The Merriest Magnolia Read online

  Carrie gave a shaky nod and watched the mayor make his way through the restaurant, greeting other diners like the old friend he was to most of them.

  “Am I being totally self-serving in my wish to see Dylan go away?” she asked, facing Avery and Meredith. “Maybe I’m more like Dad than I realized.”

  “Not in any way,” Meredith assured her. “It makes perfect sense not to want to deal with the man who broke your heart. Or any guy who does you wrong. Remember when I was supposed to go on a date with that hot guy a few weeks ago? I never want to see him again.”

  Carrie and Avery both laughed in response.

  “It’s not funny,” Meredith said then stuck out her tongue.

  “Uh...you went to meet a blind date and it turned out to be Morris Haegler.”

  “Who might be older than God,” Carrie added.

  Meredith rolled her eyes. “It was awkward, not funny. He knew he was meeting me. He copied his profile picture from the internet—total false advertising. But I still don’t want to see him, and I’m not going anywhere near the hardware store where he and his buddies hang out.”

  “Are you equating my animosity for the ex-boyfriend who took money to break up with me with you swiping right on Magnolia’s septuagenarian Lothario?”

  “I didn’t swipe any which way,” Meredith said, looking affronted. “It was a reputable dating site.”

  Avery nudged Meredith’s shoulder. “If you’re looking for a date, I can ask Gray to set you up with one of his fire station buddies.”

  Gray Atwell was Avery’s fiancé and a longtime friend of Carrie’s. He’d grown up in Magnolia and was not only one of the kindest men she knew, but he also loved her sister in a way that made Carrie’s ovaries pinch in jealousy.

  “Too much testosterone,” Meredith said, waving away the suggestion with a flutter of her hand.

  Carrie laughed. “That probably wouldn’t be an issue with Morris.”

  “Forget I mentioned my ill-fated date.” Meredith clapped a hand to her forehead. “Let’s talk more about how we’re going to take down Dylan the villain.”

  “Does everyone need a nickname with you?” Avery shook her head but then a grin split her face. “Never mind. That name actually fits.”

  Carrie felt that strange tightening of her chest again. It would be simpler if the only thing she felt for Dylan was animosity. The way her body had reacted to him added a complication to the equation she didn’t want. “You don’t need to be involved. Dylan is my problem, which means—”

  “You’re stuck with us,” Meredith interrupted. “We’re with you all the way.”

  “What she said,” Avery added with a gentle smile.

  “Thanks.” Carrie took a deep breath. She had to believe she could get through anything with her sisters at her side.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DYLAN WALKED DOWN Magnolia’s main street the following morning, trying to stop his heart from hammering out of his chest. Memories rushed at him from every angle. Even the cracks in the sidewalk seemed familiar. Sitting in his office overlooking Boston Harbor, the real estate deal had seemed like a viable option to course correct his and Sam’s lives in the wake of so much unexpected tragedy.

  Now he wondered if the move back to his hometown had been a mistake. His defenses rallied against the flood of emotions that came with reestablishing himself in such a familiar setting. Memories zinged toward him from every side, like a thousand pinballs pummeling his insides.

  “This place sucks,” Sam muttered next to him, slouching his shoulders more than seemed possible without actually folding in on himself.

  The boy’s typical negativity made Dylan’s heart ache. He forced a cheerful tone as he asked, “What are you talking about?” He gestured to the festively decorated window of the town’s local hardware store. “It’s like a holiday decoration tornado touched down right here. Magnolia has more Christmas spirit than the North Pole.”

  Sam gave him a wicked side-eye. “It’s all fake and phony.”

  “On that we can agree.” Dylan wished he could give the boy some pat holiday spirit pep talk, but in his family growing up, this time of year had meant more worries about money, more fights and definitely more drinking on his dad’s part. Not exactly the stuff of Christmas fairy tales.

  “Christmas sucks,” Sam added for good measure.

  “Is there anything that doesn’t suck?” Dylan asked.

  “Fortnite,” came the mumbled reply.

  “Right.” Video games and social media were the only things Sam had shown any enthusiasm for since his parents’ deaths. Dylan didn’t blame the kid. Dylan’s parents, Joelle and Matt Scott, hadn’t been Magnolia’s answer to June and Ward Cleaver, but he couldn’t imagine what would have happened if they’d been killed when he was Sam’s age. “Give this place a shot,” he urged. “I’m about to blow your mind at the best bakery in the world. I still dream of the nutty sticky buns from Sunnyside.”

