic jazz music and the smell of cinnamon and fresh coffee grounds floated in the air as he walked toward a row of marble-topped tables and studied the canvases hanging between the windows—black-and-white photographs of what looked like European cafés. The photographer had toyed with the focus and the zoom to give each picture an artsy look. His attention roamed up the tightly spiraled metal staircase to a small loft overhead, then returned to the main floor and landed on a shadowed instrument in the front corner of the room, flanking one side of the counter.

A baby grand piano.

The squeaking wheels of a mop bucket interrupted his inspection. The young woman handed him a wet towel and got to work mopping the brown puddle off the floor. “Did you decide what you wanted? We’ve got cinnamon rolls. Iced coffee cake. The best espresso in the Midwest. Anything you want. On the house.”

How about a blueberry scone and the café to go?

He bit the inside of his cheek and followed her and her squeaky mop bucket to the counter. “I’ll take a chai tea and I insist on paying.”

“I’m not taking your money.” She eyed his shirt and reclaimed the towel. “Trust me, Robin would kill me if I made you pay.”

“Robin?”

“The owner.”

“You’re not the owner?”

“Are you kidding? I’m not even an employee. Not technically. I’m Robin’s sister-in-law. Or roommate.” A frown flickered across her brow. “I only help when she’s desperate.”

He removed his billfold from the back pocket of his slacks and handed over a crisp five-dollar bill.

She ignored it and pushed some numbers on the cash register. “One chai tea, courtesy of Willow Tree Café. Can I get you anything else?”

The owner. In a good mood. Preferably open to a career change. “I think I’m good for now, thanks.”

She plucked a to-go cup from a stack. “If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you to Peaks? It’s not every day we get a stranger in town.” Her eyes roved over his apparel. “And I mean this in the most flattering way, but you sort of stick out.”

“I do?”

She traced circles along the countertop with the pad of her thumb. “You’re very fancy.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Is the owner by any chance coming in today?”

“You’re not going to complain about the service, are you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Then you can catch her this evening. She comes in on Saturdays before close and plays a few songs. It’s the only night the café’s open.”

“Plays?”

The woman wiggled her fingers in front of her, as if playing an imaginary keyboard.

Ian reexamined the instrument he’d noticed earlier, a hint of uncertainty stirring in his gut. “I’ve never seen a piano inside such a small café before. Jazz clubs maybe, but not this.”

“That’s because you’ve never seen this café. Music is ingrained in Robin’s soul. She loves it. Almost as much as she loves this place.”

His uncertainty grew, sticking to his insides like a heavy meal of pancakes and syrup. “Can I take a rain check on that tea?”

“Sure. Just tell whoever’s working that Amanda spilled coffee all over you and she promised you a free drink.” She cupped one hand to the side of her mouth and whispered, “I don’t think anybody will be surprised.”

His chuckle returned. “Great, thanks.” He gave the counter a knock and walked toward the door. Hopefully this Robin would be as eager to help as Amanda.

* * *

Forty-five minutes inside Sybil’s Antique Shoppe and Caleb finally found the perfect birthday present for Uncle Evan—a model John Deere tractor with a missing front wheel. As they stepped away from the cash register, Caleb held it over his head. “Can we get dinosaur paper?”

“I’m sure Aunt Bethy has wrapping paper we can use at the farm.”

“Did Daddy love dinosaurs like me?”

The thick cloud of incense Sybil insisted on burning made Robin’s eyes itch and her brain fuzzy. She hurried her son toward the exit, eager for fresh air and sunlight. They couldn’t have ordered more perfect weather for Evan’s birthday, and the promise of an entire day spent with family sounded glorious. “Grandma says they were his favorite toy when he was your age.”

“And tractors too?”

“Tractors and dinosaurs. Just like you.” Threading her fingers with his, she batted aside the strings of beads that hung like cobwebs in the entrance, ushered Caleb outside, and almost plowed into a wall. Scratch that. A person. She stepped back and shielded her eyes from the low-hanging sun silhouetting the man in front of her.

He was a stranger. With dark blond hair and light brown eyes and a giant stain on his shirtfront. Fresh, by the looks of it.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come barreling out of the door like that.”

“No worries.” He stepped out of the way and motioned to his shirt. “I’m

starting to suspect I’m the problem.”

“I’m not used to anyone coming into Sybil’s.” Her cheeks flushed. Hopefully the combination of distance and age would keep Sybil from hearing the thoughtless words. “Not that there’s anything wrong with the store. It’s just…out of the way. I guess.”

The man’s smile crinkled his eyes and showcased teeth that were white and straight—a walking advertisement for orthodontia.

It was the kind of smile that made her stomach dip, like she accidentally skipped that final stair leading down to her basement. The silly feeling left her flustered. “She’ll be glad you’re here. There’s, um, lots of great stuff.”

