Three Little Words (10 page)

Dear Ava,

Well, I’m sitting in the middle of the floor of the apartment that looks even less like an apartment than it did before you came to town.

Half the roof is missing.

Appliances were thrown around like marbles in a pinball machine.

And those red walls you hated look like someone mistook them for punching bags.

Oh, yeah, if you haven’t heard, we had a crazy tornado yesterday.

It’s actually not as bad as what we first thought. There were injuries, but no one died. Two houses were completely ruined. The depot had major damage—a blow for the town, and Case, of course. And other businesses and homes had varying degrees of damage.

A tree knocked through one of the windows in the restaurant kitchen, but amazingly didn’t destroy the place.

The apartment, however . . . Well, let’s just say it’s going to be a little while before it’s livable again.

The crazy thing is, I’m having trouble even being upset by it. It doesn’t feel all that important at the moment.

A lady named Rachel stopped by yesterday. She wants to look into franchising The Red Door. Can you believe that? I haven’t even been open a month, but she’s totally serious. And she said if I’m interested—and if this thing actually happens—I could work for the corporate headquarters. Maybe even be a part of deciding where they open the next Door.

And I couldn’t help thinking of your town in Michigan. It’s a tourist town, right? Could it use another restaurant? Do you think there’s enough of a tourist population to support it?

Maybe that’s crazy to be thinking of at the moment, considering the tornado. Maybe the company won’t even be interested anymore. Maybe . . .

Seth stopped typing.

Sighed.

Pale moonlight filtered into the wreckage of a room through the massive hole in the roof and a bird’s chirping replaced the sound of his typing. A breeze floated in from above, oddly refreshing considering the mess all around him. Ceiling beams slanting to the ground in odd angles. A refrigerator on its side. Tarp twisting around a broken table.

This place was a wreck, and he had a restaurant to reopen, but none of it mattered the way it should.

He looked back to his screen, reread his words, and shook his head.

Then pressed Delete.

Other than the jingled greeting of the bells over the front door, Seth’s restaurant echoed with quiet as Ava stepped inside. The Red Door’s hush seemed to reach inside her, smoothing over the nerves that’d sparked through her all through the long day of travel, as if to say,
Welcome home.

But where was Seth? She’d stopped at Case Walker’s when she first got to town, and he’d told her she could find Seth at the restaurant. She’d hopped back in her car before common sense—or truthfully, fear—could stop her.

There was no question this time about why she’d come. She’d come for Seth. Oh, sure, she’d wanted to see the restaurant. Wanted to help in the wake of the tornado. Needed to tell him she’d decided not to interview for that job in Whisper Shore and planned to pack up and move out of her townhouse back in Minnesota once and for all. Hoped to find a job, right here, in the town that’d grown on her so quickly it was uncanny.

But mostly . . . she’d come for Seth.

She looked around The Red Door. Other than a few chairs out of place, the restaurant didn’t look all that damaged.

But then she stepped into the kitchen. “Oh boy.” A tree jutted through the back window. She tiptoed through the mess, avoiding broken glass, heart hurting for the wreck the storm had made of a place Seth had put so much work into.

It’s not irreparable.

The thought sent shoots of hope pulsing through her.
But where
are you, Seth?

She reached the staircase at the back of the kitchen that led upstairs. How had her little apartment fared? She paused halfway up the stairs at the unmistakable sound of . . . typing?

Her heartbeat lilted.
Seth.

She took the rest of the steps two at a time, pushed open the door at the top . . .

It crashed to the floor, fresh off its hinges. Her screech collided with the instant halting of Seth’s typing.

As if in slow motion, his gaze moved from the door—where it’d landed only inches from where he sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor—to Ava.

She lifted one palm in a lame wave. “Hey.”

His brown-eyed gaze was a mix of incredulous and . . . and something she hoped was happy.
Please let it be happy, God.

“What . . . ?” He didn’t even finish the question. Didn’t stand up. Just stared.

Somehow she was vaguely aware of the ruined interior of the apartment. Scattered paint cans and broken glass. A roof so pummeled it’d take tarp the size of a circus tent to protect it from rain until it could be repaired. Branches from trees lugged by the wind and dropped into the apartment.

But she couldn’t look away from Seth long enough to take in any more details. “This is an odd space to get work done in,” she said, motioning to his open laptop.

“Did you see the desk in the kitchen? It’s not so usable at the moment. Not with a tree trunk splitting it in half.”

A warm breeze snuck through the holes in ceiling, along with rays of moonlight, dust particles dancing in the light. “What are you working on?”

“Come sit and I’ll show you.”

She dropped her purse in the middle of the floor and did as he asked, sitting just like he did, wood floor damp underneath her.

“I was writing an email.”

She glanced at his face, lit by the light of his screen. “Who to?”

“Who do you think?”

