Chapter 2

TWO

Maybe fate had decided to warn him off, because fifty miles out of Duck Lake and a hundred miles over the Iowa border, steam poured through the hood of good old Aggie, like her entire engine might be on fire.

The white smoke curled out in the brisk, pale-blue sky. It dissipated quickly, the frigid air gobbling it into the ether.

Just another sign that this trip home was a no good, very bad idea.

Jack grabbed a wool hat and his gloves as he opened the door and climbed out onto the shoulder.

Not a soul in sight on this lonely stretch of country road. The sun cast a few shadows over the scarred and rumpled cornfields, blanketed with a fresh layer of white after an early-January blizzard.

Maybe this was punishment for missing Christmas. And the Christmas before. In fact, he had a lot of making up to do.

He blew out a breath as his feet crunched against the shoulder snow and ice. He reached in to unlatch the hood and then wrenched it up.

The radiator cap bubbled, hot and angry, the steam pouring forth like Vesuvius.

He reached out a gloved hand to unscrew the top, then yanked it back, the heat seeping through the leather.

Perfect .

He grabbed his hat for padding, added it to his grip, and managed to pry off the top.

Water spurted out like a geyser. He stepped back, away from the steam and boil.

Way to go, Jack . This was what happened when a guy lived in Florida and fed his radiator hose with water instead of coolant.

So much for his brilliant idea to stop over at West and Nat’s place. Apparently, the frigid Iowa temps had done a doozy on his hose.

Which meant he’d either have to hitch the rest of the way and ask for a tow or . . .

Well, he could wait until his engine cooled and turn around, head south.

They probably wouldn’t even miss him at tonight’s prewedding soiree.

Aw. Then his father would really murder him.

No, he’d wait for the boil to die, fill ’er up, and limp the rest of the way to Duck Lake.

Twenty minutes later, after scrolling through the Crime Stoppers board on his phone, he found a water bottle and went back out to his now cold engine. The water had stopped bubbling, the smoke dissipated.

Here went nothing. He poured the water into his radiator and capped it.

Got back into his schoolie. “C’mon, Aggie, give me some love.” Then he closed his eyes and started up the bus. It rumbled to life, the 1995 GMC Vandura 3500HD shaking a little, like she might be tired. Exhausted, actually.

Him too. “You can do it, sweetheart. Just fifty more miles.”

He pulled out, watched the heat, and kept it under sixty as the sun sank into the snowy hills, turning the blanket of snow to fire. The landscape merged into forest as he drove through river country, the maple and oak stripped, brightened with snow, the tall paper birch white against the green fir.

Aggie coughed and he eased up even as he started to roll into the outskirts of Duck Lake. The facelift after the great tornado of ’18 had revitalized the town. New storefronts, updated to look like a Hallmark movie scape, with tall lampposts flanking Main Street like the Gates of Argonath. (Maybe he’d watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy too much as a child). Still, the town seemed buzzing, even at the height of January, and maybe Bront? and Oaken’s wedding had brought in a few gawkers.

He braked for a couple of women who ran out between cars, wearing UGGs and pom-pom hats and holding pink bags from, if he could read right, Elle’s Secret Garden Boutique .

So much for the Ben Franklin.

He spotted other newer joints—a gift shop called Maple Treasures, and Frost and Feather Outdoor Gear, the Tipsy Canoe—a craft brewery—as well as an upscale restaurant called the Paddle House. At least the Lumberjack’s Table still sat at the end of the street, but losing the attached bowling alley had upscaled the establishment—no more neon lights in the windows.

Jack hardly recognized the place, really.

A Sip and Paint place, Serenity Spa, and a coffee shop caught his eye—Echoes Vinyl Café.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t a terrible overhaul. Thankfully, the King’s Inn hadn’t been hit by the tornado. He couldn’t wait to climb into his old bed, listen to the wind off the lake, smell his mother’s cinnamon rolls.

Apparently, he was eighteen again.

No. If he were eighteen, that would make Harper Malone twelve, and that was just Not. Right. At best, maybe he could be twenty-four again, but even then . . .

Please, let her not be at the wedding .

Aggie crept all the way to the parking lot of the Duck Lake Market, two blocks off Main, then settled there as if she might be an old dog, finding its final resting place.

He got out to a pillow of steam and didn’t bother opening the hood. Instead, he headed inside the market, looking for the manager.

A woman sat at the desk.

Huh. He walked to the counter. The woman, in her midtwenties, sat on a stool, wore a blue smock, her name—Anna—pinned to her shirt. “I need to speak to the manager.”

“He’s out.”