“I’m sure there is.” He removed one of his hands from his pocket and stuck it out. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing tan forearms and a nice-looking watch. “I’m Ian.”

She hesitated long enough for Caleb to tug on her arm. “C’mon, Mommy. Let’s go.”

Quite often her son made carrying on a conversation impossible. At times, his impatience crawled under her skin. Today was not one of those times. She let herself be tugged away from the man’s outstretched hand. “He’s right. We’re late. It was nice meeting you.”

“Don’t I get to know your name? Or will I forever have to refer to you as the woman who almost knocked me over outside the pawn shop?”

“Antique.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s an antique shop.” She pointed to the sign.

“Oh, right.” He stood with his hands in the front pockets of his slacks, thumbs out, completely at ease, his eyes still crinkled as Caleb pulled her farther away. “So do you have a name?”

Robin batted away her discomfort. There was no harm in sharing her name with a stranger. So why did she have the silly urge to lie? Maybe it was the way the man’s attention kept flitting to her son. “My name’s…Janet.”

Caleb stopped tugging, his forehead scrunching in massive confusion. She squeezed his hand and stepped toward the car before he could blow her cover.

“Nice meeting you, Janet.”

“You too.” She gave him a halfhearted wave and turned around. “Take a deep breath before you go inside,” she muttered.

“What did you say, Mommy?”

“Oh, nothing. It was nothing.” She ushered Caleb toward her car and resisted the urge to look over her shoulder.

 

CHAPTER THREE

Caleb sprinted toward the John Deere tractor parked outside the machine shed, Spider-Man tennis shoes kicking up droplets of mud from the soggy ground.

“Don’t climb on that tractor,” Robin called after him. She looped her fingers through the handle of a plastic bag in the backseat of her car, tucked her free arm beneath a platter of fruit and cheese, and emerged from her vehicle. She checked that Caleb wasn’t climbing and walked along the gravel path toward the farmhouse when the smell of smoke curled up her nose.

She jogged the last several paces and struggled to open the screen door with both of her hands already occupied. She fumbled with the handle, then nudged the door the rest of the way with her foot. Its hinges squealed and the door slammed shut behind her. Smoke decorated the ceiling while Bethany stared morosely at the charred cake smoking on the countertop, her long hair tied up in a messy knot. “How is it that I can design buildings, but making a cake is a complete stumper?”

Robin set down the cheese tray and flapped the black haze out the opened window. “How in the world did you burn it so badly?”

“I was preoccupied.”

“With what? Plowing a field?”

“Trying to squeeze an entire day’s worth of work into an unpredictable nap time.”

Robin plucked the cake mix box from the counter and held it away from her like a dirty sock. “You’ll accept Betty Crocker’s help but not mine?”

“I’m his wife. I bake the cake.”

Right. So where did that leave Robin? Cakeless, that’s where. She feigned interest in a nearby spatula and manipulated her features into something less conflicted. “So because you’re Evan’s wife, we all have to suffer?”

“I baked one last year.”

Robin’s lips twitched. “Is that what that was?”

“Evan said he loved it.”

“That’s because Evan loves you. And you were pregnant.”

“How am I supposed to do anything when I’m getting two hours of sleep at night?” Bethany plopped her elbows on the counter and rubbed her eyes. “Evan is already talking about having more. Four, Robin. Last night he actually said he wanted four kids.”

“Elyse isn’t sleeping any better?”

“She’s three months. Caleb slept through the night when he was three weeks.”

“Every kid is different.” And Caleb had come into Robin’s life like a bundle of grace. Back then, during the days of Desitin and Johnson’s baby shampoo, her grief was still so jagged. If God had given her a colicky baby, she might have curled upon the floor and cried them both to insanity. “I promise it won’t last forever.”

If God had taught her anything over the past four years, it was that life came in seasons. Elyse’s poor sleeping habits were no different. Robin peeked out the kitchen window and spotted Caleb sitting in the dirt by one of the tractor tires, making explosion noises as he rammed his toy combine into the treaded rubber.

“Maybe I should go wake her up. Do you think I let her sleep too much during the day?”

Robin threw the box in the trash and handed Bethany the plastic bag of groceries she’d brought. “You let Elyse sleep and I’ll go check on Caleb. When I get back, we can bake a real cake.”

Bethany pulled out eggs and flour and other various cake ingredients, the plastic crinkling. “I should be insulted.”

“You should be thankful.” Robin set the smoldering cake outside in the mulch and made her way toward Caleb. “Hey, Bugs, why don’t you come inside with Mommy and Aunt Bethy?”

He raced to her side and placed his chin against her hip, his large hazel eyes pleading through dark, thick lashes. “Can I play by the tractor? Please, Mommy?”

Robin feathered her fingers through his hair. “I thought you wanted to wrap Uncle Evan’s birthday present.”