Something so warm it could probably heat the whole room—in the dead of winter, without even a roof to hold it in—wriggled through her.

“I wrote this whole long email. Said a bunch of stuff. Planned to say even more. But then I deleted it like five minutes ago and rewrote it.” He lifted the laptop and set it in her lap. “Here. Read it.”

His smile . . . she could drink it in and never be thirsty again. How had she ever thought to let him go?
Thank you, Autumn, for packing my suitcase
for me and filling my car with gas and nagging
until I gave in. Thank you, Coach Mac, for not
giving me that coaching job.

Thank you, Case Walker,
for reminding me to pick wisely what I hold on
to and what I let go.

And thank God for the whisper in her heart when she’d woken up this morning. Just like last year when she’d wanted to stay home from that alumni dance.

Go. It’s
time.

“Hurry and read it, Ave.”

“Aren’t you even going to ask me what I’m doing here?”

“Read.”

She lowered her gaze to the screen.

Ava,

I love you.

—Seth

I love you.

She tried to read the words again but the tears pooling in her eyes blurred her vision. She blinked, focused. They were still there.
I love you.

Three little words. The best words. She couldn’t look away from them.

“I do believe that’s the shortest email you’ve ever sent me, Seth Walker.” Her voice cracked.

“Well, technically I haven’t sent it yet.”

And now she couldn’t look away from him. He reached forward to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. She could smell the faint
mint of his aftershave and feel the beat of his heart. Or maybe that was her heart.

“Send it,” she blurted.

He leaned back. “What?”

“Send the email. Right now.”

“Right now? But you already—”

“Just send it.”

He shrugged, reached over to the keyboard, and tapped to send the email. As soon as he did, she pushed the laptop off her lap and stood.

“Where’re you going?”

She yanked her purse from the floor and pulled out her phone, waiting for the
ding
she knew was coming. The quiet stretched. One second, two, three.

She was ready to burst with impatience when her phone finally vibrated. She tapped open the email, felt her heart dance all over again at those same three words.
I love you.

Seth still watched her from the floor, eyebrows raised. She tapped out a reply. Hit Send. Then pointed at his laptop.

“Ava—”

“Check your email.”

Another wait that stretched seconds too long. And the warmth from before, it wrapped around her like a blanket now, so perfect and comfortable and right and . . .

“‘Seth, I
love you, too. Ava.’” Seth looked up at her after reading her email out loud, pure joy in every line on his face. And then he was pushing his computer out of the way and standing and stepping over a broken floorboard . . .

And standing in front of her, reaching for her hands. “That was a pretty good email, Ava Kingsley.”

“You think?”

“I mean, it was four words, so clearly we know who the more concise one is, but still.”

“You would turn this into a competition.”

He stood so close now she was pretty sure it wasn’t only her own warmth enveloping her now. He lifted both their hands, lacing their fingers together. “You know, when you first came to town, you said you’d stay long enough to help with the apartment. I don’t know if you noticed, but it’s kind of a mess. Could take the rest of the summer or even longer to finish.”

“Are you asking me to stay the rest of the summer, Seth?” Her voice came out a whisper, feathery anticipation hovering in the question.

“I was thinking more along the lines of forever.” Seth grinned, leaned in. “But we can argue about that later, if you want.” His breath mixed with hers.

“For once there may not be all that much arguing.”

And then he kissed her.

No arguing indeed.

Keep
reading for a special sample of
From the Start
by
Melissa Tagg.

1

How in the world had rain earned such a romantic rep?

Kate Walker tipped the collar of her jacket and burrowed her chin against the chilly afternoon’s heavy breathing. Chicago’s usual sticky late-August warmth had gone into hiding today—saggy clouds and a veil of gray creating the perfect backdrop for the swoon-worthy embrace playing out in front of her.

The dashing hero holding tight to his girl in the middle of the park, swinging her in a circle as she laughed with abandon. Oblivious to the rainfall, the both of them. And then . . . the most magic moment of all.

The kiss.

Kate folded her arms.

“I know—sentimental fluff, right?”

She turned at the whispered voice beside her. Oh yes, the guy in the unzipped hoodie and ripped jeans who’d found her wandering around the movie set a few minutes ago. Couldn’t have been older than twenty-two, and yet, as he’d led her to the tent under which the hushed production crew for
Love Until Forever
did their work, he’d talked as if he’d been in the film-making biz for decades.

“Say again?”

Raindrops pelted the plastic overhead, and a camera on a dolly scooted along the park’s border. Back behind the tent, a rope separated
those with set badges and the few dozen onlookers currently getting a behind-the-scenes peek at what might be Kate’s last project.

“That’s all these quickie made-for-TV features are. Fluff. The kind tucked in between
60 Minutes
and the local news. Nothing memorable, but it’s a career start, right?” He flashed a smile that assumed she agreed. “I have film-school friends who’d kill to already have any AD credit under their belt.”

