The Wonder of You (5 page)

He’d debated, then, telling her about himself
 
—about his past, his future. So much of their friendship was spent in the present. But it was that
 
—just a friendship. Until New Year’s Eve and the kiss.

The kiss.
Quick, but awakening something inside him that told him the truth. Enough to reach out to Cicely to ask her permission.

Which, of course, turned out badly for everyone.

“Have you ever met someone who so completely made you feel like yourself?” The words snuck out to betray him, and yet hearing them gave him resolve. He looked up at Jensen, then beyond him, to the Christiansen lodge. “As if that person awakened inside you the person you’ve always wanted to be
 
—and should have been all along? And the more you’re with her, the more honest and right it
feels? Such a person makes you want to lean into everything you could have, reluctant to let it go. You can’t envision a life without her because such a life wouldn’t be worth living.”

He saw Jensen’s hand creep across the table to take Claire’s. “Yes,” he said quietly.

Perhaps Jensen was more an ally than he’d suspected. Indeed, his luck was turning.

Roark put down his spoon. Met Claire’s eyes. “Claire Atwood, I know you don’t know me. I have blown in off the eastern wind and taken up residence in your town, and I am an interloper. But I am not the scoundrel you suppose me to be, and I am here with honorable intent. I have committed no crimes except for unbearably poor timing and abysmal communication skills. I desperately long to set things right with Amelia, to reveal to her the truth behind our regrettable row. I hurt her, and it deeply pains me.”

He swallowed, took a drink of his root beer. Met her gaze again. “However, I promise you this. If Amelia, bearing all the facts of my case, still chooses to reject me, I will walk away and be content to leave her in peace, despite my broken heart.”

Something flickered in Claire’s eye. A flare of trust?

“I humbly ask if you will give me a chance to prove myself, to do as Jensen suggests and earn the respect of the Christiansen family and win back Amelia’s trust. I promise I will not let you down. Nor Amelia.”

Claire stared at him. Jensen didn’t move.

He felt it then, the weight of what he’d come to do. To prove not only to Amelia, not only to her family, but apparently to the entire town that he could win the heart of the damsel of Deep Haven
 
—and deserved to do so.

Finally, from Claire: “Okay, then. Jens, please pass Roark some more bread.”

National Geographic
wouldn’t come in search of Amelia or laud her photographic achievements after today’s not-so-epic shots of Troop 168 and their buckets of sudsy water, but it might be enough to land her the freelance job at the
Deep Haven Herald
.

“Lindy! Alice! Marissa! Show me some smiles and hold up your sponges!” Amelia positioned herself on top of the fire truck, capturing the gap-toothed joy of the soggy Girl Scouts as they scrubbed Edith Draper’s Ford Escape. Water sprayed into the cool air, caught by the breeze and turning to kaleidoscope bubbles against the blue sky and laughter of the fifteen-plus girls working the crowd in the Deep Haven EMS parking lot. A small line of locals, pledging their support of the troop’s fund-raiser for a playground addition, stood around slurping coffee, holding ten-spots, and waiting their turn to get their vehicle sudsed up and sprayed down.

And Amelia caught it all
 
—or most of it
 
—for posterity.

She supposed it could be worse
 
—her tryout for the editor might have been during a council meeting or the annual garden club show. Although extreme close-ups of prizewinning roses did pose a unique challenge. Too bad journalistic photos and macro photography didn’t exactly overlap.

Amelia climbed down from the truck and scanned through her pictures. A few of the girls spraying water on each other, a few more with them crowded together, sponges raised. Football coach Caleb Knight and his wife, Issy, eating donuts with the pastor’s wife, Ellie
 
—her daughter was one of the older scouts. A couple
bubbles drifting into the sky, the sheen of the sun glinting off the surface; she probably wouldn’t show those to Lou at the
Herald
.

But nothing epic. Breathtaking. Magazine worthy.

“Amelia, look out!”

She looked up, searching for the voice just as water showered her, cold, sharp, dousing her T-shirt, her jeans. “Hey!” She tucked her camera away, turning fast.

“Sorry!”

This from one of the girls, her blonde hair plastered to her head from the hose war she’d just waged with her cohort.

Amelia forced a smile instead of stringing the girl up by her multi-badged sash. “That’s okay.”

“Babe, you look good soggy,” Seth called from where he was selling raffle tickets for the fire department in the open bay area. Wearing his turnout pants, red suspenders dangling, and a tight white T-shirt, his blond hair tucked under a patriotic bandanna, he probably sold double the usual raffle take. Especially when he grinned, his teeth white against his tanned face.

He should be on a poster somewhere, for pete’s sake.

Now he sauntered over, picking up a dry towel on his way. Her rescuer.

One of the girls giggled and pointed as Seth wiped her drenched arm.

“They got my camera wet,” Amelia said and took the towel, wiping it down.

“Calm down, Red. It’s just a little water.” He stepped between her and the giggling girls. Lowered his voice. “Hey, I get off shift at six
 
—maybe I can scoot up to the lodge. We’ll take a canoe out. Or take a drive. Or something.”

She knew exactly what his
or something
meant. And for a
moment, the idea of curling up in his embrace in the back of a canoe, staring at the stars . . . it didn’t lack in appeal.

But . . . “I told Lou I’d get some pictures to him. Maybe, if I’m lucky, he’ll give me another assignment.”

Seth’s smile dimmed. “Okay. I get it. You want this photo gig. But it’s not like anything earth-shattering happens here on a Saturday night. There might be a speeder through town. Or a runaway moose.” He leaned against the fire truck, one leg on the running board, reaching out to pull her close. His lips touched her ear. “I miss you. I haven’t seen you all week.”