He eyed the green machine with such longing that she had to laugh. The boy was tractor obsessed. “Make sure you stay where you can see me through the window.” She held up her finger and gave her little man a stern look. “And no climbing.”

He bobbed his head and raced away. Robin returned to the kitchen, where Bethany had lined up all the ingredients on the counter and was drying out a steel mixing bowl. “In case I forget to tell you, thanks for doing this. You know how much Evan loves his cake.”

“Thanks for agreeing to help me with the meet and greet tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

“And thanks for not asking about last night.”

“Amanda already warned me.” Bethany gave Robin a sympathetic smile and ruffled through the empty bag. “So where’s the recipe?”

“Now it’s my turn to be insulted.” Robin took the bag and tossed it in the garbage can. “You know I hate asking, but do you think you could work a couple short swing shifts this week?”

As a freelance architect, Bethany had the flexibility to work a few odd shifts at Willow Tree whenever Robin found herself short-staffed. They set up a Pack ’N Play in the back room for Elyse, who would either sleep or enjoy some tummy time. Not something they could do once Baby Girl got older and more mobile.

Bethany scratched at an imaginary stain on the counter. “This week might be tough. I received two phone calls from potential clients yesterday. One for a home renovation and the other for a new restaurant in Le Claire. The restaurant will be my first big project post-baby. I’m hoping it’ll get me back into the swing of things.”

“That’s great.”

Bethany gave her a look—one that said she wasn’t buying it. “Great for me, but what about you? You can’t be at your café 24/7. It’s not healthy.”

Robin rolled up her sleeves and spooned flour into a measuring cup. “Maybe I can beg Amanda to help.”

The screen door shut behind them. “Help with what?”

Robin looked over her shoulder. Amanda stood in the doorway with a six-pack of pop.

“Picking up a couple shifts this week.”

“I do have a real job, you know. I’m the one who balances your café’s bank account.” Amanda slid a can from a plastic ring and cracked it open. “And anyway, I think your café works better without me. I shouldn’t be allowed to carry drinks.”

Robin’s hand froze, the cup of flour poised in midair. “What happened?”

“You always jump to the worst conclusion.”

“Amanda.”

“I spilled coffee on a customer.” Amanda took a sip and scrunched one of her eyes. “No, customer can’t be the right word. He didn’t actually buy anything.”

Robin pictured the gentleman with the tan forearms and the mischievous smile and the giant coffee stain down his front, the one she’d met outside Sybil’s Antique Shoppe. He’d been in her café? Bethany reached out and overturned Robin’s hand. The flour plopped into the mixing bowl, kicking up a puff of white.

“Don’t freak out. I offered him anything he wanted from the menu for free.” The pop cans clanked as Amanda set them on the kitchen table. “Have you ever considered your financial problems with Willow Tree might have something to do with your tendency to give things away for free?”

“There’s nothing wrong with generosity.”

“Well, Miss Generous, he seemed very interested in meeting you.”

Robin’s brow puckered. “I think I already met him.”

“Where?”

“I ran into a guy with a big coffee stain on his shirt outside Sybil’s. A little shorter than Evan? Blond hair?”

“A total hunk?”

Robin rolled her eyes. “He’s probably an auditor.”

“He was way too cute to be an auditor. And polite.” Amanda poked her finger into Robin’s arm and wagged her eyebrows. “And he was asking about you.”

Robin dipped the measuring cup into the flour bag. She liked that Amanda was coming back to her jocular self, but she did not want her playing Cupid. Cecile Arton had that position covered and Robin didn’t need two in her life. She didn’t even need one. Last night was proof. “Like I said, he was probably an auditor. And you spilled coffee on him.”

“Well, I promised the auditor something for free. He took a rain check, which means he’s coming back. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Why would I need to be war—”

A high-pitched scream sliced off the end of her question. A horrifying sound capped with a sickening thud. Robin’s nerve endings shot through her skin. Everything seized. Her heart. Her lungs and mind. It all halted in a painful standstill. Until her son’s cry sliced through the frozen imbalance and hurled Robin into fast-forward. She tossed the measuring cup aside, and with a thousand horrendous thoughts spiraling through her mind, sprinted toward her son crumpled in the grass.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

The large Victorian home sat back from the road, peeking over a squat insurance building and an old-fashioned barber shop. Pale blue siding wrapped around a front-facing gable and climbed toward a steeply pitched roof. Ian shaded his eyes from the sun and squinted at the sign near the walkway.

Bernie’s Bed-and-Breakfast. His sister would appreciate the alliteration.

He slammed his trunk shut and wheeled his travel suitcase up a shaded walkway lined with ugly garden gnomes. A chime jingled as Ian stepped into the dimly lit foyer, wide enough to accommodate a tall cherry desk with a computer, upon which sat a chipped mug and a silver bell. Behind the desk a plant grew out of an actual toilet bowl, porcelain painted the color of butter, and a wide-set staircase climbed to the second floor. Muted voices from a television filtered down the steps. He wiped his shoes on the welcome mat and stepped forward, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath him. “Hello?”

