Until There Was You

Chapter SIX



“A LOT OF US REMEMBER Liam from way back, of course.” The president of the chamber of commerce stretched her lips in a smile so insincere that Liam actually winced. Maya Chu. Yep. He’d slept with her—or came close, he couldn’t quite remember—back in the day. “So we’re thrilled—thrilled, I tell you—that he’s back. Yeah. Super to have a new business in this building. So, best of luck and all that, Liam. Here’s to the success of Granite Motorcycle Garage or whatever.”

Grand openings were just not his thing in general, but being introduced by a woman who clearly wanted to stick a pin in his eye—or some other soft part—kind of put a damper on things. But the garage looked great—all the machinery set up and gleaming, a few cool bike designs, matted and framed, hanging on the wall. In the far bay was the big Chevy truck and trailer he used to pick up and deliver bikes, his logo stenciled on the side. And there, right in the middle of the garage, currently being fawned over by a dozen or so people, were two custom bikes he’d built in California and his own special-edition Triumph.

But Nicole was supposed to have come right after school, and she wasn’t here. And wasn’t answering her phone. As he shook hands and accepted congratulations, he mentally reviewed her schedule. Lacrosse practice on Monday and Tuesday, debate team on Thursday…nothing on Friday. So where was she?

“Hi, I’m Bruce. Bruce Schmottlach. I met you at Guten Tag the other night, remember? I also taught band at the high school, though I don’t think I had you. You played guitar, right?”

“Right,” Liam said, surprised. “Thanks for coming.”

“So, I was out for a run the other day,” Bruce said, “maybe six, seven miles out of town on Cemetery Road, and some future organ donor flew past me on a Harley, must’ve been doing over a hundred miles an hour, no helmet. That wasn’t you, was it?”

“No,” Liam answered, glancing again at his phone. Still no return call or text from Nicole. “I wear a helmet. And I don’t ride a Harley.” Or any bike, since the accident.

“Okay. Well, whoever it was, he’ll be dead soon, and the world will be a little safer. Oops, my wife is giving me the sign. Nice seeing you, son.”

“Same here, sir.”

The man wasn’t the only one with an elephant-like memory. In the weeks since he’d been back, he’d heard from seven women who remembered him from high school and wanted to take him out for a drink for old times’ sake. He’d run into at least that many women who seemed to want to knee him in the balls, including Maya Chu, who kept shooting him the Slitty Eyes of Death.

Just about every business owner in the downtown had come to his grand opening. The Osterhagens, the woman from the yarn shop (how she paid her rent was a mystery to Liam. Yarn? How much yarn would you have to sell to make a living?), Rose, the owner of Rosebud’s, the local bar, who’d made a pass at him last week…the guy from the bookstore.

“Is this your bike?” asked a woman about his age. Redhead, short hair, gorgeous. And not interested in him, if his gaydar was working properly. He felt his shoulders relax a little.

“That’s my bike,” he answered. “A 2009 T100 50th Anniversary Bonneville Triumph. All the glamour of old, all the comfort of today.”

“Pretty gorgeous,” she said. “Lola! We should get a bike, don’t you think? I’m Kelsey, this is my partner, Lola, and we run the bakery down the street.”

“Great bagels,” he said.

“Thanks. Lola, doesn’t this place make you want a bike? We’ve been talking about it for a while. You could make us matching rides, couldn’t you?”

“I sure could,” Liam said, smiling. See? Not every woman hated him or wanted to do him. He should find more lesbians to hang out with.

“Let’s do it,” Lola said. “You’re right, babe. Life is short.”

“Shorter if you ride a motorcycle,” someone said. Ah. Mrs. Osterhagen. “But Liam, you’ll be careful, right? You don’t want to die in some horrible accident and leave that beautiful girl of yours an orphan. Poor thing’s suffered enough.”

Liam found his shirt was suddenly clammy, and his heart was squeezing in painfully slow, crushing beats. “Speaking of my daughter, I have to, uh, check in. Back in a flash.”

He ran into his office and called her cell. Voice mail, damn it. “Nicole, this is your father. Where are you, honey? It’s the grand opening, I was hoping you’d be here. Call me.” Then he called their home phone and left the same message.

He took a deep breath. He’d give this opening about ten more minutes; then he had to find his daughter. The second he left his office, a woman pounced. “Hi, Liam. Long time no see.”

