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I didn’t want to stay at all really, and not just because Mom shared her home with three free-range chinchillas. But I had nowhere else to go. Except back to New York, and I couldn’t even think about that yet.
I pushed out through the front door of the cafe, offering friendly smiles to a few of the townspeople who gathered there on Sunday mornings for muffins and coffee.
The air had turned crisp, and I wrapped my arms around myself, wishing I’d thought to pull my jacket from the hook before going out. I didn’t want to go back inside though, the cinnamon spice felt almost oppressive with its air of comfort and family togetherness. It reminded me of happier times, of feeling loved, of being where I was supposed to be. But this place wasn’t where I was supposed to be. I’d moved on, and coming back here felt like a concession. A failure.
I was moving toward the crosswalk, ready to cross the square to avoid walking in front of the little bookshop a block down from Mom’s cafe—I avoided it out of habit, not because I really had any beef with the Tuckers. That was Mom’s thing. I thought the old feud was ridiculous, especially since not a single person seemed to know how it had started. But it was better to avoid conflict, I figured, so I didn’t walk in front of Veronica Tucker’s bookstore, though it was exactly the kind of place I’d love to go lose myself now.
The square was busy for a Sunday morning. There was a man jogging down the other side of the street, looking fit and healthy in a way that made me realize I probably needed to stop self-medicating with Mom’s muffins soon, and there was an old woman in the crosswalk, moving at a dying snail’s pace across the street. Just as I turned to cross, she stumbled and crumpled to the ground in front of me, and as my heart rushed into my mouth with fear and concern, I rushed to kneel at her side.
“Are you all right?” I asked, the question echoed in deep masculine tones on the other side of the old woman. I looked up to find the runner kneeling on the woman’s other side. He must have seen her fall too. I looked a moment longer at him and surprise flooded me as I took in the dark blue eyes, the square jaw and tousled ginger hair. He was a Tucker. Michael, I thought.
“Well,” said the little pile of old woman between us. “Well, I don’t know.”
I didn’t see any blood, and the woman seemed to be lucid—those were good signs.
Might-be-Michael helped her come to a sitting position, and she lifted a small wrinkled hand to her head, glancing between us. “Is my hair all right?”
Her hair was arranged in a cloud-like pouf at the back of her head, and it looked unharmed by the fall.
I laughed, recognizing Filene Easter, who was a long-time friend of my mother’s and had been my babysitter, once upon a time. “It looks fine, Mrs. Easter. Are you all right, though?”
“Did you hit your head?” The runner asked, and his deep blue eyes were fixed on her face, full of concern. Something about his sincere attention made my heart twist inside my chest.
“Maybe you kind children could just help me up,” she suggested, and after exchanging a brief glance, we complied. I felt a little jump of amusement at having been referred to as “children.” I wondered if Maybe-Michael-Tucker recognized me—we’d never really known each other, but we’d both been kids in a very small town, so we knew who the other was. If, in fact, this was Michael. Might-be-Mike had gotten handsome, either way. Even if he was possibly a Tucker.
“Let’s just sit for a moment,” the man suggested, guiding Mrs. Easter to the bench in front of Mom’s shop. “You’re Addison, right?” he asked me, narrowing his eyes. “Your mom isn’t going to, uh. ..” He looked at me questioningly. So he was a Tucker—the trepidation in his eyes confirmed it.
“She’s not really part of the ‘shoot any Tucker on sight’ side of the family,” I assured him. Though Mom was part of the “ask a million questions if she catches me out here with a Tucker,” side. “And you’re Michael?”
“Oh, I see. So she’s just part of the ‘unleash a thousand crickets in a bookshop’ contingent, huh?” he said, bitterness narrowing his eyes. “And yeah, I’m Mike.”
Wow. So we were going there? Better not to engage. This was not my fight. I would not get involved. Definitely-Mike was acting like kind of a dick. “Mrs. Easter,” I said, addressing the old woman and hoping the Tucker at my side would let it drop. “Does anything hurt?”
She looked between us, a tiny smile playing on her thin lips. “At my age, everything hurts, dear.”
Michael chuckled, and I realized that when he wasn’t being an ass about a hundred-year-old feud, his smile might have been considered charming—as was his concern for Mrs. Easter as he asked, “How about anything new hurting since falling a few minutes ago?”
She sighed. “My knee hurts a little bit.” She leaned forward and pulled the hem of her long skirt up higher, revealing combat boots and tall socks beneath. But she also uncovered a bleeding scrape and a rapidly swelling bump. I winced in sympathy. That looked like it hurt.
Michael sucked in a breath and his eyes flew to mine. He looked worried, and in that second, I knew we’d both dropped the topic of the feud. “Oh, that’s just a bump,” he said, in the way one would reassure a worried child.
“Let me give my sister Paige a call,” I suggested. Paige was one of the family doctors in town. “I bet she’ll fix that right up.”
“Oh, no. I don’t want to be a bother on a Sunday morning. I’m sure she’s enjoying some time with that handsome man of hers.”
My stomach twisted a little with envy, thinking that Mrs. Easter was probably right. Paige was probably lounging in bed with Cormac, or enjoying a family breakfast with him and his two adorable little girls. She had a ready-made family, and I—well, that wasn’t important right now.
“She won’t mind a bit,” I assured her, pulling my phone from my pocket. I stepped away and explained the situation to Paige, who agreed to come down and take a quick look. “Why don’t we just go inside here and wait for her? Maybe have some tea? It’s a little chilly out here.”
Mrs. Easter smiled. “That would be nice.”
Michael looked hesitant, but to his credit, said nothing about being led into a Tanner-owned establishment.
As we walked through the door, my mother gasped and dropped the coffee cup she’d been pouring for a customer. “Addie, what do you think you’re doing?”
The broken cup spun across the floor, and then a cold silence spread through the shop, doused in the scent of cinnamon. Michael froze in place, Mrs. Easter at his side. I pulled out a chair at a table by the window for Mrs. Easter.
“Mrs. Easter fell outside,” I said, looking around and feeling like I had to explain myself, not just to my mother but to all the concerned busybodies of Singletree who were staring now, hoping for something to talk about later. “And Michael and I were both right there. Paige is coming to take a look and make sure she’s okay, so I suggested we come in here to wait. It’s cold outside.”