Footsteps padded down the stairs and a lady emerged—Bernie, he assumed—looking much too old to run a bed-and-breakfast on her own. She stepped behind the desk, brushed at a few scattered crumbs circling the coffee mug, and squinted at his stained chest.

Ian fished his billfold from his back pocket and gave her his most charming smile. “It’s not the best look for me, I admit. I usually take my coffee in a cup.”

She didn’t smile back

He cleared his throat. “Do you have a room available?”

If she turned him away, he would have nowhere to stay and back to Peoria he would go. In the small town of Peaks, this was his only option.

“We have three.”

“I’ll only need one.”

Nope. Not a crack. He ran his finger beneath his collar. “The biggest is the room next to mine,” she finally said.

“I’ll take it.”

“Do you snore?”

He blinked. Usually, a place of lodging took a person’s name. He almost chuckled, but the look on her face made him swallow the sound. This was not a joke. Bernie was very serious about the snoring. “Only when I have a cold. I’m very healthy at the moment.”

“Do you talk or laugh in your sleep?”

“Laugh?”

“My husband used to laugh in his sleep. I’d have to whack him with my pillow to get him to stop and then I’d never get back to sleep again.”

“I don’t believe I laugh or talk.”

“No guests past nine. No music or TV past then either.”

He slipped his hands in his pockets, dipped his chin and leaned forward. “What if the TV is muted?”

Bernie gave him a heavy-lidded stare. “If you come in after nine, do your best to avoid the squeaky stair. It’s the fifth one from the top. I’m a terribly light sleeper and it gets worse with old age.”

“Have you tried ear plugs?”

“I don’t trust them.”

“Of course not.” A smile tugged at his lips. “My name’s Ian McKay, just so you know.”

She pecked at her computer keys. “How many nights?”

“I’ll be here on and off for the next couple weeks.” The sooner he had this deal under wraps, the better everyone at McKay Development and Construction would feel. He dug out his credit card and handed it over.

She snapped the plastic onto the desk, typed his information into the computer, and slid his card back. “Upstairs. Follow me.”

His room—apparently the big one—was barely big enough to fit the full-sized bed, an armoire, and a small desk. As soon as they stepped inside, Bernie held out her hand. Ian dug into his pocket for a couple stray dollar bills.

“I do not want a tip, Mr. McKay. I’m waiting for your shirt.”

“My shirt?”

“Somebody needs to treat that stain.”

Ian set his luggage on the bed, which let out several creaks, then unbuttoned his shirt and handed it over. Bernie arched her sparse eyebrows at his undershirt. He glanced down. It was equally soiled with dried coffee. “Oh. I’ll just throw this away.”

“It’s a perfectly fine undershirt.”

Heat crept up Ian’s neck. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman made him blush. But seriously, he was not about to strip down to his skin. This was a far cry from playground basketball.

“I’m eighty years old, Mr. McKay. I promise I won’t see anything I haven’t seen before.”

He hesitated, then pulled the undershirt over his head. Bernie appraised his bare chest with those same heavily lidded eyes and draped the shirt over her arm. Ian wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cover himself. She grumbled something about trouble, then turned and left.

His laughter escaped like a squeak. So far, the people of Peaks had been far from dull. He unzipped his suitcase, pulled out the shirt on top, and gave it a good shake. Something drifted into the air and dropped to his feet. The whiteness of the returned alimony check stood out against the mahogany floor. Ian stared at it, his smile fading as he recalled the angry red words Cheryl had scrawled on the attached note.

I don’t want your money.

He crouched down and tore the check in half, in fourths, in eighths. A scrap slipped between his fingers and floated beneath the bed. He got down on his belly to grab it and found his reflection in the full-length mirror beside the dresser—grim-faced, prostrate on the floor. He looked away. The reflection was painfully symbolic, reflecting so much more than his physical position. Especially these days. Ian walked over to the garbage can beneath the small desk and let the tiny scraps flutter from his hand like wrinkled confetti.

* * *

Ian stepped inside Val’s Diner at half past noon to the smell of bacon and syrup. The aroma stirred up long-ago memories of Saturday mornings, when he and Dad would make chocolate chip pancakes in their pajamas while Mom slept in.

A group of teenage boys sat in a corner booth, shooting spit wads at one another through straws. A heavyset man ate a piece of pie at the counter while a waitress filled his cup with coffee. She was petite with frizzy hair pulled back into a low knot and a baby face that made guessing her age impossible. When she spotted Ian in the doorway, she kept pouring until the man yelped and a bit of coffee spilled over the rim. She dabbed at the mess with some napkins and came around the counter sporting a black shirt that said Poetry Is Life. “Can I help you?”

“Is the food as good as it smells?”