Oh, shit. Another one. “Hey. How are you?” he said, wracking his brain for a name, a memory. Nada. Maybe because he’d lived in so many places, maybe because he’d been away for almost twenty years, but hell, he just didn’t have the same recall as Bellsford residents seemed to.

“So, I couldn’t help thinking about that time in Mr. Bowie’s history class, you know?”

“Um…yeah. Sure.” Nope, still nothing. But obviously he’d gone to school with this woman, even if she looked fifty—three chins, lank hair, those weird square glasses that made women look like they wanted to kick something.

“So, maybe we could grab a beer sometime, catch up? I’m divorced. No kids.”

“That’s really nice of you, but my daughter needs a lot of…you know…time. And attention.”

“Sorry about Emma, by the way.” She lifted her skinny eyebrows—We’re both single, get it? Sorry, his ass. For all her popularity in high school, women didn’t seem to miss Emma all that much. Well. Cordelia Osterhagen had gotten all teary-eyed. That had been…sincere.

“So, how about it, Liam? I still have that tattoo you-know-where.”

Eesh. “I have to run. Nice seeing you,” he said. He went out into the garage and cleared his throat loudly. “Okay, guys, thanks for coming and checking out the place. Um…we’re available for motorcycle repair, customizing your existing bike or building you something from scratch. Great seeing everyone. I’m sure we’ll run into each other around town. Thanks again.”

“Oh, and Liam, if you don’t mind…” Max Osterhagen stood on a crate. “Tonight, folks, as you might know, Guten Tag is welcoming back our wonderful niece, Gretchen Heidelberg, also known as the Barefoot Fraulein from TV! So please come by, open bar, lots of great food, and stay till you’re stuffed! And meet our famous and beautiful niece!”

At the mention of “open bar,” the garage began to empty. Finally.

One more call. But his daughter, his baby, his precious angel, the one thing he’d done right in his entire life, still wasn’t answering. “Nicole, it’s me,” he said trying to sound calm and authoritative and not in full-blown panic. “I’m on my way home. Call me if you get this. Be there in a sec.”

Maybe she was texting the nice boy. Or listening to music, so she didn’t hear either the landline or her cell, which was usually glued to her hands. Or she was in the shower. Or being held at gunpoint. Or lying in the trunk of a Buick, wrists and ankles wrapped in duct tape, about to be tossed in the river, wondering why, oh, why her dad hadn’t charged to her rescue, as fathers were supposed to.

He left the garage at a run, waving to a few people as he dodged down the brick sidewalks. Past the bakery with the biker-chick owners, past the head shop, past the Italian restaurant that always smelled so good. Down the little alley, onto Court Street. It was 1.7 miles from the garage, which was the last business in the downtown section of Bellsford, to home. The sweat that plastered Liam’s shirt to his back had less to do with the fact that he was running and much more with the fact that he was…yes, it was certain now…freaking out. The rational part of his brain knew his worst fears had very slim odds of being realized. He was freaking out nonetheless. The sound of his footsteps on the pavement counted out the seconds till he could be sure Nicole was safe.

When Emma had died, it had been awful, of course. Eight months from diagnosis to death, eight months to try to prepare their child for heartbreak. The shock of grief is perhaps the worst part, that stunning realization that your time with this person is simply up. No arguing, no bargaining, no maybe tomorrows. Over.

But he and Nicole had done okay, so long as “okay” was a relative term. They’d gone for some grief counseling; she’d joined a group made up of kids who’d lost a parent, and he’d joined something similar for spouses. Life didn’t change so much as shrink. It had been awful…but also manageable. Were there times when Nicole had sobbed in his arms, inconsolable? Of course. Nights when Liam had sat at the kitchen table with a glass of whiskey, unable to set foot in their bedroom? Yep. But there were other times when Nic had come home from school and giggled over her math teacher’s polyester shirt. Nights when Liam had gone to bed and fallen right asleep.

His main focus had been Nicole, getting her through the worst parts, being father and mother both, adjusting to the fact that no one would spell him, no one would ease the crushing responsibility of raising a child, no one else would love Nicole as much as he did. It was brutal. But he was getting through it.

Until the accident. Then everything got messed up somehow. And Nicole, who didn’t even know there’d been an accident, was starting to sense weakness, and when a kid senses weakness, and that kid is fifteen years old, and way too beautiful and completely unaware of just how filthy were the thoughts of men, and when she wanted some freedom and some space…well…things weren’t so manageable anymore.