“I just need to ask if I can leave my bus here while I get a tow.”

She shrugged.

Great . He grabbed one of the nearby community cards—this one for a late-night transportation for parties, weddings, etc.—and wrote his name and number on the back. Held it out to Anna.

She looked at it. Then picked up a card and handed it to him. “Call him yourself.”

Oh. He pocketed his card and took hers. “Gordo Martin. Thanks.”

He turned to leave?—

“Jack Kingston.”

He found the source of the caller and smiled. Okay, so maybe coming home didn’t have to be a failure. “Hey, Mr. Harrison.”

His former history teacher leaned hard on a cane, wearing black galoshes, an oversized canvas jacket, and a plaid wool hat, and held warmth in his eyes. “You’re back for the wedding.”

He shouldn’t be surprised. When your sister was marrying an international country-music star, your little town, population 1,200, might know about it. “Yep.”

Mr. Harrison held a basket, and Jack wanted to carry it for him, but Harrison had always been a tough old codger, so he held back the urge. “You okay?” the man asked then, glanced outside, maybe at the old bus.

“Yeah.”

“Tan.”

“I live in Florida. Most of the time.”

“Mmm.” Harrison looked him over. “Keeping out of trouble?” He smiled.

Jack smiled back. “Not much.”

“I read your book.”

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“Riveting. As was the interview on Nightline .”

Even after all these years, a burn swept through him. “Thanks.”

The man patted his shoulder. “Always knew you’d amount to something.” He winked. “Once a Boy Scout, always a Boy Scout.”

Oh. He swallowed. “Yeah. I guess.”

Harrison laughed, familiar and kind, and then gave Jack’s arm a frail squeeze. “Nice to see you home.” He shuffled past.

So maybe this hadn’t been such a terrible decision.

Jack headed back outside, undid the hitch to his old Geo Tracker, keyed the engine on to warm, then packed some gear into a bag, locked up the bus, and gave Aggie a pat on her worn white exterior. “I’ll be back.”

Then he got into the Geo he’d towed behind him and headed home.

He expected something quiet, maybe a couple family cars pulled into the cleared lot of the King’s Inn—surely his mother would have blocked out this weekend from guests.

Instead, as he neared the inn, the lot seemed almost full. He counted upward of ten cars. Perfect . The celebrity wedding gala had already begun.

He wedged his tiny SUV into a spot between an Escalade and a snowbank, then got out and headed toward the door.

“Seriously?”

The voice stopped him and he looked up.

Bront? stood on the porch, her parka open to the wind, her dark hair under a hat, wearing a pair of furry UGGs, holding a pair of keys.

“Hey—”

And then, just like that, she rushed him. He got his arms out just as her arms flung around his neck, holding tight. “You made it!”

Oh. Oh.

He didn’t know what to do with the rush of heat to his chest, to his throat, to his eyes. Talk about seriously .

She broke away, held his arms, staring up at him, her pretty brown eyes watery. “You showed up.”

Wow, had he misread . . . maybe everything? “Of course I showed up. Can’t let my kid sister get married without checking out the guy.”

She smiled.

He shrugged.

Maybe, just like that, it could be over. His words, her hurt, four years of regrets.

She wiped her cheek. “You’ll like him. He sings songs.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I gotta go over to Doyle’s. Penelope Pepper is there and I’m checking her in.”

“Really? The podcaster?”

“Yeah. She did the podcast on the Grizz case. We got kind of close, and I needed an extra, so she’s in the wedding. Besides, she and Harper used to be roomies, so we thought that would be fun.”

She said it just like that, dropping Harper’s name as if the woman hadn’t made him run from Duck Lake for the better part of a decade.

No big deal.

“Harper?” He managed, somehow, to say it like a bomb wasn’t exploding in his chest.

“I know you remember her.”

He swallowed. “Um . . .”

“Oh please. My best friend? Blonde hair? Lived down the trail?” She pointed to a trail in the woods that connected the King’s Inn property to the cottage on 458 Whispering Pines Drive. “We called her Bee.”

Yeah, and he’d called her Pigtails . Which only brought to mind the fact that for most of his life, he’d seen her as one of his kid sister’s friends.

Never as a woman he’d consider kissing.

“Yes, I think so.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. Shrugged.

“I hope so.” She shook her head. “Anyway, you two are walking down the aisle together.” She squeezed his arm. “And by the way, you’re bunking at Doyle’s too, so giddy up after you say hi to Mom. I’ll get you settled.”

Oh. Great .

He’d never needed Aggie more than right now.

Because clearly, the trouble was just beginning.

