Confessions Of A Small-Town Girl

Chapter One

Having fantasies about a man wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Fantasies were normal. Fantasies were healthy. Writing them down wasn’t terribly bright, Kelsey Schaeffer conceded to herself, trying not to panic at what she was overhearing. Especially in detail. But she’d never dreamed that the subject of those wild imaginings would ever be anywhere near where she’d hidden her old diary. She’d had no idea that Sam MacInnes had even returned to Maple Mountain. She’d barely been back twelve hours herself.

You going to flip those cakes, honey?

Kelsey’s mother bustled into the kitchen of her busy little diner, one eye on the spatula Kelsey held, the other on her order pad. With her silvering-blond hair in its usual braided bun, her pretty features softening with age and a white bib apron tied around her ample waist, Dora Schaeffer looked much as she always had to Kelsey. Friendly. Efficient. Enduring. Like a rock that could weather any storm or challenge and remain unchanged. The only difference about her since Kelsey’s visit home last year was the white cast that ran from elbow to palm on her left arm. She had fallen from a ladder while adjusting the bunting she’d hung out front for the Fourth of July parade next Sunday.

The red, white and blue bunting now lay bundled on the storage room floor. Dauntless and headstrong to her core, her mom had pulled down the sections she’d hung rather than have them hang crooked before she’d walked down the street to the doctor’s office to get her arm set. There were no half-measures with Dora Schaeffer. Something was either done perfectly, or it wasn’t done at all.

Jerked from her alarm by her mom’s reminder, Kelsey hurriedly flipped the two orders of buttermilk pancakes turning golden on the griddle. With most of her attention on the conversation taking place on the other side of the service window, she stacked a third order onto a plate, added a side of sausage and eggs and slid the plate onto the window’s long ledge.

Amos Calder and Charlie Moorehouse, two of the community’s inherently stubborn senior citizens, sat with their elbows on the lacquered pine counter, coffee mugs in hand, waiting for their breakfast. According to what she’d just overheard of their laconic conversation, Sam’s sister had bought the old Baker place and Sam was refurbishing it for her and her boys. What had her mentally hyperventilating was Amos’s comment about Sam tearing out the upstairs bedroom walls.

Her old diary was up there. The one she’d kept in high school. It was behind a wall in the back bedroom. Her name was in glitter on the cover. Sam’s name was all over the inside.

Until a minute ago, she had nearly forgotten the thing even existed. Now, her only thought was that she would die if Sam found it.

She couldn’t remember exactly what she’d written. At that moment, all she recalled was that he had been a college senior the summer she’d turned sixteen and that he’d worked on his uncle’s farm. Big, buff, and totally out of her league, he had awakened her heart, her dreams and inspired a host of wild fantasies, the bulk of which she’d duly recorded, then ultimately hidden in the wall of the very house he was now tearing apart because her mom would have killed her had she found something so explicit in her bedroom.

Her then-best friend, Michelle Baker, in whose room she had hurriedly hidden her rather risqué writings after she’d discovered that her original hiding place in the old grist mill wasn’t safe, hadn’t had a clue what was in that diary. Since she kept a diary herself, Michelle had understood, however, how important it was for a girl to protect her private thoughts and assured her that no one would ever know the little book was there. As it was, Kelsey had never intended to leave it there permanently. But when she’d put it behind the loose wall panel Michelle had pulled out partway, it hadn’t caught on the little ledge that held her friend’s own treasures. It had slid all the way to the floor and they hadn’t been able to get it back out.

Kelsey? Carrying a freshly poured glass of milk, her mom backed out the swinging kitchen door. The cakes?

Multitasking normally came as easily as a smile to Kelsey. At the moment, however, she could barely focus on anything other than what she was overhearing. Rattled, hating it, she grabbed a white ceramic plate from the stack near the griddle and slid the pancakes on it. The meal joined the others on the service ledge as her mom placed the milk in front of the UPS man sitting at the end of the counter.

Wonder what’s keepin’ him, she heard Amos mutter.

Keepin’ who? her mom asked. Turning around, Dora absently smiled through the window at Kelsey’s suddenly frozen features, then reached one at a time for the older men’s breakfasts.

Sam. Scratching his balding head, Amos added a few more furrows to his weathered brow. He’s usually here by now.