There. The apartment building was just ahead. Liam sprinted the last block and burst into the foyer, then, because the elevator gave him some major agita lately, bolted up the stairs. One flight…two…three…shit, he was getting old, this was taking forever, his legs felt like lead… What if he had a heart attack right here on the landing…four…and Nicole found his dead body…five.

Liam burst into the small hallway that separated the apartments and dug in his pocket for the key.

“Liam? Is that you?” A small gray head peeked out from underneath the security chain on 5B.

“Hi, Mrs. Antonelli, can’t talk now.”

“Well, I saw you running all the way down the street! Look at you! Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine. Just a little late, that’s all.” He flashed her a smile and went in. “Nicole? Nic? You around, hon?”

No answer.

He ran down the hall to her room. “Nicole?” Shoved the door open.

“Dad! Could you, like, knock? Don’t I get some privacy around here?”

There she was, his baby. Earbuds in, eating popcorn, lying on her bed and looking at a magazine, not in the trunk of some car, not duct-taped, not at the bottom of a river.

“I called you.” He was panting, sounding, yeah, like he might drop dead any second.

“Oh. Guess I didn’t hear.”

“Nicole, you have to answer the phone if I call!” he barked.

“Dad, I said I was sorry!”

“No, you didn’t!”

“I’m sorry.” She finally looked up. “You okay?” Her face creased in a frown. “Daddy, you’re all sweaty.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a whack job,” she said, returning her attention to the magazine. “What, did you think there’d been, like, a break-in?”

“No,” Liam said, still panting like a dying racehorse. “Nope, just felt like running. Exercise. Stay healthy. You know. But I was glad to see you locked the door. Good girl. Don’t ever forget that.”

“Whatever.”

“No, not whatever, Nicole. You always lock the door. The dead bolt and the doorknob lock and the safety chain.”

“Okay, Dad. I will lock the door against the alien hordes, I swear to God.” She gave him an ironic smile, looking so much like Emma that it made his chest ache even more.

“So, I thought you were coming today, Nic.”

“Coming to what?” She flipped the page and cooed over an outfit.

“Nicole, today was the opening of the garage. It would’ve been nice if you’d been there.”

His daughter frowned. “I thought it was on the twenty-first.”

“No. It was today. The twelfth.”

She heaved herself off the bed and went to the kitchen, where the calendar of their daily events hung in the pantry closet. “Look, Dad. Right here, your handwriting, the twenty-first.” She gave him a fond smile. “You messed up, Captain Dyslexia.”

Liam stared at the calendar. She was right.

“Sorry I missed it, Daddy.”

“That’s why I called you. A lot.”

She pulled her phone from her jacket, which hung over the back of a kitchen chair, no matter how many times he’d told her to hang it up properly. “Oh. Wow. Eleven times. That’s really neurotic.” Another tolerant smile.

“Nicole, it’s not funny. You really have to answer the phone. I was worried.”

“Dad. Please. I’m almost sixteen.”

“Exactly.” Liam went to the sink and washed his hands—fifty-five seconds—and then splashed water on his face.

“So,” Nicole said. “I have that party tonight at the Graftons’, remember? And I’m sleeping over?”

Liam exhaled slowly and tossed the paper towels in the trash. “Right. Except we need to rethink that.”

Nicole’s tolerant mood evaporated instantly. Her hands went to her hips, and her chin jutted out, just as it had when she was three. “Dad, you told me last week I could go! You said! You promised!”

“I didn’t promise. I said yes, but it was conditional.”

“No! It wasn’t!”

“Look,” he said carefully. “I don’t really know the Graftons—”

“Mrs. Grafton called you! Twice! You met her at the band concert!”

“Right, but what do I know about her really? And this party… Are there guns in the house? Dogs that bite? Alcohol?”

“No, no, and yes. No guns. A cockapoo puppy, so I don’t think anyone’s going to get, like, mauled. And yes, they have alcohol, Dad, the parents are allowed to drink, but it’s not like they’re going to serve us martinis, okay?”

Liam sighed and looked at the ceiling. “Something’s come up. The Osterhagens are having a party tonight at the restaurant, and they want us both to come. They like you.” It was true. Liam had taken Nicole to Guten Tag for dinner last week, and both Osterhagens had fussed over her. Him, too, which had been kind of nice.

“Of course they like me,” Nicole said. “I’m adorable. And they’re really nice and stuff, but I’m not coming. I’m going to Alexa’s party, and I’m sleeping over. You gave me permission, I’ve been an angel all week, so you can’t ground me, I got an A on my physics test—”

“You did? Good girl.”

