8. Hank

8

HANK

" H e was here? In the stable?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"That's good." Dad pointed at the sofa in his den, quietly commanding me to take a seat and file my report. "Tell me everything."

No way. Not happening.

My father's heart had gone through enough lately. He was well aware of my homosexuality and supportive in his own way, but the barn shenanigans might just push him over the edge. Moot point 'cause I didn't kiss and tell.

But damn, I had a hard time keeping my shit-eating grin under control. Hey, sex did wonders for the body, mind, and spirit, and today had been all kinds of amazing.

Denny was a surprise. I hadn't been sure he'd come by. And when he did, I'd half expected him to say this was a mistake and that after careful consideration, he wasn't interested in getting his gay on with me.

No hard feelings. I would have understood. Sex wasn't a big deal to me. It was feel-good fun between consenting adults. No hearts and flowers required. But I was older than Denny. I'd had my heart broken more than once, and I'd learned not to attach sentiment to naked horizontal encounters. That was a new muscle to flex for a guy with a limited dating history.

He'd shown up, though. And wow, just…wow. Christ, Denny had no idea how fucking beautiful he was with that glossy-eyed intensity, his fingers probing my ass, his mouth on my cock. In the fucking barn, no less.

I knew there'd been little to no chance of being discovered. Garrett worked alone on Sunday mornings, and he had a bum knee and bad hearing. But the element of danger added something for sure.

So yes, I was fighting a smile that gave me the mental fortitude required to deal with the clusterfuck I'd taken on. I'd left Elmwood on Friday disheartened at the notion of being the town pariah in New England's version of Siberia, but I was feeling cautiously optimistic now.

"Not much to tell," I commented, settling on the sofa. "The mill is plodding along, the house in Elmwood is nice, and…everyone hates me. But I see light at the end of the tunnel."

With a red blanket covering his legs and the wispy remnants of his once-full head of hair sticking straight up, Dad looked too thin, too tired, too small. But his potent, no-BS stare still spoke volumes.

"What about the hockey player?"

"What about him?"

"C'mon, Hank." He circled his wrist impatiently. "I'm old and I'm dying. Don't leave me hanging."

I furrowed my brow. "That's not funny."

"Yeah, yeah. Just tell me what he said today."

"Nothing much. I'd mentioned my work with Bess, and Denny thought that was interesting and wanted to meet her. This isn't a quick sell, Dad. He's not a professional actor or model, he's an athlete. This is going to require some finesse since I'm not going through his agent."

" Hmm . Do you think he'll do the ad?"

I considered the question for a moment and nodded. "Yeah, I do."

Dad smacked his hand on the arm of his wheelchair. "Well done! Endorsements bring followers, employees, and good will. Mark my words, this is the beginning of a success story."

"Success story" was pushing it, but my outlook on life in the Four Forest area had improved by a thousand percent recently. I knew change wouldn't come fast or easy, but I had Denny Mellon in my back pocket. The fact that he might not physically be in town for another month didn't bother me. I had an ally.

Now, I had to learn a little something about this place. Not just the mill, the whole area.

Starting with Elmwood.

I'd already done the Google search. Population, history, and topography didn't give me enough info, but in case you're interested…population had increased over the past decades in all four towns, thanks in part to the hockey boom. The first settlers arrived in the 1700s, and were most likely hunters. The area was still covered in forest, with gorgeous hillsides, and sweeping panoramic views of Lake Norman and the picturesque New England townships.

No, this wasn't Colorado, but it was beautiful too, I mused as I drove the winding road into Elmwood.

I eased my truck into a parking space near the fountain on Main Street and turned off the engine, absently watching a couple sitting on a bench sipping coffee and a gaggle of preschool age kids skipping while their parents chatted nearby.

On a whim, I scrolled to Denny's contact info. If you were new in Elmwood, what would you order at the bakery?

He replied immediately. A maple cookie, but do NOT get into a big discussion with my grandmother. If she's there, introduce yourself. That's it.

You're extremely bossy for someone who's two thousand miles away , I typed, my lips curled in amusement.

That's cuz I know what I'm talking about. Be cool.

I sent him an animated ice cube gif. Any other tips? Town specialties, things to do, people to avoid?

Ivan makes a mean latte at Rise and Grind. Everything at the diner is delicious, especially the burgers and poutine. Say hi to JC and Nolan. If you're interested, there's good hiking near the lake. Meet the coaches if you can…Vinnie, Riley, Court, Ronnie. There's a movie theater in Pinecrest, sledding in Fallbrook if there's still snow, and you should check out the bookstore. Just don't be weird around MK. People to avoid: my grandmother.

My cheeks hurt from smiling now. Wow, you wrote me a book. Don't pro hockey players work for a living?

Ha. Ha. I'm at the gym. Just got out of the shower.

Oh! What are you wearing?

A towel, perv. You?

I looked down at my ensemble . Jeans, a sweater, and a jacket.

I'm not sure where to go with that.

Me either. I chuckled.

Later. Watch out for Grams. She will eat you alive.