  Sam sniffed. “Sugar and carbs are bad for you.”

  “You polished off half a box of Lucky Charms last night after dinner,” Dylan pointed out as he moved around a mother pushing a double stroller.

  “I’m a teenager so I can handle it. You’re old. All those extra empty calories will make you fat.”

  “I’m thirty-one.” Dylan patted his flat stomach. “Not exactly in line to apply for my AARP card.”

  “What’s an AARP card?”

  “Not important. Sunnyside is worth an extra mile on my morning run. In fact, you should come with me tomorrow.”

  “Great,” Sam agreed, far too readily. “If it means I don’t have to go to school.”

  “You’re going to school.”

  “I hate school.”

  “You hate everything.”

  Sam nodded. “Especially you.”

  Dylan shouldn’t let the boy’s words affect him, but they cut like the sting of a whip. Sam had been lashing out for weeks, ever since Dylan had announced plans to move to Magnolia. He’d known Sam since he was a toddler and had always thought he had a special bond with him. Sam was the only child of Dylan’s cousin, Wiley, who’d been more like a brother. They’d worked together at Wiley’s father’s real estate development company from the time Dylan had moved to Boston, growing the business into the powerhouse it was today.

  Uncle Russ had stayed involved, even after his retirement two years ago, so it had been an especially tragic blow when Russ, Wiley and Wiley’s wife, Kay, had died in the plane crash.

  Wiley had been his best friend. When he and Kay had asked Dylan to take care of Sam if anything happened to them, of course he’d said yes. He just never expected to be called on for that duty.

  Sam had been devastated then angry and resentful before settling into sullen and rebellious. He’d been kicked out of two schools in the past year, with Dylan summoned shortly after this school term started for a meeting with the headmaster at the ridiculously expensive private school in Boston he’d attended. The man had told Dylan that Sam was one detention away from expulsion and slid across his desk several pamphlets for well-respected military schools throughout the country.

  Dylan felt like a failure in the one thing he’d been charged with accomplishing to honor his best friend. Magnolia had been a distant memory until that moment, but somehow he knew—or at least hoped with all his heart—that a change of scenery would help to heal the boy. It would be nice to think the move might bring Dylan a little peace, as well, but he didn’t hold much hope for himself at this point.

  “You won’t hate Sunnyside,” he told Sam now, keeping his tone light. Let Sam lob verbal arrows all day long. Dylan refused to be felled. He could give the kid that much at least.

  Sam darted a glance in his direction, clearly surprised that his vitriol hadn’t garnered more of a reaction.

  That’s right, Dylan thought. Is a litt
le hate all you’ve got?

  He wanted to believe the boy would eventually realize Dylan’s dedication was unwavering and wouldn’t be sidelined. Not by the circumstances of life. Not with the glaring anger and resentment Sam harbored. Dylan was in this for the long haul, and he’d do whatever necessary to make things right for the teenager.

  Entering the bakery felt like walking back in time. The same bright yellow walls and wrought-iron café tables. The menu, written in loopy scrawl on the chalkboard hanging behind the register, had expanded. It included the now ubiquitous selection of complicated coffee drinks along with something called a “flaxy kale muffin.”

  “Nasty,” Sam said under his breath, his gaze following Dylan’s.

  “Ignore the healthy items,” Dylan instructed. “Check out the display case.”

  Although the boy tried to hide his reaction, Dylan saw his eyes widen a fraction as he took in the rows of baked goodness inside the lighted case. The shiny pastries and iced cookies looked as delectable as Dylan remembered.

  There were a few people in line ahead of them, and Dylan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding at the thought that he’d finally found one thing he and Sam could agree on about the move.

  “You can get donuts at any gas station convenience store,” the boy announced. “What’s the big deal?”

  A smile curved Dylan’s mouth as they moved a few paces toward the counter. “You’ll see.”

  “How many can I get?” he asked, sounding like a normal teenage boy.

  “Two for now and another for a snack later.”

  For once, the kid didn’t argue or complain. His gaze roamed over the pastries as they waited. When it was their turn, Sam made his selections—a sticky bun and two iced donuts—with more enthusiasm than he’d seen from the kid in an entire year. Dylan added another sticky bun and a banana nut muffin to the order then handed his credit card to the woman working the register.