Associate director.
And
he has no idea who he’s talking to.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or sigh or just roll with the punches while insult and embarrassment duked it out.

Guess she couldn’t blame the kid. Kate rarely showed up on set—didn’t generally have reason to visit. She’d only come today at her agent’s request. Marcus called this morning, asking her to meet him here, said he had news.

Funny little word, that.
News
.
So many possibilities crammed into four letters.

If only she could still the pecking voice in the back of her mind. The one daring her to hope that maybe, just maybe, this time the news might be good. But better not to get her hopes up.

After all, in the thirteen months since she’d sold her
Love Until
Forever
script, she’d racked up a pile of rejections high enough to give the Sears Tower a run for its money. Scratch that—the Willis Tower. You’d think she’d get the name right, considering she’d had to take a part-time job there, doling out tickets, just to make ends meet.

How had so much changed in just a few short years? From multi-script contracts and her first book deal to standing in the rain, hoping against hope Marcus might have the kind of news that saved careers and made possible things like, oh, paying the mortgage on the cute brownstone in the cute neighborhood she used to think she could afford.

“Cut!” The director’s call ordered.

Where is Marcus anyway?

The AD poked her with his elbow. “Hey, I don’t think I gave you a chance to introduce yourself. You are . . .”

“Kate Walker.” She pulled her hand from her coat pocket and held it out. “The writer of that sentimental fluff.”

His grip on her palm went lax. “I, uh . . . I . . .”

The burst of laughter from behind them—of course Marcus chose that moment to show up—cut off the AD’s sputtered reply. That
and a glare from the director that told her he hadn’t appreciated the chatter on set. She gave the AD an awkward “See ya” and made her escape, deserting the cover of the tent.

Spatters of rain pricked her coat and caught in her hair for only seconds before footsteps splashed in a puddle beside her and a shadow rose overhead.

“Skulking away, are we?” Marcus’s joking voice accompanied the tapping of raindrops on the umbrella he now held over them.

“I can’t believe you laughed.”

“Oh, come on. It was funny.” Marcus tugged on her elbow, pulling her to a stop. With his reddish hair and stubborn freckles, he’d always reminded her of a grown-up Opie. “He’s a newbie know-it-all. Everybody’s like that right after college.”

“He’s cocky—that’s what.”

“Of course he is.” Exaggerated sympathy dangled in Marcus’s voice.

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Of course he doesn’t.”

But he’s right.

There they were again, the nagging whispers she could never quite hush—roused from temporary rest by the AD’s prodding.
You promised you’d
write something important. But here you are, thirty years old
 . . .

Marcus’s umbrella rattled as a gust of wind chugged over the blocked-off street edging the park. “Walker, you’re not actually bothered by what that guy said, are you?”

She was saved from answering by the director’s yelped instructions from the tent. “Start again from the kiss.”

She turned back to Marcus. “You said you had news?”

“Not out here. It’s raining, and I can’t take you seriously when you’re wearing that coat.”

“What’s wrong with my coat?” She cinched its belt as they started walking again. Maybe a little much for late summer—even a cool summer—but she’d take any chance she could get to wear the tweed trench coat with the oversized buttons and turned-up collar. It had character.

“It looks like something a reporter or detective would wear in an old-time movie. I feel like I should call you Ace and start talking really fast.”

“Do it and you’ll only encourage me to wear it more, my friend. As for the rain, a few sprinkles never hurt anyone.”

Especially not lovers on the brink of happily ever after. Not that she’d know all that much about that. But the hunky actor and his costar currently repeating their kiss for the cameras . . . ? The weather couldn’t touch them.

Score one for waterproof makeup and extra-hold hairspray.

Kate stopped abruptly, gaze suddenly and unwillingly stuck on the staged love scene in the park. The brilliant green of a Midwest summer edged up to moody skies, the park’s border of towering cedar, maple, and walnut trees fidgeting in the wind. She barely noticed Marcus bumping into her. Hardly felt the pull of the breeze in her hair. Heard only the hush of a whispered memory.

“
This is right, Kate. Don’t you feel it?”

One prodding smile. One long kiss.

The moment snapped as the actors in front of her parted.

One broken heart
.

She blinked.

“Kate?” Marcus nudged her with his elbow, his umbrella tilting at the movement and sending rivulets of water down its curve. “You okay?”

“Just cold.” She dusted the last specks of her stray memory away with a shake of her head. “It’s Gene Kelly’s fault, you know.”

“What’s whose fault?”

“He did that tap number in a pretend downpour. It’s the reason everybody thinks rain is romantic. Thanks a lot,
Singin’ in the
Rain
.”

“You are cold
and
kooky, Kate.”