* * *

Please, God, if you’re listening, don’t let Jack be here.

Harper sat in her car for a long moment, letting the vehicle warm up, fighting a shiver. She could do this. She could . . .

Her breath made a fog spot on the windshield, so she finally put her car into reverse and backed out of the driveway, then headed down the road toward King’s Inn Drive.

Something about seeing the old place, however, loosened the tightness in her chest. Even if Jack did show up, maybe he’d forgotten the . . . well, the horror.

Mortification.

Right. As if.

She pulled up next to a smattering of vehicles and got out. Left her bag in the car just to take in the changes.

Maybe none. The old Victorian seemed to have weathered time. The apron porch circled the house, bumping out around the turret, swept clean of snow, and now twinkle lights hung from pillar to pillar, glinting in the fading sunlight. Pine trees decorated in white and blue ribbons—probably wedding decorations—sat at the base of each pillar.

Inside would be three stories of gleaming parquet floors, stamped-metal ceiling tiles, leaded bay windows, a fireplace in every room, and facing the lake, a turret bedroom that a princess might live in .

Five second-story bedrooms, two with sitting areas that overlooked the lake, a couple third-story rooms with an adjoining bath, and of course the turret bedroom meant they specialized in family reunions and other cozy events.

Harper had received the digital invitation: the ceremony taking place at Heritage Church, the reception in the third-story ballroom that could easily seat eighty or more.

Probably, the majority of the guests would stay in Duck Lake at the rebuilt Duck Lake Motor Lodge on the south end of town, but hopefully the family had room for Harper somewhere. She would sleep in a closet if she had to.

Or maybe at the carriage house, where the Kingston siblings had grown up. It sat away from the main inn, a two-story home with another five bedrooms, remodeled over the years by her father. Three more homes, built at the turn of the twentieth century by the original owner, Bing Kingston, newspaperman turned Gilded Age millionaire, sat farther on the north end of the property, with their own set of multiple bedrooms, gleaming mahogany trims, multiple chimneys. Palaces of their time.

Grover and Emily Kingston ran them all with their son Doyle, who occupied one of the smaller homes.

Smoke drifted from the largest chimney in the main home, and Harper took a breath and climbed the stairs to the porch. It creaked as she walked up to the main entrance with the Welcome to King’s Inn sign.

She opened it.

The smell of baking cookies nearly made her moan. Yes . This was home, really. When she stepped inside, to the warmth of the foyer, the laughter from the kitchen, deeper in the house, swept her back to dreams and hopes and the family she’d longed for.

Before, of course, she’d blown all that up.

She could do this.

A lemony verbena scent emanated off the gleaming woodwork. To her left, a small fire flickered in the heart of the parlor slash turret, and to her right, the dining-room table held cookies and cupcakes and chocolates all under glass domes for guests.

Ahead arched the rotunda that held the circular stairs leading to the second and third floors. The antique table in the center held a massive bouquet of holly leaves and pine boughs, velvety amaryllis, pristine white roses, and deep red peonies.

Harper, can you arrange the flowers? Make sure to use plenty of blue thistle and lavender.

She swallowed back the memory, pulled off her jacket, and hung it on a tree rack. Stamped off her boots then and followed the carpet through the rotunda to the massive sitting room that overlooked the lake.

A fire blazed in the tall stone hearth with the walnut mantel. A couple rounded sofas faced each other—a private chatting area.

Another grouping of overstuffed cigar chairs, all in a circle, sat near an alcove, and in the center of the room, two long tufted-leather sofas flanked a massive oak-slab coffee table, hauled from California that one summer.

A couple groupings of wingback chairs anchored the corners of the room.

Guests sat in the overstuffed leather chairs, and an older woman and a man in jeans stared out the massive picture windows overlooking the lake, talking.

She ducked into the kitchen.

Two women stood at the expansive stainless-steel island.

The room went silent, just for a second. Then Emily Kingston put down a bowl of batter, wiped her hands, and held out her arms. “Look what the wind blew in!”

Harper didn’t care about the flour or the fact that she would probably get batter on her cashmere sweater. “Mama Em.”

“You look amazing.” Mama Em held her by the shoulder. “That haircut—oh so cute.”

“You think? I took it off above the ear this time?—”

“I’m telling you—I always loved your summer cut. This is darling. Austen, don’t you agree?”

Austen came over, her dark chestnut hair long enough now to be tied back, wearing a hairnet and an apron, lean and tanned and gorgeous—oh, Harper had longed for one ounce of the older Kingston sister’s beauty.

“Girl, you look like you belong on a beach.” Austen gave Harper a hug. “Have you seen Bront? yet?”

