Even though I was alone, pointing them out had become a habit. My dad had been my stargazing partner for as long as I could remember. As a kid, he’d taught me about the constellations and galaxies. We’d have contests to see who could spot the most shooting stars.
These days, he preferred to sleep at night unless there was a special stellar occasion, like a comet or a lunar eclipse. So my nights counting falling stars were done alone. I’d come out to the playground behind my house, sit in the same swing with my eyes to the sky, then report to Dad the next morning how many I’d counted.
Sending some wood chips flying, I kicked off the ground and got my swing moving. My hands gripped the chains as I pumped my legs for some speed. When I had my momentum built, I let my head fall back. The tips of my long, blond hair nearly touched the ground as I smiled at the Milky Way.
Today had been a good day. No, an incredible day.
Months ago, I’d petitioned a charitable foundation in New York to buy the Flathead Summer Camp, the children’s camp where I worked as the director. It was owned by a local church, but after years of barely covering the overhead and maintenance costs, they’d decided it was time to let it go. The church had wanted to sell it to someone who’d continue it as a camp, but with no buyers, the camp would have to be closed down permanently and the land sold off for private development.
But kids needed that camp. They needed a place to escape for a week every summer without toys or iPads or video games. So I’d written a proposal and sent it to various charitable organizations around the country, then wished on a hundred shooting stars for a miracle.
I still couldn’t believe my wish had come true. Earlier today, the Kendrick Foundation from New York City had agreed to buy my camp. And as a bonus, they were keeping me on as director.
Tonight, I wasn’t wishing on falling stars. I was simply grateful.
My swing slowed to a stop. I pulled myself upright and took in the quiet night. Behind me was Lark Cove School. Its cream cinderblock walls glowed with reflected moonlight. The school and the long playground took up the whole block, except for five houses—three straight ahead and two to the left, one of which was mine.
My parents had never needed to build an outdoor play area. Instead, growing up, I’d just cross the invisible boundary that separated our lawn from the playground’s and use the same swing set and jungle gym that I played on during recess.
All of the houses were dark tonight, the only light coming from across the street where a few porch lights were on. I was admiring a hanging basket of flowers when a dark figure strode onto the sidewalk.
I gasped, nearly falling off my swing as he stepped off the cement and onto the grass.
My fingers slipped into the right pocket of my navy sundress, palming the small canister of pepper spray Dad had bought me for nights when I came out here alone. He’d also given me the whistle I was wearing around my neck.
I contemplated jumping off my swing and hurrying home, but stopped short.
I knew that stride. No, that swagger.
It belonged to the man who’d made my heart race and cheeks flush since I was seventeen.
Jackson.
Was he coming over here? I looked over my shoulder, expecting someone behind me, but there wasn’t.
Forgetting the pepper spray, I used both hands to smooth down my hair. It had a natural wave that looked great for the first eight hours of the day, but somewhere between hours nine and ten, it grew exponentially in volume and frizz. With it sort of tamed, I swallowed the nerves in my throat just as Jackson stepped off the grass and into the wood chips surrounding the swings.
“Hey, Willa.”
Oh. My. Goodness. He’d called me by the right name. Finally! After years of correcting him each time he called me Willow, hearing my name in his deep voice gave me wings.
Heat broke across my cheeks and I managed a breathy “Hi.”
“Is this swing taken?”
I shook my head.
He grinned, then somehow fit his large frame into the small black rubber seat. His broad shoulders extended past the chains by at least five inches on each side, his jean-covered legs too long for the short seat.
“Nice night.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
It came out quieter than I had intended, probably because I’d stopped breathing. So I ducked my chin into a shoulder and pulled in a long breath through my nostrils, hoping he couldn’t hear me shaking.
The chains on his swing creaked as he dug a heel into the wood chips and propelled himself backward. “It’s probably not safe for you to be out here at night.”
“I have this whistle.” I held it up so he could see it. “And some pepper spray in my pocket.”
“Is that what you were reaching for when you spotted me?”
“Sorry.” Mortification crept up my face, flaming my already hot cheeks. The last thing I wanted was for Jackson Page to think I was scared of him. Well, I was scared. More like terrified. But only because I’d crushed on him for basically my entire teenage and adult life.
“I’m just teasing you.” He chuckled. “I’m glad you have the spray. Though I’d feel even better if you were behind a locked door at night, not sitting alone in a playground.”
I gripped the chains on my swing tighter so I couldn’t jump up and start dancing around. He was concerned about me. Me. Willa Doon, the girl who’d been trying to get his attention for nearly a decade.
Jackson pushed off the ground again, letting the silence of the night surround us.
Too shy to say anything, I resumed my swinging too. The color in my face drained away in the cool rush of air. Every time Jackson swung forward and I swung back, I’d catch a whiff of his spicy scent, cloves mixed with forest moss.
A combination that shouldn’t have smelled so good, but boy did it ever.
“Crazy day.”
“What?” I asked as it clicked what he was talking about. “Oh! You mean with Thea. Yeah. That was crazy.”
Two executives from the Kendrick Foundation had flown to Montana today to check out my camp. I’d taken them on a tour and that’s when they’d agreed to buy the place and keep me on as director. To celebrate, I’d taken them down to the bar for a drink.
The Lark Cove Bar was where Jackson had worked for years alongside his childhood friend, Thea. I’d gotten to know Thea and her five-year-old daughter, Charlie, over the years. They were awesome, but I’d never had the courage to ask about Charlie’s father.
It turns out, I hadn’t needed to ask. I’d had a front-row seat as Thea had dropped the bomb of a lifetime on one of the executives I’d brought to the bar.
Logan Kendrick, the chairman of the foundation and now my boss, had met Thea years ago in the city. I hadn’t gotten the dirty details, but I’d deduced from the show that they’d hooked up without sharing important info, like last names or phone numbers. She’d gotten pregnant and come to Montana as a single mom. He’d come out today to buy a camp and gotten a daughter as a bonus.
It was the biggest drama we’d had in Lark Cove in ages.
“How is Thea doing?” I asked.
“I dunno.” He went back to his swinging.
I pushed off the ground, swinging back and forth too, stealing glances at Jackson as our swings crossed at the bottom.
That was the story of my life, watching Jackson Page. It sounded like the title for a made-for-TV movie.
I’d been watching him for years, ever since the first day I’d seen him.
As a teenager, I’d search for him or his truck everywhere. Occasionally, I’d see him at the gas station filling up. Or sometimes I’d spot him at the town grocery store or eating at Bob’s Diner. There weren’t a lot of places to go in Lark Cove, and since he didn’t go to our church and had no reason to come to my school, I’d been forced to settle for chaste glimpses every month or so.
My diaries had the exact dates and times.
I’d seen Jackson even less after high school. I’d moved two hours away to attend college in Missoula, and my infrequent trips home had meant six or more months between sightings. By the time I’d come back home, I’d been certain I would be returning to news that he’d gotten serious about a woman.