She shrugged. Speaking of kooky, though . . . under the soft glare and watchful eye of set lights, the actors in the park were still . . . well, acting. Which didn’t make sense. According to the script she’d written, the kiss ended the scene. Ended the whole movie.

Concern picked its way in as the director’s call sounded from the tent once more. The starring couple broke apart—assistants appearing from opposite directions to offer umbrellas and drinks—and a buzz of activity filled the set, cameramen shielding their equipment and someone barking orders at the props guy.

“Let’s go inside.” Marcus steered her toward the house kitty-corner from the park. From the outside, the two-story structure looked like
any other house on any other Midwest street. Pale blue siding, white shutters to match the white porch.

But Kate had wandered around the set enough to know the inside of the house was a maze of half-built rooms, shallow staircases, and hallways that led nowhere.

All for show.

Unease wriggled through her as their shoes clomped over the rain-splotched porch steps, same questions as always setting her on edge any time she gave them mental space. Had she built a career as fake as this set? Just like the house’s flimsy foundation of wood and plastic—nothing concrete or permanent—had she settled for less-than by peddling ideals she didn’t put much stock in personally?

Romance.

True Love.

Happily Ever After.

Not to sound cynical, but . . .
yeah. Right.

Marcus abandoned his umbrella on the porch, and Kate followed him under the doorframe and into a living room that could’ve graced the cover of a Pottery Barn catalog. Colorful throw pillows perfectly arranged on a beige couch. Framed photos on redwood end tables. Patterned rug reaching to the point in the room where the décor stopped and set lights began.

Marcus motioned for her to sit, then shrugged out of his raincoat and ran one hand through his hair. The movement carried a reminder.

She pushed a pillow out of the way and lowered to the couch. “How’s Breydan?” She shouldn’t have waited so long to ask.

Marcus released a sigh, settled into the rocking chair opposite her. “Okay. Last round of chemo next week. We’re praying this does the trick, once and for all.”

It put things in perspective, remembering Marcus’s little boy. She traced the stitching on the pillow beside her. Her concerns about her career were nothing when stacked up to a word like
cancer.
A child like Breydan.
And
Mom.

“Which reminds me—you’re coming to dinner Thursday night, right? Breydan wanted me to make sure.”

At her nod, Marcus smiled, took a breath. By the time he released it, he’d switched gears. Kate could tell—pressed lips, hesitance in his eyes. Sometime in the past five years, their professional relationship had morphed into a friendship. She usually appreciated that.

But it added an awkward angle to business discussions. Especially . . .

Her hope dissolved even before Marcus spoke.

Especially when the news wasn’t good.

“The network said no. Again.” She supplied the words for him.

He nodded.

“Okay.” She said it slowly, humbling reality loitering in the word.

“It doesn’t make any sense. You took home an Emmy. I’m as shocked as you.”

Except, if she was honest, Kate wasn’t that shocked. It’d been four, almost five years since the Emmy win. And her screenplays had felt forced and dry for a long time now. Which was probably why that scene she’d just watched being filmed had detoured from her original script. Then all those rejections . . .

The warning signs had practically stood in front of her belting out an ominous concerto. But she’d plugged her ears and looked the other way.

Marcus leaned forward, elbows on his knees and concern spelled out in his furrowed brow. “I know this isn’t the news you wanted to hear. It’s been a hard year.”

She pictured little Breydan then. Propped up in a hospital bed. Pale and thin, but with a heart-melting smile powerful enough to reach past all the disappointment in the world. No, she wouldn’t pout about this. “It’s okay. It’s fine.”

And the truth was, once she got past the whole blow-to-her-pride thing, maybe it really would be. Okay, that is. Because hadn’t she been telling herself for years now how wonderful it’d feel to someday write something meaningful? Full of impact. Strong.

To feel as if her words had weight and her characters, depth.

Cottony, tentative hope tiptoed in. What if this was her chance? What if this latest rejection was the nudge she needed to finally branch out and . . .

And what exactly? She’d been trying to define her blurry dream for so long, but it never quite came into view. Which is probably why she was still floundering around, writing stories that felt less and less true with every year that passed. Because she didn’t have a clue what came next. What was a girl supposed to do after her heart dried up and took her creative spark with it?

I just need an open
window, God.
Just a sliver of sunlight to remind her He had a plan even if she didn’t.

“This is a temporary setback, Kate. You’ll write another script, and it’ll get snatched it up, just like that.”

“But what if I—”

The buzz of her cell phone interrupted her. And maybe it was rude, but the temptation to escape this discomfiting conversation got the better of her. She pulled it from her bag and checked the display. New York?

She stood, mouthing a
Sorry
to Marcus. “Hello?”

“Hi, this is Frederick Langston. Is this Katharine Walker?”

Frederick Langston. A name she had seen so many times in Mom’s handwriting. A name she had written it out herself only weeks ago.