On that note, I stepped out of the truck, tipped my chin in greeting to a passerby, and strode purposefully toward Henderson's Bakery.

The bell above the door chimed and a pretty middle-aged woman with bobbed blond hair and a sunny smile glanced up from the pastries she was arranging in a pink box.

"Good afternoon. What can I get for you?"

I wasn't a huge sweet eater, but damn, this place smelled amazing. I perused the selection of cookies, cupcakes, fruits tarts, and breads, lingering on the chocolate éclairs.

A core memory resurfaced out of the blue: I was four years old, standing in a bakery with my face pressed against the glass, my mom's hand on my shoulder, telling me I could choose one thing. Anything I wanted. I chose an éclair.

"Uh…" I snapped back to reality and homed in on the cookies shaped like maple leaves, drizzled with icing. "I heard the maple cookies are fantastic."

The woman nodded graciously. "They're our signature specialty, first made by my husband's great great-great grandparents a hundred or so years ago. Other than adding icing options, we've stuck to the original recipe, so yes…they're worth a try for sure."

"Great. I'll take two, please. And…an éclair."

"You got it." She grabbed a small box and a pair of tongs for the éclairs. "You're new in town, aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm Hank Cunningham."

"Penny Henderson. Nice to meet you," she said warmly. "Welcome to Elmwood."

"Thank you. I haven't had a chance to really settle in yet, but it seems like a great little town and I?—"

"Ah, I should have known you were a kiss-ass." A gravelly voiced old woman with a halo of white hair shuffled in just then, untying an oversized apron with gnarled, shaky fingers.

"Annie!" Penny gasped in dismay, sputtering as she slid the pastry box across the counter. "I'm so sorry. I?—"

"Oh, relax, Pen. This is the mill guy from Wood Hollow. He's layin' it on thick so we don't boot his booty outta town."

I grinned. "You must be Annie Mellon."

"I am."

Penny gave a nervous laugh. "Annie doesn't mean any harm. Please don't take offense."

"Don't tell him that. I want him to take offense," Annie corrected, reaching for a pink coat on a wall hook near the entrance. "I wouldn't have it any other way. I'll be outside. I need a smoke."

I pulled out my credit card.

"Those are on the house," Penny insisted. "I'm sorry. Annie's a good soul, but she's got a big mouth."

"I was warned. I, um…know her grandson." Commence Operation Name Drop.

She tilted her chin curiously. "Denny?"

"Yeah, we met in Denver. We're…friends."

"Oh. Well, that's great. Does Annie know you're friends? 'Cause generally speaking, she loves Denny's friends."

"With any luck, she'll like me too. Eventually." I thanked Penny and headed outside with the box of goodies.

I found Annie on the bench where the couple had been sitting earlier. There was a decent chance she'd told them to get the fuck out of here so she could sit in peace and quiet. Denny's story about her dressing up as the Grim Reaper at Halloween made a whole lot of sense now.

The funny thing was that she looked so…fragile…and kind of sweet in her oversized pink coat, puffing away on a cigarette.

She motioned for me to join her but kept her gaze on the fountain. "Cunningham."

"Hank Cunningham. It's nice to meet you, ma'am."

"Took you long enough to come around."

"I tried a few times, but you weren't in," I replied.

She blew a stream of smoke before turning to face me. "Denny told me you were a good guy. I have no reason not to believe him, and you have a nice…aura. I don't think you're an asshole, so welcome to Elmwood."

I chuckled. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

I opened the pastry box and held it out. "Want a cookie? I hear they're tasty."

Annie raised a brow. "I made that cookie. Of course it's tasty. You can break off a piece for me if you're inclined to share, but it's so delicious you'll be sorry you offered."

"I'll buy more."

"And I'll make more." She thanked me, holding up the piece of maple leaf with her head cocked thoughtfully. "I've been baking those cookies for seventy-five years now."

"Wow."

"Long time. I've seen a lot in my day…in this town anyway. And I remember a Cunningham coming through these parts a while ago."

"My dad," I guessed. "I know he made a trip to the area five or so years ago. That must have been when he met with the Larsons."

Annie grunted her disapproval. "Money-grubbin' traitors. If they get bitten by gators in Florida, it'll serve them right."

I barked a laugh. "That's a little harsh."

She shrugged. "They sold their town out. I can't tell if you're brave or foolish for taking your dad's place. No one likes the name Cunningham right now."

"Do you think I should change my name?"

"Definitely." Annie winked, brushing crumbs off her coat. "But anyone with a long memory—like me—will remember your daddy's had his sights on this forest for thirty odd years now. Thought quite highly of himself…couldn't believe the Larsons wouldn't sell in the nineties."

I cocked my head in confusion. "I knew my parents had been here together, but I didn't know Dad wanted to buy the mill back then."

She nodded, crushing the butt of her cigarette on the bench. "So I heard. I met your mother that trip, too. Her name is Rose, right?"

I froze. "You met my mom?"

"She was pregnant…maybe with you? I remember because my daughter was expecting at the time too. She'd just moved to Canada, and I missed her terribly. I managed the bakery in those days, like Penny does now, and I was at the counter when your parents walked in."

