After Dr. Channing’s funeral, it was as if the family had cut all ties with the town. Ethan’s mother closed up the house the summer after he graduated, but when no FOR SALE sign appeared in the yard, everyone expected the Channings to divide their time between Chicago and Red Leaf.
The house had remained empty all summer and during football season. Over Christmas break, it had been Willie Meister’s plow truck Mac saw in the driveway, clearing a path that no one used. No one returned the following summer, either. Or the one after that. Mac finally stopped looking out the window when she heard a vehicle rumble past.
An empty house didn’t stop people from reminiscing about the family, though. The name Channing was stamped on gold plaques all over Red Leaf, from the door on the library’s addition to the playground equipment in the park. Photographs of Hollis in her cheerleading uniform still lined the walls of the high school, and even now when Mac went to a football game, someone inevitably mentioned how Ethan had led the Lions to victory over the Lumberjacks during the play-offs his senior year, breaking several state records on his way to the end zone.
No wonder Grant wanted to make Hollis’s wedding front-page news. It was like the royal family returning to Balmoral Castle.
A thought suddenly occurred to Mac. “Are you . . . staying at the house?”
Ethan looked confused by the question. “Of course.”
Of course.
Red Leaf suddenly felt even smaller.
“I know it’s kind of big for one person, but it’s completely furnished.” Ethan bent down to pick up a pinecone and sent it sailing into the trees with the practiced skill of someone who still tossed around a football now and then. “Mom claimed the stuff wouldn’t fit in our condo, but I think it gave her an excuse to leave Dad’s collection of antique fishing reels and the bearskin rug behind.”
One. Person.
Mac swallowed hard. By now she expected there would be a beautiful, accomplished Mrs. Ethan Channing and two-point-four equally beautiful, accomplished Channing children.
She slowed her steps in order to put some distance between them and scanned the property for another “before” shot that would satisfy her editor.
“Do you know where the ceremony is going to take place?”
Ethan stopped so abruptly she almost plowed into him.
“Ceremony?” he repeated.
“Hollis’s wedding.”
“That’s why you’re here?” Ethan didn’t raise his voice, but something in his tone set off a warning bell in Mac’s head.
“I told you I was taking pictures for the Register.”
“I thought you were getting some nature shots. An eagle. The sunset.” Ethan gestured toward the lake. “How did you even find out about the wedding? It’s supposed to be a secret.”
“A secret?” Grant hadn’t mentioned that. And it didn’t sound like Hollis, the girl who’d flirted with the editor of the school newspaper just to get her picture on the front page. Every week. “My editor received an e-mail with the details this morning.”
“Who sent the e-mail, Mackenzie?” he asked softly.
Mac hiked her chin and forced herself to look him in the eye. “I . . . I can’t say.”
Ethan took a step closer, invading her personal space. “It was my mother, wasn’t it?”
“A good reporter never reveals her source.” Even though Ethan’s cologne, a woodsy, masculine equivalent of truth serum, was in the process of breaking down her resistance.
“Never?” A slow smile drew up the corners of his lips. “That sounds like a challenge to me.”
Mac silently disagreed. Keeping her head on straight and her heart in line with Ethan Channing working in Red Leaf—and living next door—that was going to be the challenge.
“Mom did what?”
“Contacted the Register about the wedding.” Ethan held the phone away from his ear and braced himself for the fallout.
“I can’t believe it! She knows how Connor feels about his privacy!” Hollis wailed. “We chose Red Leaf because we wanted a quiet place to exchange our vows.”
Of course their mother knew that. But she had obviously decided that when it came to her only daughter marrying Connor Blake, a little publicity was better than no publicity at all.
“It will still be quiet.” Even without the newspaper story, Ethan couldn’t guarantee privacy, not in a town the size of Red Leaf. “I doubt you’ll have to worry about paparazzi hiding in the trees.”
Just beautiful, brown-eyed reporters . . .
“Ethan? Are you listening to me?”
“Of course I’m listening.” And thinking about Mackenzie Davis, something Ethan had been guilty of doing quite a bit over the past twenty-four hours. Their conversation the night before had ended in a stalemate, but Ethan was already looking forward to the next one.