“And Alexa is my first new friend, and I’m going. And that’s all she wrote, Dad.”

It was one of Emma’s sayings. She used to slap down the lid of her laptop and say just that.

“You’ll call me every fifteen minutes,” Liam said.

“No, Dad. I won’t. But I’ll call you once, okay?”

“Every half hour. Text or call. It’s reasonable.”

“It’s insane. I’ll text you twice and call you once. And I’ll call you before ten tomorrow morning and let you know when I’m coming home.”

“You’ll text me four times and call me four times.”

“Three texts, two calls. That’s my final offer. Otherwise, I may lose this cell phone.”

Liam grinned and kissed his daughter’s head. “You lose that cell phone, and I’ll have the police at the Graftons’ house so fast you won’t know what hit you.”

“That’d be funny, except it’s so tragically true.” She smiled up at him. “So I can go, right?”

“Yeah. If you want your old man to go off to a party all by himself and have no one to talk to, you can go.”

Nicole opened the fridge and took out an apple. “You won’t be going alone. Mrs. Antonelli’s going, too. I told her you’d take her.”

“Wow. Thanks. She’s definitely my type. Some people think the over-eighty crowd is past their prime, but not me.”

“Dad, gross, okay?” She took a bite of her apple and gave him a critical scan. Time was, she used to come running to meet him, jump into his arms and want to do nothing more than snuggle against his shoulder. He reached out now, touched a strand of her pretty hair. She gave him a distracted smile, then tucked the strand behind her ear.

“Is the cute boy going to the party?” Liam asked, bracing for the answer.

Nicole shrugged, but her cheeks turned pink. “He was invited.”

“And does he have a name?”

“Tanner. Tanner Talcott.” What a stupid name. A pretty-boy name, a boy-band name, the name of a boy who knew how to get a girl to do things that would give her father cardiac arrest. “Tanner Talcott. Well, listen, sweetheart. Boys only want one thing, of course, and guess what that means for you? Heartbreak. Pregnancy. Chlamydia, herpes, syphilis, crabs.”

“That’s beautiful, Dad. You should set it to music.”

“I was a teenage boy once,” he said. “One thing. Sex.”

“Again. So gross.”

“No drinking. No smoking. No drugs. No sex.”

Nicole repeated the phrase, rap-style.

Liam sighed. “Yeah, okay, honey, but if you have any problem—any—you call me, okay? Your dear old dad will always come rescue you.”

She smiled. “I know.” Her phone chimed. “Oh! They’re here!” She ran down the hall and returned with her overnight bag, already packed, and her Cookie Monster stuffed animal, which she slid into a side pocket. She’d slept with Cookie Monster since birth. Good. How much trouble could a girl get into with Cookie watching?

“Don’t obsess, okay, and try to get a life, Dad. Have fun at the party. Talk to people. Smile.” She kissed him on the cheek. “And take a shower. You smell like a locker room.”

Liam walked his daughter down, waved to the Graftons—Bill was a police officer, Leah was an E.R. nurse, so how bad could it get? Then again, George Tate had been a congressman, Louise Tate a gynecologist, and he’d managed to do all sorts of things with their daughter.

Shit.

Banging his head gently against the wall, Liam wondered, not for the first time and most definitely not for the last, just how the hell he was going to survive his daughter’s adolescence.





“IS THAT WHAT YOU’RE wearing? To a party? In my day, we’d have at least dressed up.”

Posey sighed. “Well, this is dressed up for me, Vivian. But thanks.”

The ancient lady peered through her glasses as if examining human remains, then frowned even more and picked up her iPhone, her arthritic old thumbs tapping out a message. “Why don’t people dress for parties anymore?” Viv muttered. “And…there. Posted on my wall. Is that how you’re wearing your hair, Posey? It doesn’t suit you.”

Self-consciously, Posey reached up and tried to smoosh down the back cowlick, the one that defied even the strongest goo out there. So much for delighting Vivian with her girliness tonight. “Anyway, Viv, I swung by the estate today.”

The old lady’s face softened. “Did you? How does it look?”

Posey smiled. On this, at least, she and Vivian agreed. Viv’s former home was magnificent. “So beautiful. The apple trees are just budding out, and the sun was streaming through the stained-glass in the foyer.”

