Eliza did, too.
More than she wanted to admit.
* * *
As Grant strolled down Main Street, he marveled at how little the town had changed. Jack’s Diner, Hank’s Hardware and Video Rental, Sadie’s Sweet Shop… all exactly where he’d left them.
Amused, Grant chuckled as he read the various store signs. The small businesses in Poppy Creek sure wouldn’t win any awards for Most Original Name.
But as much as everything had remained the same, something was different. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.
Closing his eyes, Grant drew in a deep breath, welcoming the wave of nostalgia carried on the late afternoon breeze. The sweet floral scent of wisteria mixed with…
Grant hesitated, his eyes fluttering open. Did he smell sawdust? And where was the delectable aroma of Maggie’s freshly baked cinnamon rolls?
He picked up his pace, letting muscle memory lead him to his favorite childhood haunt. But when his feet paused in front of a white brick building with a rustic wooden door and hand-carved sign dangling above the entrance, his heart sank.
The Calendar Café? What happened to Maggie’s Place? In high school, they would frequent the bakery nearly every Saturday afternoon to devour the plump, gooey pastries.
Grant’s gaze darted across the town square to Luke’s law office, confident Luke would have the answer.
Ifhe agreed to talk to him, that is.
As Grant strode purposefully across the center lawn, blades of recently cut grass clung to the soles of his suede sneakers. He’d spent countless hours of his youth playing catch on the same field with Luke, Colt, and their dad. In many ways, Leonard Davis had filled the shoes his own father refused to wear. Which made it all the more painful to hear of his passing.
Grant had wanted to come home to pay his respects, but he’d fallen out of touch years ago. And, like the coward he was, he couldn’t bring himself to face everyone he’d left behind. Instead, in true spineless fashion, he’d sent a card and flowers he couldn’t afford.
Standing in front of the Western-style shiplap building, Grant hesitated. The bronze plaque on the front door still read L. Davis Law Office, and the aged patina and myriad of dents and scratches indicated Luke hadn’t replaced it when he took over his father’s law practice. A fact Grant found oddly comforting.
But as his gaze drifted upward, his brow furrowed in confusion. A huge wooden sign that read Davis Designs hung over the entrance. The subtitle was even more mystifying. Bespoke Furniture? It didn’t make any sense. Unless Luke had simply kept his father’s plaque as an homage when he’d switched to a new line of work.
Grant removed his glasses and wiped the lenses on the hem of his polo shirt before reading the sign again. His mother kept him fairly informed on the town gossip, but she hadn’t mentioned anything about Luke leaving the family business in favor of woodworking.
But then, Grant had long suspected his mother of only divulging select information, with fewer and fewer details as the years passed. In fact, during their visit at Christmas, her insights into Luke’s impending engagement seemed intentionally vague, spurring Grant’s impulsive trip back home a few days later.
Determined to finally reconnect with long-missed friends, Grant could only hope he wouldn’t chicken out this time around.
Steeling himself against the uncertainty, he squared his shoulders before pushing through the front door, immediately noting that the inside had changed even more drastically than the outside. Several walls had been knocked down, creating an expansive open space to showcase exquisitely crafted furniture. Grant’s artistic eye led him toward a particularly impressive rocking chair with sleek lines and intricate engravings along the headboard.
As he reached out a hand to graze the smooth mahogany, a faint click-clacking sound drew his attention toward the large brick fireplace. An elderly woman slouched in a rocking chair by the hearth, her short-cropped silver curls bent over a pair of large knitting needles.
“Oh, excuse me! I…” Grant realized the woman hadn’t budged an inch. Then he noticed the pair of headphones draped over her ears.
Grant took a step toward her, stumbling over something lying on the carpet. A loud hiss accompanied a bright orange blur as a rotund tabby cat dashed toward the fireplace and clawed its way up the mantel with surprising agility. The broad, pudgy face glowered at Grant from its perch.
“Whoops! Sorry about that,” Grant apologized to the offended feline, realizing he’d accidentally stepped on its tail.
“Banjo has a soft spot for sardines, if you want to make it up to him.” The woman pressed a button on her ancient cassette player and slipped off her headphones. “Canned in olive oil, not water. He’s a bit particular, I’m afraid.”
“Good to know.” Grant offered a tentative smile, his pulse slowly returning to normal. “I’ll be sure to bring some by.”
The woman returned his smile, her kind blue eyes sparkling behind her thick glasses.
Grant squinted as he took in her round, plump features and rosy cheeks. She looked vaguely familiar…
Her face brightened as she recognized him first. “Why, Grant Parker! It’s really you, isn’t it?”
She rose to her feet and shuffled toward him, enveloping Grant in a warm, affectionate hug. The subtle aroma of rose oil and peppermint tea sparked his memory. Dolores Whittaker! The wife of his old high school principal! What was she doing in Luke’s office? Or whatever this place was…