“Nobody ever complains.”

“Then count me in.”

She led him to a booth on the empty side of the diner, smoothing her fingers over her hair and pulling her frizzy knot tighter. She smelled like a library. He slid into the cushioned seat while she took a small menu from the front pocket of her apron and stared at him like she wasn’t sure if he was real. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Do you have iced tea?”

“Yeah.”

“Then that’s what I’ll have. With a lemon, if you have them.”

“We have lemons.” She smoothed the hair over her ear again and looked at the front doors. “Are you eating by yourself?”

“I’m meeting with the mayor. He should be here shortly.”

“Oh. Okay.” She hurried to the counter and knocked on the window ledge opening to the kitchen. “Fry up some onion rings, Harry. The mayor’s coming.”

Ian took a deep breath and braced himself in the booth. This was it. Dad’s company. People’s jobs. Ian’s reputation. All of it hinged upon today’s meeting.

The front door opened and a man with a shiny head and stooped shoulders stepped inside, scanning the diner. Ian recognized him from the picture on the town’s website. He stood and waved. Mayor Ford walked over to the table and pumped Ian’s offered hand. “You must be Mr. McKay.”

“I’m afraid Mr. McKay is twenty-five years my senior and much better looking.”

The mayor’s laugh escaped like a sharp bark—the sound didn’t at all coincide with a bald Mr. Rogers. “Ian, then.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. This is a very charming town you’ve got here.”

The mayor slid into the booth. “We like to think so.”

Ian resituated himself in his seat while the waitress set his iced tea on the table and scooted a mug of foam-topped soda toward Mayor Ford.

“Am I that predictable, Megan?” he asked.

“Harry’s frying up your onion rings.”

“I guess you know I want the French dip, then?”

Megan winked and pointed her pen at Ian. “Are you hungry?”

It was a funny question, seeing as he was sitting in a restaurant at lunchtime. “I’ll have whatever the mayor’s having.”

This seemed like the right suggestion because the mayor barked again. When Megan left, Mayor Ford grabbed the saltshaker and twisted it in a slow circle. “I’m so glad you could meet me on a Saturday. I sure appreciate the flexibility.”

“Of course.”

The glass shaker scraped against the laminate tabletop—a steady, hypnotic sound. “I’ve been talking with the council members ever since Fixtel made their announcement.”

“Looks like Peaks will be seeing some changes soon.”

“We sure are hoping.” Mayor Ford stopped his salt-twisting and leaned over the table, as if the boys across the diner might hear or care. His cheeks glowed like two shiny cherries. “For years I’ve been wanting to implement a development plan for our downtown, but improvements are hard to make without tax revenue.”

“A population boom would make for an expanding tax base.”

“Exactly. Which is why we need to woo potential residents. We can’t reap the benefits of an expanding tax base unless the employees of Fixtel choose to make Peaks their home.”

Ian folded his hands over the table and mirrored the mayor’s posture. “I hope that’s where we come into play.”

“The council members and I are pleased with what we’ve heard about your business. You’re a smaller development company, to be sure, but you have a solid reputation.”

“McKay Development and Construction is committed to excellence.” It was one of his father’s mottos. “If you’re going to do something, son, you do it right and you do it well.” Dad managed to live by it in all aspects of his life—as a businessman, as a father, as a husband.

“Which is why we’re hoping you’re interested in the job.”

They were hoping he was interested? “We’re more than interested, sir.”

Megan set a steaming basket of onion rings, a side of ranch, and two plates in between them. Mayor Ford scooped a handful onto his plate and pushed the basket to Ian. “Eat ’em while they’re hot.”

Ian no longer cared about the food, but he pulled apart one of the rings. Trapped steam spilled from the fried batter while the mayor poured some ranch on his plate and sprinkled his food with pepper. “What did you think about the location I suggested?”

“We know the type of people who will be moving in to work for Fixtel. We’ve built condos for them before. They’re definitely looking to live downtown.”

“It’s a perfect situation, really. They get their downtown and we finally get to develop the south end.” Mayor Ford dunked a ring into ranch dressing and took a big bite.

“Are the businesses there open to selling?”

“Richard Arton’s on town council. He and his wife just put their jewelry store up for sale, so he’ll be thrilled.” Mayor Ford brought another bite beneath his chin. “And between you and me, I’ve been looking for an excuse to get rid of that antique shop ever since I became mayor. Talk about an eyesore.”

Ian took a sip of iced tea. “What about Willow Tree Café?”

The mayor stopped chewing, worry lines crowding around his eyes. “I do wish we could leave Willow Tree Café out of the mix. Robin makes a killer latte. She’s a nice woman. Very passionate about what she does.”

“The place looks well loved,” Ian said.

The mayor drummed his thumb against the tabletop and stared hard at the black-and-white checkered flooring. “And then there’s One Life to consider. The ministry attached to Sybil’s.”