“You went in the morning, then?” Viv asked wistfully.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“That was my favorite time of day. Just about ten o’clock, the house so quiet, the birds singing. I’d write letters at the little desk in the rose parlor…?.” Her creaky voice trailed off.

Posey took Vivian’s hand in her own. “Why don’t you let me take you out there, Vivian? Might do your soul some good.”

Viv straightened up indignantly, removing her hand. “My soul is none of your concern.”

“True enough,” Posey said. “But I’d love to take you just the same.”

Vivian gave her a cool look. “You’ll be late for your party if you don’t leave now,” she said. “And you may well want to go home to change into a proper dress first.”

“This is as good as it gets,” Posey said. “But you’re right. Can’t put it off any longer.”

“This is the welcome home party for your sister?” Viv asked.

“Cousin. But yes. You sure you don’t want to come? Everyone would be wicked glad to see you.”

“And by everyone, do you mean that chatterbox you employ and the silent man who’s afraid of her?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Thank you, no. I have bridge tonight.”

“Roger that. Wish I did, too.” Posey stood up and straightened out her frock. Vivian was probably right…the dress was a little goofy, blue with pink flowers and silly little strings that tied on her shoulders. Plus, it had that smooshy gathered fabric over the chest, and it itched. But it wasn’t easy to find something in her size…especially at the last moment. Stacia had specifically requested that she wear a dress, and so here she was. Itchy and feeling less than beautiful. “Knock ’em dead,” she said, kissing Vivian’s soft and withered cheek.

“We’re all over ninety,” Vivian said. “There’s a high probability of death on any night. If you come back on Monday, I may be ready to sign the salvage rights to you. We’ll see.”

“I come by every Monday,” Posey said. “You don’t have to bribe me.”

“Don’t I?”

“You don’t. See you Monday.”

As she struggled into her truck, Posey sighed. Tonight was the official start of the Barefoot Fraulein taking over as head chef of Guten Tag.

Hard to believe Gret was back. Posey was positive there was a story here—the Barefoot Fraulein living in Posey’s old room? When Posey had asked her plans at dinner last week, Gretchen had been vague. “It’s so good to be back,” she said, squeezing Stacia’s hand. “Why rush me off, right, Auntie?” And Stacia, of course, had clucked her assent as Max nodded.

Posey acknowledged that it would’ve been nice to have had a date for this. The night would’ve felt a lot different if she’d had Dante on her arm, giving her those dark Mediterranean looks he did so well. But she hadn’t had so much as a text since The Talk.

Dang it. She pulled into a parking space and headed toward Guten Tag, catching a glimpse of herself in the windows. She didn’t have girly shoes—well, she had one pair, but the heels were almost fatally high. The boots had looked cute enough at home, but you know, maybe they weren’t working. Steel-toed engineer boots and sundresses…then again, maybe she’d start a trend. It had a certain carefree appeal, right? Maybe? No? She checked her reflection again. It was a no. Ah, well. Too late now.

Guten Tag was mobbed, which was weird enough. A giant banner hung across the front—Guten Tag says Wilkommen to the Barefoot Fraulein, Gretchen Heidelberg! And there was a life-size cutout of Gretchen herself, dressed in traditional German clothing, boobs pushed up almost to her chin.

“Wow,” Posey said as her brother and Jon approached.

“That bra must be made of steel,” Jon said. “That, or they Photoshopped out the two dwarves standing under there, hefting those puppies up.”

Posey laughed. “Having fun, boys?”

“Your brother’s hoping for an amputation to get him out of this.”

“I’m actually hoping for a reattachment,” Henry said, perfectly serious. “I’ve done three amputations this week alone.”

“We have friends here from Boston,” Jon said. “Come! Meet! And, oh, sweetheart, those boots? Why didn’t we call me?”

Jon and Henry’s friends seemed to be having a jolly time. Posey chatted a few minutes, then announced the need for a beverage.

“Posey,” Jon added. “We’re planning to ditch in about an hour and head to Portsmouth for dinner. Want to come?”

Posey grimaced. “Yes. But I can’t. I’m the daughter.”

“You can do it! If Henry can…”

“Well, you know, Henry’s the son. He can do whatever he wants.”

Jon sighed. “Sad, but true. Oh, the curse of the double standard! You sure? You can sneak out. Gretchen won’t notice.”

“No, but Mom and Dad would. That’s okay. It’s fine. You guys have fun.” She patted his arm and headed for the bar, only to bump right into the Barefoot Fraulein herself.