That’s because she’d spent the week changing sheets, cleaning toilets, and painting flower boxes in anticipation of the resort’s Mother’s Day kickoff to the summer season. If she never saw another paintbrush again, it would be too soon. She couldn’t spend her summer doing laundry and checking in guests.

She untangled herself. “Seth, I’m here to work. I need this job. Please.”

“Mmm-hmm.” His chocolaty eyes trailed down her, back up. He made a face, glanced away.

She frowned. “What’s wrong?”

He cleared his throat. Had the manners to look sheepish. “Your shirt’s . . . um, white.”

The meaning dawned on her slowly. She looked down, and sure enough, her
Evergreen Resort Welcomes You
T-shirt might be a tad too welcoming.

“Great.”

“I got an extra shirt in my locker. C’mon.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and eased her away from the crowd. Next to him, Amelia felt even smaller, but he tucked her close, then took her hand as he led her into the building, back to the locker room.

A few of the other volunteer firefighters lifted their hands in welcome, and she held her camera to her chest for protection.

Especially when Dan Matthews came out of the kitchen, carrying a plate of cookies. “Hello, Amelia.”

“Pastor.”

She heard Seth chuckle and swatted him. “Not funny.”

“Nope. Not at all.” But she heard the smile in his voice.

She followed him into the locker room and gladly accepted his navy-blue Huskies football shirt, ducking into the bathroom to change. It smelled like him
 
—wood chips, the faintest scent of pine, and his musky cologne. Familiar and sweet. She sank, just for a moment, into the memory of donning his football jersey.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to paddle the trail of moonlight with him later tonight.

He seemed to read her mind as he sat down on the bench, pulled her onto his lap. She hooked an arm around his broad shoulders.

“Listen, Red, I know I sort of jumped in fast when you got home. It’s just that I’ve figured out that I don’t want to leave here. I like Deep Haven. I like the mill, and my dad’s going to sell me half of his stake in it. Someday I’ll own the entire thing. I want to build a life here
 
—and I want to do it with you.”

Oh. She swallowed.

“I know that you’re probably not ready, and that’s okay. I’ll wait. But I need to know that you’ll give us a chance.”

When he looked at her with so much emotion in his eyes, what could she say? Besides, what if she wanted this too? What if she’d left Prague because she didn’t want the fear, the danger, the bigness of life outside Deep Haven?

Seth certainly had the power to make her forget, help her heal.

She pressed her hand against his cheek. He hadn’t shaved today, and his whiskers grew out deliciously red and gold. “Okay.”

He rested his hand over hers. “Okay? Yeah?”

“For now
 
—”

But he’d caught her mouth in a kiss, his hand behind her neck. And he tasted . . . like Seth. Diet Coke and the sweetness of a glazed donut and the sureness of knowing who he was and what he wanted.

Familiar. Safe. Amelia let herself relish it, needing him, perhaps.

The alarm broke her free. It blared through the building, followed by the 911 operator. A drowning out on Cutaway Creek.

Seth was up and steadying her even as he pulled his suspenders over his shoulders. She preceded him out the door.

“Where are you going?” he said as he grabbed his jacket, his helmet.

Amelia turned. “Are you kidding me?” She jogged away from him, out to her Kia. Forget the Girl Scouts.

She pulled out as the scouts hurried to clear the lot, catching a glimpse of Seth’s frustration as he kicked buckets out of the way.

On the southwest edge of town, just above the bridge, a waterfall dumped spring runoff into a cascading, frothy river that ran through a gorge right into the mouth of Lake Superior, twisting the current into tiny cauldrons. Boulders the size of Smart cars jutted out into the water, tempting tourists to play Frogger, skipping from one bank to the other.

This time of year, with the spring thaw, the creek-turned-river was hungry.

Worse, higher up, where the hiking trail followed the river, pools of cool water tempted hikers to wade in, unaware of the snaking currents.

And when one person went in, rescuers soon followed
 
—too many to their deaths.

Amelia shot up a prayer for the victims as she took the back streets, dodged traffic, and came out southwest of town, with a straight shot to the river. She had outrun the fire trucks, no whine of a siren in her wake.

She’d get there and catch the entire event for the
Herald
. Lou would have no choice but to be impressed.

Good-bye, housekeeping.

She picked up her cell phone just before she hit the highway and left a message on the
Herald
answering machine. No need to send reinforcements
 
—she had this.

A committee of cars jammed the Cutaway Creek lot, tourists now caught in the tragedy. She parked on the side of the highway, scooped up her camera, and ran to the north side of the creek, where onlookers stood back from the rocky edge. She snapped a quick shot of a mother, dressed in khakis and hiking boots, her grade school–age children pressed against her, sobbing. Another of an elderly couple watching from the bridge, hands gripped white on the rails. A third of a young woman, vise-gripping the hand of her husband to keep him from going beyond knee-deep in the water.

On the other side, at least two men were in the water, surfacing, fighting the current to grab at something wedged in the rocks below the surface.

Now, behind Amelia, the sirens wailed.

Her viewfinder scanned the onlookers, took in another family standing on the shore, a woman and her dog, pulling at the leash, and not far upriver, where the rocks jutted out farthest, a little girl standing just outside the spray of water from the nearby falls.

She wore a pink dress
 
—that seemed the oddest
 
—and her fawn-brown hair was in long braids with big red bows at the ends. Rail-thin, she appeared no older than six.

As Amelia watched, the girl crouched on the rock, balancing on her feet, pulling her dress over her knees as if cold. Her expression seemed almost calm, as if she was oblivious to the chaos around her.

Amelia glanced at the mother in khakis, but she hadn’t moved, her gaze on the river. Maybe . . .

She walked over to the woman. “Is that your daughter?”

The woman glanced at the girl. Frowned. “No.”

Right. Amelia swung the camera over her shoulder, then headed to the river’s edge. “Little girl?”