Ian sucked a drink from his straw and let the mayor work out the conundrum in peace. He didn’t care where the condos were built. He only cared that McKay Development and Construction built them.

Mayor Ford continued his drumming. “Some of the townsfolk won’t be happy to see that go.”

“What about the north end? Would it be better to build there?”

“We just updated it last year, plus the buildings on that end are protected by the historical society. We’d never get away with it. And besides, with Arton’s already selling and the place in need of renovating, it really is an ideal location.”

Ian couldn’t argue. “The park on the south end is an added bonus. Easy access to the bike trail too.”

“These condominiums. They’ll boost the economy, right? Bring in more business. Open up jobs for the unemployed.”

“That’s usually the case.”

“One Life’s ministry has been a much-needed Band-Aid these past few years, but this development will get at the root of our problems. As mayor, I have to do what’s best for the entire town.”

“Times are tough right now.” Ian knew. So did Dad.

The drumming stopped. Mayor Ford’s worry lines lost their sharpness and his cheeks took back some of their glow. “I’d shake your hand right now if I could, but we’ll have to convince the taxpayers first. Let’s hope the majority’s in favor of your condominiums.”

Ian held up his iced tea. “To hope.”

The mayor tapped his mug of cream soda against Ian’s glass. “To Peaks.”

 

CHAPTER FIVE

Robin tiptoed around the mess of dinosaurs on the floor and groaned against Caleb’s weight as she laid him beneath the tractor-covered bedspread. She blanketed his chest, brushed her fingers over the scrapes on his cheek, and kissed his forehead. No doubt he’d end up in her bed before the sun rose the next morning—a habit formed the very first night Caleb slept in his big-boy bed. She had lain awake, listening to the crickets outside her window, overwhelmed by all the milestones Micah had missed, when tiny footsteps pitter-pattered down the hall. Perhaps she should have put a stop to it then and sent him back to his bed. But at the time, she needed him as much as he needed her. So she rubbed his back and fell asleep with his warm body tucked to her side.

Inhaling the scent of his cucumber-melon shampoo, Robin kissed her boy one last time, flicked off the light, and crept down the stairs. Amanda sat on the very edge of the sofa, staring intently at a stack of envelopes.

“Hey.”

She slid the stack under her knees, as if she didn’t want Robin to catch sight of the mail. “Hey to you. How’s Caleb?”

“Sleeping like a rock.” Robin set her hand on the top of her head and blew out a great big puff of breath. The day had completely derailed. What was supposed to be a Saturday spent celebrating Evan’s birthday ended up being a Saturday spent in the ER. She shuddered. It could have been so much worse.

“Okay, so next question. How’s Robin?”

“A little rattled, but okay.”

“You sure?”

“I feel bad that Evan’s birthday was ruined.”

“My brother has had thirty-six birthdays.” Amanda fingered the envelopes. “They start losing their sparkle after twenty-one. And besides, we have the picnic next weekend. We’ll celebrate then.”

Tears welled in Robin’s eyes, just as sudden and unanticipated as Caleb’s accident. She meant what she said. She was okay. So why this ache for Micah’s strong arms to hold her? It was a droning hum. A hopeless longing. An unexpected visitor overstaying its welcome whenever life turned prickly.

Amanda frowned. “Why don’t you drive over to Willow Tree and close up? It’ll give you a chance to unwind.”

“I’m not going to leave Caleb two nights in a row.”

“Robin, he’s sleeping.”

“What if he wakes up asking for me?”

“The doctor pumped him full of pain meds. The kid’s in la-la land.”

The idea of escaping to the cafe and pounding out her worries and praises on the piano twined its fingers around her heart. Maybe it wasn’t too late to catch the Crammers before closing. She would serve them each two cups of piping-hot coffee—decaf, of course—and whatever cinnamon rolls she had left over. Carl and Mimi had come to listen to her play every Saturday evening since she opened Willow Tree four years ago. Apart from the café, she probably wouldn’t know them.

“It’s not like I have anything planned,” Amanda said.

Robin picked at the banister. Caleb was sleeping and the doctor had given him pain meds…

Amanda waved her hand. “Get outta here already, would you?” Something heavy and light—a familiar contradiction—flooded Robin’s soul. What would she do without Amanda? Or Bethany and Evan? Before the moisture in her eyes could thicken, she slipped on her shoes and joined the cool humidity lingering on her front step.

* * *

Ian spun his car keys around his finger and walked toward the café, cicadas singing backup as he whistled a tuneless melody. He checked his watch: 8:15 p.m. A faint glow filtered out the front windows of the café, ran along the tops of the boxed bushes, and cast elongated shadows over the cement. A smile stretched away his whistling. Lunch with Mayor Ford couldn’t have gone any better. Now if he could talk Robin and the antique store owner into selling, he would have this deal under wraps before he left on Wednesday for the development meeting.