“Posey! I’m so glad you’re here!” Gretchen pounced and, holy Elvis, could she show more boob? More leg? She wore a silky cream-colored scrap of fabric that clung to her curves, most notably the junk in her trunk. “You look so cute!” Gretchen pinched her cheek, and Posey twisted away.

“Gretchen. Don’t you look…pretty.”

“You’re so sweet! Let me introduce someone. Posey, this is Dante Bellini. Dante, this is my little cousin, Posey Osterhagen.”

“We’ve met, Gretchen,” Posey said, her stomach flipping. Dante? In Guten Tag without turning into a pillar of salt?

“Good to see you, Posey.” He smiled, and a little flare of hope fired in her chest. Had he come because he knew she’d be here? “Of course you know each other! I keep forgetting how small a town Bellsford is. I guess I’m still used to New York. Oh, I’m sorry, the reporter from Channel 2 is waving. You two chat, get something to eat, have some tapas. Essen und geniessen! Or, as you might say, Dante, mangia!” She flashed her painfully white teeth and wove through the crowd, leaving Posey and Dante in a cloud of her musky perfume.

Tapas? Since when did German restaurants have tapas?

“How are you?” Dante asked.

“I’m good.” She smiled. “How’ve you been, Dante?”

“Great. I have to say, I didn’t realize you knew her.” Dante’s eyes drifted over to Gretchen, who had seemed to have surgically attached herself to the reporter from Channel 2, laughing and tossing her hair and posing for pictures. “She’s quite a force to be reckoned with.”

“Um…yeah.” That dark Mediterranean look was still on Gretchen…her boobs, specifically. Posey crossed her arms over her chest, which made things itchier, then unfolded them. “I’m a little surprised to see you here, Dante.”

He had the grace to look sheepish. “Well, Gretchen invited me. Said there’s plenty of room for two gourmet restaurants on the same block, no reason to be enemies.” He took a sip of his drink. “I had no idea you were related.”

“Yeah, well, I guess you and I didn’t do too much talking,” Posey said, a trifle sharply.

Dante didn’t bat an eyelash. “You two close?” he asked.

“I guess so. She’s my only cousin.”

Finally, he turned his full attention back to her and gave her a long look, then a smile. “It’s good to see you.”

Much better. “You, too,” she said, feeling the same pull of attraction she’d felt two months ago. Maybe this break was just the thing to get them to move to a real relationship, after all.

“Posey!” Mrs. Schmottlach swooped in and gave Posey a big smooch on the cheek. “You look beautiful!”

“Hi, Mrs. S. Thanks, same to you.”

“Isn’t this so exciting for your parents?” she said. “That Gretchen is a wonder. So pretty, and so talented. Oh, honestly, there’s Bruce. The man can’t be alone for more than ten seconds without wondering if I’ve left him for another man. Bye, sweetie! I love you in a dress!”

Posey turned back to Dante. He was gone. Dang it.

Standing on tiptoe, she could just glimpse Henry, Jon and their friends in a corner, schmoozing and laughing (well, Henry was checking his phone, hoping for a reattachment).

Time for that drink. Posey slipped and slid through the crowd, saying hello here and there, getting a kiss or hug from her parents’ friends, until she made it to the bar, where Otto was on duty. “Hey, there, look at you, in a dress and everything!” he said.

“It happens,” she answered. “How about a whiskey sour, Otto?”

“Coming up!” A minute later, he handed her the drink.

“Thanks, pal.” She slid a ten into his tip jar and sat back to look around. There were a number of waiters she didn’t recognize—college kids, probably—who looked out of place in black jeans and white T-shirts when the regular staff wore the traditional German costumes.

Suddenly, her dad’s voice boomed out. “Zicke zacke, zicke zacke!”

“Hoi, hoi, hoi!” Posey chorused along with the rest of the crowd.

“Folks, it’s so wonderful to have you here! Thank you for coming! Without further ado, the Barefoot Fraulein, Gretchen Heidelberg!”

Posey clapped dutifully as her cousin, feigning modesty, slipped her arm around Max. “Uncle Max, Aunt Stacia, thank you so, so much! It’s such a thrill to be here, back with my family, taking over Guten Tag. And you all have been so warm and wonderful in welcoming me, thank you all so much!” She flashed her teeth again and wiped a tear (or pretended to wipe a tear). “Guten Tag will be undergoing some changes, a new look, and maybe even a new name! But you’ll always have the same wonderful time you’ve always had here. So zicke zacke, zicke zacke!”