“No. I uh?—”

“I think she’s getting your friend Penelope settled over at Doyle’s place.” Mama Em had returned to her batter. She wore her own short blonde hair tied back in a handkerchief, her King’s Inn apron cinched around her tiny waist. Not the picture of an award-winning baker, but the woman knew her cakes, breads, and cookies.

And she possessed the gift of hospitality like she’d written the book. “We had to double up on the accommodations with all of Oaken’s people staying on-site. They’re over at Grover House.”

Oh. “Um . . . do you . . . I mean . . . so, my mom is remodeling my bedroom?—”

Emily looked up at her. Blinked.

Oh. “Forget it—” Maybe she could find a room at the Duck Lake Motor Lodge. They usually had vacancies this time of year.

“What? Do you think we’d let you stay anywhere other than with us?” Mama Em added a little oomph to her words, the batter taking the brunt. “Bront? has you bunking with Penelope. I really like her, by the way.” She put the bowl down. “Bront? has gotten really close to her this past year with Penelope doing that murder podcast.”

“I heard she’s in the wedding.”

“Yes. Well, head down to the house—Bront? will get you checked in. And then”—she used the spatula to stir—“dinner is out at the Moonlight Supperclub.”

Austen waved as Harper left the kitchen.

Harper got in her car and headed down the road to Doyle’s place, Mama Em’s greeting sitting sweetly in her mind.

See? Maybe she would survive all of this.

Doyle’s place was a smaller version of the big house, with an apron porch, parquet flooring, a stone hearth, and three bedrooms upstairs. So much room for Doyle, but he had his reasons for wanting space, probably, after the tragedy.

She got out, left her bag in the car, and walked up the front porch. Knocked, then opened the door. “Boo?”

Footsteps sounded upstairs, and she shut the door. Stood there, listening for Boo’s voice, hearing her laughter upstairs.

Yes, she was going to be?—

“Harper.”

She turned, stilled, and of course, he looked . . .

Devastating.

Dark hair curling past his ears, wearing a denim shirt that outlined his shoulders, his muscled arms. A skim of dark whiskers, and worst of all, those crazy blue eyes the color of a stormy sky, cutting off her breathing, stripping words from her brain.

Jack.

She may have mouthed his name, because he arched a dark eyebrow.

He even smelled good, something of the woods and the sky and the sense of adventure radiating off him.

So. Not. Fair .

Footsteps thumped on the stairs, and she nearly collapsed into a heap when Boo called out, “Harper! Oh good, you made it.”

She nodded, her eyes still on Jack. Run. Or breathe. Something.

Boo grabbed her into a hug, and it did the job of tearing her gaze off Jack.

Beautiful, horrible Big Jack, the oldest of the Kingston clan—the charmer, the hockey captain, the Eagle Scout, her first and enduring childhood crush, who clearly still had a knee-wobbling effect on her.

Sheesh.

Boo let her go and looked at her, then Jack. “Perfect. You’re both in time for dance lessons.”

Dance . . . what . . . “Dance—wait— what ?” Harper said.

Boo laughed then, her beautiful eyes lighting up. “Yeah. You’re walking down the aisle together, so guess what—you’re partners!”

Clearly, he already knew because his mouth tightened, a look of pain on his face. Yeah, well, her too.

Like, what was Boo thinking?

Did she have amnesia? Because certainly Boo knew . . . or maybe not. Harper fished back through her memories and found herself stuck.

“I know things were a little awkward between you too after—” Boo made a face and turned to Jack. “Well, we all know it was just a big misunderstanding, and so many years ago, and we’ve already paired up all the other bridesmaids—Austen with Steinbeck, and my current roommate, London, is walking down with our friend Shep, and Conrad is with Penelope, and Doyle . . . well, he’s agreed to be an usher, so that’s improvement, but . . .” She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. I guess you two were the only ones unmatched.”

Jack made a noise, deep inside his chest, but swallowed, nodded. “It’ll be fine, Bront?.”

She glanced at Harper.

Harper’s turn to act like all the air hadn’t left the room. “Sure. Of course—no problem.”

“Perfect. Great. Okay, Harp, I have you upstairs with Penelope. Jack, can you grab her bag?”

“Oh, no—no worries, Boo, I got this—” Harper turned toward the door.

Jack reached for the knob the same time she did, and her hand landed on his. He jerked away as if she might be a flame, about to burn him.

Nice.

She glanced at him. “Really, I can do this.” Then she opened the door and headed outside.

She could lie with the best of them too.

Because she’d clearly been lying.

No, she couldn’t do this.