He approached the glass doors and peeked over the Open sign. A leathery-skinned man wearing stained overalls sat across from a lady in a faded flannel shirt. The only patrons in the café, the pair huddled over a table, sipping from off-white mugs. Ian followed their stare and saw the slender backside of a woman perched on a piano bench, dark hair cascading down her back, hands poised over the instrument.

Intrigued, he slipped through the doors and eased onto a chair at the table closest to the exit. The woman’s shoulders rose and fell. Her fingers grazed the keys and she started to play. So soft at first the notes tickled his ears, then slowly gathering power and momentum until the music grabbed his full attention and refused to let go. He sat up straighter, unable to look away from the woman’s hands, captivated by the passionate, almost choreographed way they moved.

“Can I get something for you?”

Ian jumped.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

A woman stood beside him, an apron tied over clean but faded clothes, stringy hair tucked behind ears that stuck out from her head. The lines around her eyes didn’t match her youthful face. It was as if worry, instead of age, had etched them there. She nodded toward the piano. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Beautiful. The word felt inadequate, but he nodded anyway.

“Can I get you anything?”

He eyed the pianist. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Come on over to the counter when you’ve made up your mind.” The woman smiled and walked away.

Trying his best to ignore the music, Ian surveyed the empty chairs. The residents of Peaks wanted to sit at the counter of Val’s Diner, sip on refills of Folgers, and chew the fat. They weren’t interested in a classy café or gourmet coffee or soul-stirring piano music. His developer experience told him that Peaks wasn’t ready for Willow Tree. Perhaps business would improve after Fixtel opened, when a savvier clientele moved to town, but by then it would be too late. The café would be gone.

The woman’s hands fell into her lap and the worn-out duo broke into applause. She stood gracefully from the bench and approached them. Something about the shape of the woman’s body filled him with an odd sense of déjà vu. He shifted forward in his seat and eavesdropped on the conversation.

“Our boy Jake’s always trying to get us out to Chicago so we can hear him play in one of them fancy concerts of his.” The man’s voice had a distinct rasp to it, as if gravel paved his throat. “But Mimi was just saying how it can’t be much better than what we hear at this café every Saturday night.”

“You sure know how to flatter a girl, Carl.”

“It’s not flattery when it’s the God-honest truth.”

The pianist, who must be Robin, brushed her hands over the backs of her thighs. “Well then, how about some more coffee before you head out, on the house? It’s the least I can do for my two most loyal listeners.”

The man’s grin revealed a mouthful of crooked teeth. He held out his mug. “You know we aren’t too proud to accept something for free. Not from you anyway.”

Mimi, his flannel-clad wife, cradled her mug. “I’m not sure, Carl. She sure gives us an awful lot of free stuff.”

Robin batted her hand. “It’s my pleasure.”

Mimi looked doubtful.

“How about this? You let me introduce you to the new director of One Life at tomorrow’s meet and greet, and we’ll call it even.”

Mimi pursed her lips, but Carl bent the bill of his well-worn hat and chuckled. “You’re as determined to get us in the doors of One Life as Jake is to get us to that big city he ran off to.”

“I’ll be right back with one last cup of coffee.” Robin curled her finger under the handles of the two mugs and turned around. And in the turning, he saw her face.

His eyes widened. Because Robin, the pianist and café owner, was… Janet, the frazzled, pretty woman who almost ran him over outside Sybil’s. She stopped, the smile on her face slowly melting away. Ian crossed his ankle over his knee and waved. She turned around, the porcelain mugs clinking together as she hurried to the counter. Now this was an interesting turn of events. Why would this woman tell him her name was Janet?

She dropped the refills off with Carl and Mimi and approached his table, her steps slow and uncertain. “May I help you?” she asked.

He clasped his hands over his knee. “Either you have an identical twin, or your name isn’t Janet.”

Her face turned red.

“Or maybe Janet’s a nickname?”

“I…” Her voice faltered. She glanced over her shoulder at the display counter, filled with an assortment of pastries, then at the wall clock hanging behind it.

“Your music…” Really, what could be said about her music? Unlike Carl and Mimi, he’d been to his fair share of concerts. He grew up with a younger sister who loved Chopin and Brahms. Yet he’d never heard anyone play with such passion. It had been palpable. Contagious, even. He draped his elbow over the chair’s back. “What song did you play just now? I didn’t recognize it from anywhere.”

“I write my own.”

“Impressive.”

She pulled at her earlobe. “We’re closing soon. Would you like something to go?”

He nodded toward the older couple. “Their coffee wasn’t to go.”

The red came back. It made him smile.

“You were here earlier, weren’t you?” she asked.

“You serve very hot coffee.”

She set her hand on top of the chair across from him. A diamond caught the light and sparkled on her finger. He hadn’t noticed it this morning. “Amanda mentioned that you wanted to speak with me,” she said.