“Hoi, hoi, hoi!”

A new look? A new name? Since when? Posey closed her mouth, then took a slug of her drink. Granted, the restaurant could use a little…updating, maybe. But Stacia and Max loved it, didn’t they? And to Posey, it was as much home as her parents’ house.

Another hipster waiter walked past with a tray of something. Posey snagged an appetizer and popped it into her mouth. Flaky dough, cheesy, some meat inside. Fantastic, if minuscule. Before she could grab another one, the waiter was gone.

The reporter from Channel 2 was gesturing for Max, Stacia and Gretchen to stand together. Posey couldn’t hear what the question was, but Gretchen, standing in the middle, did most of the talking.

Huh. Her drink was empty. Time for another, that was clear. She waved to Otto and held up her empty glass. She was already a little dizzy, but in a pleasant way. And pleasant was called for. She caught a glimpse of Glubby, the moose with the broken antler. Would Glubby make the cut in the new look? If not, he’d always have a home in her church. She would not leave Glubby, that was for sure. Glubby was her friend. Glubby and his broken antler were more than welcome at her house.

People who weigh a hundred and seven pounds should not have two drinks on an empty stomach, a voice in her head warned. True enough. She would kill to scratch her boobs right now. Probably not advisable in public, though. Oh, to be home with Shilo right now, searching Google for pictures of James Franco. It would sure beat this.

“Thanks, pal,” she said as Otto handed her the whiskey sour. There was another waiter with another batch of tiny appetizers. Could she take the whole plate? She was starving. She managed to snag one—more flaky stuff—and popped it in her mouth. The room spun just a little. Kinda fun.

“Hey,” came a voice. Posey looked, then closed her eyes. Liam Murphy. Black high-tops, black pants, black shirt, black hair, looking like a really hip Lucifer. Hey, there. Feel like a sin or two?

“Yes,” she said. A flake of pastry fluttered out of her mouth. Great. Smokin’ Hot Lucifer and the Simple Farm Girl.

“Nice dress,” Liam said, giving her a disdainful scan.

“Bite me,” Posey said.

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Sorry?” he asked.

Oops. Maybe he wasn’t disdainful. Maybe she was channeling or projecting or whatever that word was. “Nothing. How are you, Liam?” He didn’t answer, engrossed in his phone. Ass.

The last appetizer (tapas…please) had something spicy in it. Posey’s lips stung, so she took another sip of whiskey sour. It didn’t work; her lips still stung. She licked them. Liam glanced up, as if sensing tongue, then went back to his phone, dismissing her. Which he was good at, it must be acknowledged. A true gift.

Posey looked around. Mom and Dad, perpetually welded together at any social event, were schmoozing off by the kitchen; she could hear Dad’s booming laugh. Did they really want to change Guten Tag? In her entire life, it had never been discussed. And you know, maybe they could’ve asked her opinion. Asked for some help, being that she had the furnishings to redecorate ten restaurants in Irreplaceable’s barn.

There must’ve been a hundred people here—she recognized the mayor and mean Maya from the chamber of commerce who never remembered her name. Kelsey and Lola from the pastry shop waved; Posey probably stopped there enough to fund a mortgage payment. Sure, she knew everyone. But she was still alone. And being alone at a party, even a party hosted by your parents…well, it sucked. Kate and James had a standing movie date on Friday nights, carved in stone, though how much longer the kid would put up with that, Posey didn’t know.

She glanced at Liam, who was still checking his stupid phone.

“How are you, Cordelia?” he asked without looking up. And did he have to use that name? Huh?

“I have leprosy,” she said.

“Cool,” he murmured, his thumbs texting away. Posey rolled her eyes. Whee! The room spun.

“So, how do they treat leprosy these days?” Liam said, sliding his phone into his pocket, and Posey choked a little on her drink. Okay, first of all, apparently he had been listening. And second of all, hot diggety, he was gorgeous. Eyes so green and clear, just the hint of a smile on his face, like he was just a sin begging for a taker. Posey forced herself to look away, her face practically crackling with heat. Bieber! The man. Was. Edible.

His hands were in his pockets, and he seemed to have no inclination to leave. “Is your daughter here?” she asked.

Liam shook his head. “She’s at a sleepover. Teenagers, you know.”

