“I can beat that,” Miss Gina said.
“That’s a shame,” Jo told their host. “You would have been the best mom ever. You never get mad . . . take everything in stride . . . why do you think we hung out here all the time?”
Melanie lifted an eyebrow and saw Miss Gina lift her glass. “Might have something to do with the giant red pitcher in my fridge.”
“It was more than that. We could be ourselves here.”
Miss Gina waved her cigarette in Melanie’s direction. “You remember that for your own daughter.”
That was different . . . wasn’t it? “I need to keep her safe.”
“Safe, not smother her.”
“The world is different than when we grew up.”
Miss Gina shook her head. “Not in River Bend. We don’t change here. Other than a few businesses that have gone under, and the occasional bust Sheriff Nosy gets herself into, this town doesn’t change.”
Jo didn’t bat an eye at Miss Gina’s dig.
“Bakersfield was crime central. I couldn’t let Hope walk to school alone.” So different from our childhood.
“Why are you there?” Miss Gina asked.
“It’s where I ended up.”
“Ended up is such a cop-out,” Miss Gina chided. “You’re an adult. Take charge, girl. How can you be a role model to that little girl if you’re the mom who ended up somewhere?”
The direct, cut-the-bullshit trait Melanie loved most about Miss Gina did a fair job of raising the hair on the nape of her neck. Even though she knew the woman was right.
“It wasn’t my plan—”
“Change the freakin’ plan.”
Jo sat silent until then. “She has a point.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“For a high school reunion,” Miss Gina reminded her.
“I might stay.” The emerging stars above started to pull down as two of the most influential people in her life stared in judgment.
“Might means shit in my book,” Miss Gina said.
“I don’t have a job here.”
“So get one.” Miss Gina wasn’t letting go.
“Fine!” Melanie sat high in her chair, the hair on her neck now a hard stone ready to ward off any impending doom. “I need a job, Miss Gina. Is the inn hiring?”
A soft lift to Miss Gina’s left eyebrow and a twinkle in her eye told Melanie she’d been outsmarted by the older woman. “I could use some help. Not getting any younger.”
“Good! This place could use some help.”
“It could.”
“Good!” Melanie wasn’t sure why she was upset. She’d managed a job while sitting on the back porch drinking spiked lemonade.
“Good!” Miss Gina finished her glass and poured another.
Jo lifted her glass. “Well, that was entertaining.”
“I’m a chef,” Zoe all but yelled at the TSA agent. “My knives are an extension of my hands.” She’d ship her pots and pans if they weren’t so bulky.
The man judging the contents of her checked bag looked as if he lived on McDonald’s and Budweiser—which she could relate to and appreciate—but he had no idea what her set of knives meant to her.
She’d learned, years before, to simply identify herself, the contents of her bag, and her reason for shipping her personal arsenal with every business or extended trip she took. A return to River Bend for a week away from her personal life she considered an extended trip. There was no way she wouldn’t find herself in someone’s kitchen cooking something while visiting . . . hence, the knives.
“What show did you say you were on?” The secondary TSA agent who’d been called over had his balding head bent over his phone.
“Warring Chefs, season one.” She didn’t bother telling the man about the dozen-plus other shows she’d been featured on since. Warring Chefs had made her . . . if Google was going to pick up any hits with her name, it was that.
The confusion on the agent’s face lifted and his eyes narrowed.
“You came in second,” he said, his voice flat.
Right! Thanks for the reminder.
“Can I get on the plane now?”
The second TSA agent waved at his colleague and her luggage was shoved back in her bag before being zipped up and moved onto the conveyer belt behind the counter.
Dallas to Eugene wasn’t a long flight, and thankfully she’d managed enough frequent flyer miles to sit in the first-class cabin. The fact that she was returning to her ten-year class reunion with a suitcase full of knives that had set her back well over a thousand dollars, and wearing a dress that cost over three hundred bucks, and heels that cost half that, wasn’t an accident.
She hadn’t been back to River Bend in seven years. Sheriff Ward’s funeral.
What a crappy week that had been.
A town in mourning, one of her best friends taking a swan dive off the deep end.
And Luke.
The real reason she never returned to her hometown. She kept hoping she’d hear about him hooking up with some lucky woman and making her a mama.
Maybe she’d learn of a Mrs. Luke on this trip.