He could have told her about his plans but something held him back. Maybe it was the after effects of her music, or the rich scent of coffee in the café, or an instinct he’d inherited from his father. He simply knew now was not the time. “Just wanted to compliment the owner.”

Her forehead wrinkled. “An employee spills coffee on you and you want to compliment the owner? You do realize that’s not a typical response?”

“Maybe I’m not a typical guy.” He leaned across the small table and stuck out his hand. “Ian McKay. I’m in Peaks on business.”

She twisted the ring around her finger. “Didn’t we already do this?”

“I don’t recall meeting any Robins today. A nice lady named Janet who tried to warn me about the hazardous cloud of incense in Sybil’s Antique Shoppe, maybe. But no Robin. “An uncomfortable laugh escaped her lips as she reached out and shook his hand. Her movement was soaked in hesitation.

* * *

Robin flipped the sign from Open to Closed and eyed Ian as he strolled down the walk and disappeared into the night. Her nerves fizzled and popped like carbonated foam. She’d come to the café to unwind. She’d been doing well too, until she turned around and saw the gentleman she’d met outside Sybil’s.

Her heart beat in a series of short, detached notes. Why had she fibbed about her name? Of all the uncharacteristic, idiotic things. That wasn’t like her at all. And then to be caught in the lie? Her cheeks warmed at the memory. Their entire interaction had caused the day’s tension to rebound with renewed fervor. She snatched the rag from her back pocket and joined Molly. “You can get out of here if you want. Get home to those adorable children of yours.”

“Are you sure?”

“So long as you’re back tomorrow for the meet and greet.”

“Of course. I need the extra shift.” Molly clocked out on the cash register and shuffled toward the doors. “Who was that guy that was in here? Did you know him?”

Robin stopped mid-wipe and scratched the back of her neck. No, she didn’t know him. Nor did she know why he made a point to come to her café twice in one day. “I just met him today.”

“He’s pretty good-looking. And nice. I hope he comes back.” Molly grabbed her keys from her purse and stepped outside.

A cool breeze swept across the floor and swirled around Robin’s ankles. She blinked down at her shoes, then scoured the table with matchless ferocity. Molly and Amanda needed to get together and form a fan club. One she would not be joining. The guy looked nothing like Micah. Her husband, like all the Price brothers, had a ruggedly handsome, down-to-earth look about him. This man—Ian Whoever—came straight from a GQ magazine. Robin would take down-to-earth over model boy any day.

Once she finished her table-scrubbing, made a quick sweep of the floor, and balanced the cash register, Robin flipped off the lights and stepped into the darkness.

Voices filtered up the cement stairs. One a breathy soprano. The other a familiar baritone. She locked the doors and peered toward the lit street below. It was Ian McKay, talking to someone she couldn’t make out in the dark. She hiked her purse strap over her shoulder and crept down the stairs, keeping her elbows tucked in and her head down, as if a diminished posture might hide her. Maybe, if she walked quietly enough, she could slip past undetected. After her time at Willow Tree, she was ready to get back to Caleb and make sure he hadn’t woken up.

“Hey, Robin!” The breathy soprano thwarted her escape.

The yellow glow from the streetlamp played across Ian’s face, casting shadows beneath his cheekbones. He stood with his hands in his pockets, a waitress from Val’s Diner beside him.

“Hi, Megan,” Robin said. “This is a late night for you, isn’t it?”

“I was just walking home. I worked a double shift. Trying to earn enough money to go to a writers’ conference next month.” Megan had graduated from college last year with a degree in literature. As far as Robin knew, she lived in her parents’ basement and spent her free time writing poetry. She didn’t seem like the boy-crazy, fan-girl type, but she ogled Ian like he was a superhero. The third member of the Ian McKay fan club. “Ian said he stopped in Willow Tree for a late-night coffee.”

“You two know each other?” Robin asked.

“He came to the diner today and ate lunch with the mayor.”

Robin snapped her fingers. “Hey. You’re that guy Cecile was talking about. The developer who wants to build condominiums in Peaks.”

Ian rocked back on his heels, his face falling into shadow. “Word gets around fast.”

Megan leaned toward him like an uprooting tree. “How long are you staying in town?”

“Depends on how fast I can wrap things up.”

“Maybe it will take a long time.” Megan spoke in hope-drenched syllables.

Robin wanted to pull the poor girl aside and give her a lesson in subtlety. Instead, she faked a yawn. “It’s late. I should get home.” She stepped around the pair and fished out her car keys. “Have a good night.”

It took her half the drive before the puzzle piece clicked into place. The condominium man had stopped by her café twice today and both times, he hadn’t ordered anything. Robin pressed down on the gas pedal, as if the speed might carry her far away from the ominous weight sinking into the pit of her stomach.

ENJOYING THE READ? PURCHASE THE STORY ON AMAZON