Barely breathing, Kelsey watched the silver-haired Charlie eye his plate as her mom set it in front of him. Fork in hand, he poked at an egg yolk to make sure it was done to his liking. Might be he drove to St. Johnsbury. Told us yesterday he’d have to make another trip into the lumberyard, he reminded the man on the stool next to him. I keep tellin’ him things aren’t as handy here as he’s used to in the city. Got to make lists. Pick up everything in one trip.

Amos pressed his white stubble-covered chin toward the collar of the T-shirt shirt tucked into his coveralls. As he did, he eyed his similarly attired friend through the top of his black-rimmed trifocals.

Doing the work he does, you think he don’t know about makin’ lists?

Charlie, his own glasses rimmed in silver, eyed him right back. What’s being a policeman got to do with anything?

He’s not a policeman. He’s a detective. You can tell by those shows on the TV that there’s a difference, he explained, sounding as if the man being discussed hadn’t pointed out the distinctions himself. I’d think that a man who goes around lookin’ for clues and such about crimes would be prone to keepin’ lists of what he knows and what he don’t.

Kelsey’s mom gave the elderly men a patient smile. I doubt he’s gone anywhere just yet, she assured them both. You know he wouldn’t make that long drive before fillin’ himself up. He hasn’t missed breakfast here in the two weeks since he arrived.

That’s ’cause he loves your cookin’, Dora, came a gravelly voice from a table behind the men. By the way, Kelsey, you’re doing good this mornin’, too. A white ceramic mug was raised in her direction. Good to see you home.

Exposed by the window her mom had made wide so she wouldn’t miss anything while working in her kitchen, Kelsey smiled into the half-filled room. Smiley Jefferson had been the postal carrier for as long as she could remember. His front tooth had been missing for about that long, too.

It’s good to be home, Smiley. It had been until a few minutes ago, anyway. I hear Drew and Kathy had another baby. Congratulations.

He finally got himself a grandson. The owner of the only gas station in town grinned as he looked up from his breakfast. Just don’t ask him to show you pictures. You get him started and the mail will never get delivered.

There was no such thing as a private conversation at Dora’s Diner. Not when nearly everyone there knew everyone else. The quaint little establishment with its maple tables and chairs and bulletin board papered with handwritten notes of locals seeking to barter everything from farm equipment and labor to hay and eggs was as much the center of the community as the community center down the street. It was also the root of the town grapevine.

Much of what Kelsey had always loved about remote and rural Maple Mountain, Vermont, was the sense of acceptance and community she’d always felt there. Many of the locals were set in their ways and independent to a fault, but they protected their own. Neighbors helped neighbors. If someone hadn’t been heard from in a while, someone else checked on them to make sure they weren’t just busy or being reclusive. They were like extended family to her. And, like family, she loved them in spite of their quirks as much as she did because of them.

The acceptance was reciprocal. No matter how long she remained away, for a year, sometimes two, she was always welcomed back.

Her attention wasn’t on that comfortable familiarity, however. All she felt as the front door opened and heads lifted to see who was joining them was a distinct sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.

Sam MacInnes hadn’t been anything more to her than a passing memory in the dozen years since she’d last seen him. Since she’d gone off the deep end for him as she had, she’d obviously thought him rather incredible back then. But she’d been a teenager at the time. Having been raised in conservative and totally unsophisticated Maple Mountain, she’d been a fairly sheltered one at that.

Years of living in cities had left her far more worldly and infinitely less impressionable than she’d once been. Still, she wasn’t quite prepared for the six feet of solid muscle and testosterone in a faded NYPD T-shirt and worn jeans that walked into the room.

He totally dominated the space.

He made no effort to draw attention to himself. If anything, it seemed to her that his manner as he returned the greetings of others with an easy, appealing familiarity seemed decidedly low-key. He was simply the sort of man other men sensed as a prime example of their own, and either envied or emulated. Women simply stopped to stare and reminded themselves to breathe.

She didn’t remember his hair being so dark. Its shade of sable looked so deep it nearly seemed black in the overhead lights. And his silver-gray eyes spoke more of a quiet, watchful intensity than whatever romantic notion she’d had about them all those summers ago. Yet what struck her most as he moved closer was the rugged maturity that carved lines of character in a face that had once merely been handsome—and gave him an aura of power and utter control that seemed downright dangerous.

He’d barely met her eyes when she jerked her glance away and slipped behind the wall to the grill.

The thought that he might have already found the diary sent her heart to her toes.

With her pulse pounding frantically in her ears, she heard coffee being poured into a mug and her mom’s cheerful, ’Mornin’, Sam. Good thing you showed up. These two were gettin’ worried about you. The mug slid across shiny pine. I just told ’em not a minute ago that you wouldn’t leave without havin’ breakfast first.

