Ruth Herne - Small-Town Hearts

A house would be different. Someday she’d live in a sweet old colonial that hadn’t been split into multiple units, raise a bunch of kids, bake cookies, make candy for her own brood and welcome her husband home every night.

She faced Danny. “Rent is due by the first of the month.”

He grinned. “Which makes me late already. Here you go.” He bent and filled out a check drawn on a local bank. She frowned and raised an eyebrow toward him.

“You don’t live here.”

“No, but I opened a local account for business purposes before I came down. Makes things easier because, as you noted this morning, not every business down here uses plastic.”

She accepted the check, scanned the amount, noted that it was for two months and gave him a brisk nod. “Thank you, Mr. Graham.”

He edged closer. “My friends call me Danny.”

She refused to budge despite his proximity, tilted her head up and met the undisguised twinkle in his gaze. Oh, yes, this boy had been around a bit. Or maybe she was becoming an old cynic like Mrs. Dennehy, the grocer’s aged mother. She bit back a sigh, met his gaze with an equanimity she didn’t feel and angled her head slightly, knowing that maneuver had caught his attention earlier. “But we’re not friends.”

He nodded toward the check and grinned. “We might be in two months. Wouldn’t hurt to get in practice, Miss Russo. After all, we are going to be neighbors.”

And that was all they’d be. She’d make certain of that. She nodded and moved toward the door, refusing to feel trapped over something as simple as a name. Besides, he was right. They’d be living side by side for eight weeks. She gave him an over-the-shoulder glance as she descended the stairs, noting his approval seemed just as notable going down the stairs. “Megan. My friends call me Meg.”

“And Ben calls you Meggie.”

She nodded and glanced back again, but this time held his look. “He’s the only one that calls me that. Got it?”

His grin deepened. “Got it. Can I move in tomorrow?”

She withdrew a key from her front pocket and dangled it in front of him. “Whatever works for you.” She stuck out a hand once he accepted the key and flashed him a smile. “Welcome to Jamison.”

His grip was strong and firm. She refused to acknowledge the sweet spark of awareness that traveled up her arm and through her chest, nestling somewhere cozy in her belly. He held her hand a little longer than could ever be considered necessary and dipped his chin in acknowledgement when he let it go. “Thank you. It’s nice to be here.”

“Yowza.”

Meg shot Hannah a warning look the next afternoon. “Stop.”

“He’s moving in?”

“How’s that nut chopping coming, Hannah? You done yet?”

“Today?”

“Hannah Moore…”

“Got it.” Hannah ducked beneath the counter, withdrew a tub of toasted almonds and filled the food processor halfway. She hit On, and the ensuing noise stopped conversation until the nuts were evenly chopped to her satisfaction. She dumped the cylinder into a bowl and then repeated the process twice more. Stepping back, she eyed the bowl and the chocolate vat, then nodded. “We’re good.”

“Thanks. Measure out three cups of those for the toffee, and we’ll be just about there.”

“Wonderful.”

The half wall and Dutch door made it easy to keep an eye on the store. The old-fashioned bell over the door helped, too, an old-school way of announcing a customer when Megan’s attention was diverted. Hannah set the three cups aside in a smaller bowl and glanced out the window. “A customer.”

“You got it?”

“I do.”

Megan swept her chocolate-dotted apron a quick glance as the door chime announced what Hannah already knew, her warm voice mingling with others as the tourists exclaimed over this and that.

It was early yet. Midweek mornings were traditionally quiet while tourists walked, climbed, went sightseeing and shopping. Since chocolate didn’t do well in cars on a warm summer day, the candy store was generally their last stop before heading home or back to the motels in nearby Wellsville. That meant Meg made good use of the mornings, both before and after the shop opened, then busied herself with customers the rest of the day. And her ice cream window business was steady from three o’clock on, especially when area kids had summer sports in the evening. Then the line could grow ridiculously long in a relatively short space of time.

She’d hired a local college girl, Crystal Murphy, to help out part-time and had two more college girls consigned to run her weekend festival booths. Coupled with Hannah’s summer-shortened library hours, they should be all right.

When Hannah returned to the kitchen, she met Meg’s gaze and swept the departing family a wistful look. “They had the cutest baby.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Hannah checked the toffee bar molds, nodded satisfaction, then tipped her gaze Megan’s way. “What’s that look for?”

Megan shrugged. “I hate being in my thirties.”

“Stupid biological clock?”

“Exactly. As much fun as this all is—” Megan waved a hand around the white kitchen “—it’s not exactly what I’d planned for this stage in my life.”

“Something that included a cute and loving husband, a couple of kids, a kitchen of your own and a cozy fire on long winter nights?”

“Bingo. I’m not even close to anything like that, and I can’t help but wonder why. Is it me? Them? Are men different from what they were before?”

“Umm. Asking the wrong girl. I’d kind of decided that was beyond the realm of possibilities before I moved here. Mostly I’m okay with that.”

“Should I ask why?”

“Probably not. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” Something in Hannah’s tone, or maybe it was her bearing, made the words more poignant and less funny, but Megan refused to pry.

“A need-to-know basis.” She nodded, laughing. “I get it. Obviously the witness protection program is using Jamison, New York, as a current venue.”

Hannah tipped an amused look Megan’s way. “Yup. My real name is a state secret.”

“Since I love the name Hannah, you may keep it a state secret.”

“Does it bug you, Megan? To have been that close to marriage twice and have it fall apart?”

Megan weighed her answer as she watched the toffee mixture darken and condense. “If by ‘bug’ you mean have my episodes of public humiliation turned me off members of the opposite sex for the duration of my natural life, I’d have to say that’s understandable, considering the circumstances.”

“Michael was a jerk.”

“I know. And so was Brad. But the turnaround of that is—why do I attract jerks? Am I so needy that I latch on to any Tom, Dick or Harry that comes along?”

“So if my name was Tom, Dick or Harry, you might give me a chance?”

Megan stopped stirring the boiling toffee mix, mortified.

Danny stood at the back door to the kitchen, looking way too amused and sure of himself for anyone’s good, particularly hers.

“Eavesdropping is against the lease rules,” she said.

He waved a careless hand to the open door. “You weren’t exactly quiet. I could hear you in the yard.”

Hannah tried to mask a laugh, unsuccessfully. She shot him a look as she removed a tray of supersize cookies from the oven, set it down and replaced it with another. “He’s right. I forgot he was out there. Sorry.”

Danny leaned his elbows against the metal brace separating the upper screen from the window below. “Back to my question…”

“No.”

“You’re sure? I could change my name.”

“Listen, I’m working right now, and toffee has a mind of its own. As much as I’d love nothing better than to grow old sparring with you, the likelihood of that is zero. So if you’d be so kind as to maintain a proper landlord/tenant relationship at all times, we’ll both be better off.”