I hadn't met anyone who could tell me something new about my mother in years. Shock gave way to rabid curiosity. "Really? I—what did she say? What did she look like?"

"Long brown hair, feathered at the sides. That was the style, and she was certainly stylish. Your parents were fancy folks with nice clothes and a shiny car. I hate that shit and I wouldn't have given them the time of day, but the pregnancy part got me. I asked a few questions and found out she was from a tiny speck of a town in Texas and was five months along. She didn't know if she was having a boy or girl, didn't want to know. She had one of each at home, and only prayed for a healthy child. If she had a girl, she'd name her Hannah, if she had a boy, he'd be called Henry. You must be Henry."

I swallowed hard. "I…yeah."

"She said you gave her heartburn and a sweet tooth. I sold her maple cookies and told her the baby would love 'em. If you're that baby, my prophecy has come true," Annie said smugly.

"I…you're sure it was her?"

"It was her," Annie assured me. "She introduced herself. ‘I'm Rose Cunningham and this is my dickhead husband, Bruce.'"

I snorted. "She called my father a dickhead?"

"No, I'm ad-libbing, but she didn't have to say a word. The rich geezer she was with peeled off a few bills and waltzed out the door like a real so-and-so. He was too good for these parts. I could tell she was embarrassed, and it made me mad on her behalf. So I wrote his name on my Dickhead list."

"Your…what?"

"My Dickhead list. If anyone crosses me or my family, they make the list," Annie explained. "Martin Fogerty from Fallbrook pissed me off in 1975. He's still on the list. Yvonne Ingalls from Pinecrest made the list in 1962, but we patched up our differences in '85 and I switched her to the Favorites list in 1999. Favorites get freebies…a cookie, a cupcake, a complimentary coffee. Dickheads don't. The list is mainly for locals, but every so often, a tourist makes the cut, for better or worse. Like your father."

"He's not that bad," I commented, biting into a piece of cookie. "He's just…driven. He can come across as a bulldozer at times. Especially when it comes to business."

She regarded me dubiously. "Imagine my surprise when he showed up five years ago. I heard him pumping Penny for info about Wood Hollow, and that got my hackles up. Wood Hollow has always been good for three things—logging, fishing, and football, but it's the smallest of the Four Forest towns, and there's not much else to do there. They don't have a proper town square, and the main street is only wide enough for trucks to haul wood. Youngsters from Wood Hollow usually migrate here or to Fallbrook or Pinecrest after high school. Or…they fuck off to Burlington. So what on Earth would a city slicker, Cadillac-driving out-of-towner like Mr. Cunningham want with Wood Hollow? Now we know he wanted to buy the mill, deforest the hillsides, and rob us blind for a buck."

"That's not exactly true. We're sustainable harvesters who?—"

"Don't give me that new-age hooey," Annie groused. "You can put lipstick on a pig and it's still a pig. Those business transactions were done in secret because your father knew he wouldn't be welcome. Sneaky bastard. I'm sure you're a nice man, but you're here to do your daddy's dirty work, and everyone knows it."

This was where I was supposed to deny her accusations and feed her a line about having the best of intentions. It wouldn't be a downright lie, either. But the mill was a business, and I was here for a buck, doing my father's dirty work for my own personal gain.

I wasn't sure how to sugarcoat the truth, so I fixated on the water bubbling at the base of the fountain. "Am I automatically on the Dickhead list too?"

"You shared your cookie, so…no. Or not yet. Maybe you take after your mom."

"That would be cool." I smiled at the thought. "I barely remember her. I was five when she died."

Annie patted my hand. "Oh, honey. I'm sorry for your loss. She was lovely."

I passed over another piece of cookie. "Thanks."

We sat quietly for a minute or so. It was strange to think that my mom had been in that bakery, had seen this fountain, and had talked to this woman. I was hungry for details I doubted Annie could give, but she had other things on her mind.

"Just so you know, Denny told me that he met you in your hotel. He said to be nice to you. And he meant it." She shifted on the bench to aim a grumpy look my way. "But I don't want to be nice to you. I want to be mad, so what are you gonna do about that?"

"Uh…buy a lot of cookies?" I tried, pleased that her annoyed snort morphed into a chuckle.

" Hmph . I might be old, but I'll kick your butt if you mess with him."

"Denny and I are friends. He's the first friend I've made here, and I don't take that lightly. Maybe you're my second?"

Annie rolled her eyes as she stood, fiddling with the buttons on her coat. "Don't get ahead of yourself. Maybe Denny's right and you're a good egg, but now you know why not everyone will be rooting for you, so…you're welcome for the information. See you later, Henry."

I stayed put long after Annie headed back to the bakery, my mind buzzing with rogue memories, old loss, and the confirmation that I was on a diplomacy mission. If what Annie had shared was true—and I didn't doubt her—my father had misjudged the notion that the Cunningham name was an asset here. It wasn't.

But I wouldn't get anywhere if I didn't make an effort.

Starting now.