The chuckle she heard sounded as deep and rich as the brew her mother had just poured. I didn’t realize I was getting that predictable. But you’re right. His tone grew grateful. Thanks, Dora, he said, apparently referring to the caffeine she’d just slid toward him.

With the clink of metal against glass, her mom slipped the carafe back onto the big double coffeemaker. What are you pickin’ up from the lumberyard this time?

More two-by-fours. But I’m not going into St. Johnsbury until I get all the walls upstairs torn out and see what else I’ll need. I’ve run into more wood rot up there than I did downstairs.

That’s because the roof was so bad. Amos punctuated his conclusion by stabbing a bite of pancake. The Bakers replaced it so they could sell the place. That thing sagged like an ol’ mare. Leaked in buckets, I’d imagine.

They told Megan about the water damage, Sam replied, speaking of his sister. She didn’t care. She and the boys fell in love with the place.

I can see why they’d do that. Silverware rattled as her mom put together a setting. "It’s a pretty piece of property, with that creek and all. Kelsey used to like going out there herself when the elder Mrs. Baker was still alive. She was friends with her granddaughter.

Speaking of which…Kelsey, I mean, she continued, her tone utterly conversational, "she got here last night. Her plane was late arrivin’ in Montpelier, so we’ve hardly had a chance to visit. Have we, Kelsey?

Kelsey? Puzzlement entered Dora’s voice as she turned to where her daughter had stood only moments ago. Where did you go? I want someone to meet you.

Kelsey didn’t respond. Protected by six feet of wall, she was too busy closing her eyes, shaking her head and wishing her mom wasn’t so impossibly social. Dora Schaeffer had never met a stranger. Any tourist who came in more than once was remembered, along with where they were from and where they were going. She also knew every resident for a radius of fifty miles. If she didn’t know them personally, she knew of them, about them and who they were related to—along with most of their business. People tended to confide in her and what they didn’t confide, she overheard or pried out on her own. It was widely rumored that between her, Agnes Waters at the general store and Claire McGraw, the mayor’s wife, there was hardly a secret in town.

The only person her mom didn’t know as well as she thought she did was her own daughter.

There were advantages to that small failing. In a matter of seconds, it became apparent that she’d never had a clue about her daughter’s wild crush on the man watching her reluctantly step back into view. Her mom didn’t even seem to think she knew who Sam was.

Kelsey, this is Tom and Janelle Collier’s nephew, Sam. He’s taking time off to work on the old Baker place for his sister. The arches of her pale eyebrows merged. "I told you the Bakers finally sold the place, didn’t I? After Jenny married Doctor Reid?

Anyway, she hurried on, sounding as if she didn’t want to sidetrack herself as she turned back to the man quietly watching her strangely silent daughter, Kelsey is helping out through the holiday, like I told you. Holding her casted arm protectively at her waist, she set a napkin and utensils on the counter for him. I don’t know what I’d have done if she hadn’t been able to make it. It’s just us locals and a few lowlanders on vacation out at the lakes right now, but give it two days and that road out there will be bumper-to-bumper with folk coming to celebrate the Fourth of July. They’re all going to be hungry, too.

He had big hands. Kelsey noticed that as he wrapped one around his mug. He had a nice smile, too. A little reserved. Kind of sexy.

He was smiling at her. Feeling an odd jolt join her panic, she jerked her attention to the older man pouring more maple syrup over the melted butter on his pancakes.

Good thing you had her to call on, Dora, Amos informed her mom. You’d have been up a creek with Betsy being gone like she is. You thinkin’ to hire somebody to help her when she gets back? He aimed his fork at her cast. Leastwise until you get rid of that thing?

Not by a hair did her mom’s tight bun budge as she adamantly shook her head. Betsy will take her shifts and I’ll take mine, she insisted, speaking of her part-time cook, and new grandmother of twins. The birth of those babies had required Betsy Parker’s presence in Burlington to help her daughter and son-in-law—right through the busiest week of summer.

I just need to get used to this thing, Dora muttered, frowning stubbornly at her encumbrance. Once the crowds are gone this weekend I’ll be fine. In the meantime, I’ll have Kelsey freeze me up a bunch of pies and such in case Betsy needs more time with those babies.

