Brenda Novak - Home to Whiskey Creek

He veered away from that subject, too. “So we were teenagers during the period you were referring to?” He grinned at her. “At least that’s younger than twenty.”

She didn’t hurry to reassure him that she hadn’t meant anything negative by her earlier statement. And he noticed the slight, couldn’t help wondering if it was intentional.

“Yes,” she said. “I lived with her until I graduated from high school.”

He found it odd that a mother would give up her child to tour Europe, but he didn’t want to probe what could be a sensitive subject. He was more interested in figuring out why he didn’t remember her, and why she was so...prickly. He’d never encountered anyone determined to dislike him right from the get-go. He might’ve thought he’d slept with her and never called, but he hadn’t done anything like that until college. In trying to cope with the pain of losing Cody, he’d done what he could to distract himself, and sex had been a more effective distraction than any of his other options. “Which would mean we went to Eureka High together for what...two years?”

“You were a junior when I first noticed you.”

She seemed to remember him distinctly, which made him slightly uncomfortable. Was it possible that she’d had a crush on him? Was that what she held against him—some unrequited love thing? Unlike his brother, he hadn’t been interested in girls until he’d started at San Diego State. “Was it on the baseball diamond?”

“It was in the halls, but I saw you on the diamond, too. I watched you play every game.”

So that was her who’d congratulated him so awkwardly. And...she’d watched him play? Specifically? Maybe he’d guessed correctly about the crush, too. The girl who’d approached him after that home run had turned beet-red the moment he’d looked at her, had seemed to regret being impetuous enough to draw his attention.

“Then you’re a baseball fan.” He was about to explain that he could now recall having seen her, but she cut him off.

“Not anymore.”

Why did it feel as if there was a personal element in that response, as well? As if she was saying she was no longer his fan? “What’s wrong with baseball?” Or me, for that matter?

“It’s become a bit of a symbol to me.”

“That’s cryptic.”

She’d gone cold again, remote. “I’m a cryptic person.”

“So you won’t tell me.”

“There’s no point.”

But he was curious. He’d always loved baseball, still played slow-pitch softball in a co-ed league. For him, sports didn’t symbolize anything except a challenge. “Listen, if I said or did something that hurt your feelings back in the day, I’m sorry. I honestly don’t remember it.”

She attempted another smile, but this one fell short of the more sincere grin she’d flashed him after his online dating comment. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said. “Don’t mind me. I’m not at my best.”

He could understand why. She had to feel like shit. So he cut her some slack. “No problem.”

He drove farther before breaking the silence again. “Where’d you go after high school?”

She stared straight ahead, through the windshield, instead of turning like most people would during a conversation. Her resistance gave him the impression that she didn’t like looking at him. He almost checked the mirror to see what the sweat and mud from his ride had done to his face.

“The California Culinary Academy in San Francisco,” she said.

“You’re a chef?”

Her eyes still wouldn’t meet his. “I was. I quit my job a week ago.”

“In the Bay Area?”

“No, Davis.”

“Why’d you quit? Were you planning to move back to Whiskey Creek? Or are you in town for a visit?”

Sliding lower in her seat, she pulled her legs up under his sweatshirt. “I’m not sure exactly how long I’ll stay. I quit because Gran needs my help. She’s getting old and can’t move around like she used to. She shouldn’t be driving, for one thing, yet she visits me once a month.”

“You can’t come here?”

“I haven’t been back since I graduated.”

“Because...”

“I don’t enjoy returning. But I don’t want to put her in assisted living. That’s never been what I envisioned for her. And some decisions have to be made about the restaurant.”

“Darlene Bigelow basically runs it for her, and she seems to do a good job. Won’t she continue?”

“I plan to keep Darlene on as long as possible, but I’m hoping Gran will agree to sell the restaurant and come back to Davis with me.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. “I’d hate to see the restaurant go to anyone else,” he said. “Just Like Mom’s is an institution in Whiskey Creek.”

She cleared her throat. “As much as I wish otherwise, Gran won’t live forever.”

“But you have restaurant experience. And you need a job.” He grinned, hoping to tempt her into taking his suggestion seriously, but she shook her head.

“I’m a good chef. I’ll find something elsewhere.”

“Then, considering how you feel about coming home, it’s nice of you to give up your job.”

“Actually, quitting wasn’t completely altruistic,” she admitted. “My ex-husband was coming on as manager, so both things sort of cropped up at once.”

Noah had to adjust the heat. He could hardly breathe. “Your ex, huh? That’s bad luck.”

She shrugged. “Luck didn’t have much to do with it. His family owns the restaurant. That’s how we met. But after our divorce, he lost his business—a pest control company—and hasn’t been able to get anything else going. They feel obligated to help, of course. And if I’d forced them to choose between us...well, you know who’d they’d pick.”

“Blood’s thicker than water and all that.”

“Exactly.”

“So...you’re divorced?”

“The marriage was so short it doesn’t really feel that way.”

She was quite an enigma. He leaned forward, hoping to get her to look at him, but...nothing doing. It was almost as if he repelled her. Maybe he stank. After such a difficult ride, that was possible. “Any chance you said ‘I do’ following a hard night of drinking in Vegas?”

He was teasing and he could tell she understood that. “Sadly, we were both sober, just...misguided.”

“How?”

“I thought he’d be true. And he thought I’d put up with him seeing other women.”

Noah knew better than to ask, but he couldn’t resist. “He’s not the one who did this to you....”

“No.”

“Then I don’t understand why you won’t let me take you to the—”

“Who’d you end up marrying?”

She’d interrupted because she didn’t want to deal with the pressure he was putting on her. This was the first personal question she’d asked; he knew it was merely an attempt to distract him.

“No one.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a professional biker. Mostly I race in Europe—during the spring and summer. This is the off-season, so I get to stay home and run my bike store, which is a nice change. Traveling so much can get old.”

“You own Crank It Up?”

“You’ve been there?”

“No, I saw it when I drove through town on Saturday. You took over the building where the old thrift shop used to be.”

“That’s right.”

“So...business is good?”

“Fortunately, mountain biking has become a popular sport. For the most part business is good.”

“Do you ever see Kevin Colbert?”

There was an odd, husky quality to her voice with this question that hadn’t been there before, but he didn’t know what to attribute it to. “Occasionally.”

“Who’d he marry?”