Wow. Two whole sentences. Well, one sentence and a fragment. Still, it dawned on her that this could be classified as a real live conversation, which in turn made her mind go completely blank. If—just if—she wanted to charm Liam (not that she’d be dumb enough to try, mind you), but if she wanted to make him see that she was someone worth knowing and perhaps regret that he’d ever said anything mean about her, thus altering the course of her life (sort of)—now was the time.

“So,” she offered. Not exactly brilliant repartee. “How’s business?”

“We opened today.”

“Oh.” Wow. They were on a roll now. Think of something to say, idiot, her brain commanded. Otherwise, it was devoid of conversation ideas. She sighed and took another slug of her drink.

“Liam! My man! Dude, how you been?”

Ah, bieber. It was Rick. Rick Balin, world’s worst prom date, New Hampshire’s biggest beer belly. His little finger was still bandaged. Weenie.

Liam took the offered hand. “Hey,” he said.

“Dude, I heard you were back in town! So cool. And that motorcycle place? Awesome. Meant to come by today, couldn’t. I’ve been thinking about getting a chopper myself. Gotta have a sweet ride, know what I mean? Of course you do. What are you riding these days? Dude, we have to hang out. Wanna grab a beer sometime? Catch up?”

Liam’s expression was totally cool…and totally blank. Well, well, well, Posey thought, leaning against the bar with a very slight wobble, Batman didn’t remember Robin. Robin had, of course, gained about seventy pounds, lost half his hair, but still. Kinda funny.

“Man, we had some fun in those days, didn’t we? God, I miss high school,” Rick said, sighing. “Dude, Grey Goose martini, make it dry,” he said to Otto. “I love my Grey Goose,” he added to Liam. He had yet to acknowledge Posey, which was A-okay by her. “Sure, it costs more, but who cares? Gotta have the best. Right?”

Liam gave Posey a level look and smiled. Eyes crinkling, gorgeous, smokin’ hot. He looked right into her eyes, like she was the only other person in this entire restaurant, and Rick the Idiot Balin was their own private joke.

Holy Elvis. She was halfway to Planet Orgasm. Imagine if they bumped heads or something. She took a quick gulp of her drink and looked away.

Hello? Been here, done that regarding Hottie McSin here, a faint little voice said from far, far away. But that smile…and those eyes…

“Hello, hello! Posey, why are you hiding over here? Come out and mingle! Auntie and Max are looking for you!” Gretchen appeared, grabbed Posey by the arm and heaved her away from Liam. “Hi, there. We met a couple weeks ago. I’m Gretchen Heidelberg? The Barefoot Fraulein?”

“I remember,” Liam said, turning that smile to Gretchen, and whatever champagne bubbles were just dancing merrily through Posey’s veins went abruptly flat.

“Holy crap!” Rick brayed. “You’re even more beautiful than on TV!”

Posey turned to the bar to give Otto her glass—she knew better than to have another, that was for sure. When she turned back around, she was presented with Dante’s back, because the two men had flanked Gretchen. Because apparently it was the law that if you were male, you had to worship the Barefoot Fraulein.

Posey tripped off to find her parents. Good thing she hadn’t remembered to wear girly shoes, because it was getting dizzy in here. There they were, Stacia and Max, holding hands. So cute, her parents, and resembling each other more and more these days. They were roughly the same height—six-two—both with the fading blond hair and the strong-boned features of Bavaria. Soon, Posey mused, they’d just sort of grow into each other like two trees.

“Hey, you two trees,” she said, smiling.

“Baby! There you are!” Stacia broke free from Max to give Posey a kiss. “Are you having fun? Oh, you’re flushed. Do you have a fever?” She pressed a hand to Posey’s forehead, the human thermometer. “Ninety-eight point four. Hmm.”

“I had a drink,” Posey explained.

“Are you enjoying the party, Turnip?” Max asked.

She looked up at them, her doting parents. They seemed so happy. And if Gretchen taking over made them happy—even if that meant Glubby had to come home with her—she wasn’t going to say a word. “You bet. So much fun. So, a new look, huh?”

“We should go talk to the mayor,” Max said. “Come with us, sweetie. The newspaper wants a picture.”

“You know what? I’m gonna pass,” she said, enunciating carefully. “I have to find some more of those green thingies. They were great. Have fun! See you later!” Posey kissed her parents, almost but not quite losing her balance. She watched as they schmoozed and laughed, but when Gretchen joined them for the photo op, Posey decided it was time to become invisible again.