The frown melted as she glanced back at Sam. You used to come in here when Kelsey was in high school, she reminded him, returning to what she’d rather talk about. When she wasn’t in the kitchen, she waited tables for me. You might remember having seen her back then.

Kelsey knew her mom was just being her usual chatty self. As far as the older woman was concerned, her little diner was her home and her guests were treated with the same hospitality she would have offered had they been in her living room—which, technically, they were. The entire first floor of the old two-story house Kelsey had been raised in had been converted into the diner after her father passed away twenty years ago. She and her mom had lived in the rooms upstairs. Her mom still did.

Since Dora was just being her gregarious self, Kelsey ordinarily wouldn’t have thought anything of her mom’s casual comments. But having her mom prod Sam’s memory was the last thing she wanted her to do—until she realized he seemed to have no memory of her at all.

Sure, he said, in that vague way people did when they didn’t want to be rude and say they had little or no recollection of a person. Your mom said that you live in Scottsdale now. You’re a chef?

Pastry chef, she explained, because it was all she could think to say.

A hint of a smile tugged at his mouth again. I’m an apple pie man myself. Will you make any of those while you’re here?

Probably.

Watching her over the steam rising over the rim of his mug, he arched one dark eyebrow. Are you any good at pancakes?

She was having trouble maintaining eye contact with him. She couldn’t remember specifics, but she was pretty certain that many of the entries in that diary had do with his beautifully muscled body. Those muscles looked as hard as the granite mined from the quarry outside of town and radiated a fine sort of tension that made him seem more restive than relaxed.

The fact that he was making her feel the same way wasn’t lost on her, either. I can manage.

He always has a full stack, four eggs over medium, wheat toast and two sides of bacon, her mom rattled off, moving from behind the counter to wait on a couple of tourists who’d wandered in with their two offspring. Sit anywhere you’d like, she told them, then glanced over her shoulder at Sam. You want buttermilk or blueberry?

That reserved smile surfaced again. Looking at Kelsey, he said, She can surprise me.

Realizing she was staring at his mouth, praying he hadn’t noticed, Kelsey spun away. She used to practice kissing that beautifully carved mouth on her bedroom mirror.

With a mental groan at the memory, she snatched up a clean stainless steel bowl. With the last batch of pancake batter gone, she needed to mix another.

She couldn’t believe how totally flustered she felt. She was twenty-nine years old. Not sixteen. In the eleven years since she’d left Maple Mountain for culinary school, she’d worked her way from a line chef in Boston to master pastry chef in four-star restaurants in San Diego and Scottsdale. She had managed to survive the artistic temperaments of male executive chefs who considered themselves God’s gift to man, woman and culinary creativity, and placed in the top three of every dessert competition she’d entered in the last five years. Until two minutes ago—three minutes were she to count from the moment she’d heard Sam’s name—her biggest concern had been the terrible timing of her mom’s need for her to come home.

She had just been offered the position of executive pastry chef where she worked at the Regis-Carlton resort in Scottsdale. She had also been offered the same position with a high-end new restaurant by Doug Westland, one of the most respected and innovative restaurateurs on the West Coast, along with the opportunity to become his business—and bed—partner. She had huge issues with the latter part of that arrangement. But that wasn’t the problem at the moment. Or the point. The point was that she was highly organized, disciplined, creative in her own right and that she was not easily unsettled. Normally.

Scooping a cup of the flour, baking powder and salt she’d premeasured earlier, she folded it into the eggs and buttermilk, gently so as not to make the batter heavy. She felt decidedly unsettled now.

That circumstance no doubt explained why she didn’t feel at all slighted to know that Sam apparently hadn’t even noticed her existence the summer he’d occupied her nearly every waking thought. Realizing he barely remembered her was actually a relief. A huge one. So was the thought that nothing about his manner indicated that he’d discovered her daring and imaginative writings, much less read them. To the best of her knowledge, she was the only Kelsey in Maple Mountain. With her name on the diary’s cover, it seemed that had he found it, she would have at least rated a raised eyebrow when her mom mentioned her name.

She spread two rashers of bacon on the griddle, cracked four eggs beside them. He probably needed the huge breakfast to fuel all that muscle, she supposed, only to deliberately change the direction of her thoughts. Thinking about the admittedly magnificent body that had inspired the current reason for her anxiety wasn’t getting her anywhere. Since it seemed he hadn’t found the diary, she needed to get to it before he did. She just needed to figure out how.

She was praying for inspiration when she set the three plates of food that could have comfortably fed two in the window for her mom to