  “You aren’t welcome here,” a cool voice said from behind him. He turned to see the bakery’s longtime owner, Mary Ellen Winkler, glaring at him from behind the rims of tortoise-shell glasses.

  “Hey, Ms. Winkler.” He offered a smile, which was definitely not returned. “How’ve you been?”

  “Perhaps you’ve forgotten the lifetime ban my bakery has against you?” she asked, crossing her arms over a bosom that appeared even more ample than Dylan remembered from his childhood.

  He felt Sam go stiff next to him. In his fervor to sell the charms of small-town life, he’d carefully omitted some of the more inauspicious details of his own checkered past in Magnolia. Like the time he’d broken into the bakery and stolen everything from the front case. His wild days were well behind him so he’d figured it was safe to assume people in town would have forgotten the punk he’d been, as well.

  Not so much, apparently.

  “I’m sorry for the trouble I caused,” he told the older woman, a bead of sweat rolling down between his shoulder blades. “Obviously, I’m not the same person I used to be.”

  “Tell that to Carrie Reed,” the bakery owner countered. “You upset her badly and she’s been nothing but a shining light in this town.”

  At the mention of Carrie’s name, shock skittered along his spine. She’d warned him the other night that she wouldn’t make it easy for him. He hadn’t taken her seriously, but what if she was already turning people in town against him? It wouldn’t take much, especially if they remembered his antics as a teenager.

  He’d stupidly assumed that his success and money would give him a pass on what had come before. He should have known better. Small towns held on to memories. His past could slither out around any corner, encircling his ankles like the kudzu that had invaded the forests bordering the highways of his home state, determined to take him down.

  “What did you do to get banned?” Sam asked, his tone uncharacteristically animated.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Dylan muttered, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder and giving him a gentle push toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  Sam made a sound of protest and glanced over his shoulder toward the bag of pastries sitting on the counter. “What about the food?”

  “We’ll get something at the gas station on the way to the high school.”

  “That stuff sucks,” Sam argued. “You said it yourself.”

  Dylan closed his eyes and counted to ten. He’d left off begging for anything on the day he’d grown taller and stronger than his father, who’d believed in teaching lessons with a belt or a closed fist. From that moment on Dylan had vowed he’d use his strength and his will to have his way, never showing weakness.

  But for Sam, he’d eschew that vow and get down on his knees to plead for the pastries. Anything not to add one more disappointment to the boy’s heaping list.

  Ready to grovel, he opened his eyes to see that Carrie had come to stand next to Mary Ellen in what he could only assume was some unwarranted show of solidarity.

  No way in hell would he subjugate himself in front of her.

  Her moss-green gaze held a mix of defiance and regret, and he knew her determination to run him out of town would take a toll on her inherently kind nature. Understood she’d willingly pay that price to be rid of him again.

  “Dylan.”

  His name on her lips, barely a whisper, had emotions running through him unchecked. He wouldn’t allow that. If she was determined to treat him as an enemy, he’d have no choice but to do the same.

  Dylan Scott destroyed his enemies.

  He half pulled, half dragged Sam out of the bakery, the doughy, sweet scent suddenly making bile rise to his throat.

  “Why are you such a jerk?” Sam demanded, yanking free of his grasp once the door slammed shut behind them.

  “Born that way,” Dylan answered, keeping his gaze on the sidewalk as he started toward where he’d parked his car.

  “Seriously.” Sam caught up with him in a few steps and matched his fast pace. “What did you do?”

  “Dylan?” a voice called from behind them.

  Not a voice. Her voice.

  Dylan gave a sharp shake of his head like he was shooing away a gnat and kept walking.

  “I have your stuff.”

  “My donuts.” Sam whirled on his heel before Dylan could stop him.

  Damn it.

  Dylan didn’t want to turn around but what choice did he have?

  Fist clenched so hard he could feel his knuckles turning white, he faced Carrie, who’d jogged forward to meet them.

  “Thanks, lady,” Sam mumbled as Carrie handed him the bag. At least the boy still displayed the manners his parents had instilled in him. One positive vestige of the past Dylan hadn’t managed to screw up.

  “I’m Carrie Reed.” Curiosity darkened her gaze. “You’re a friend of Dylan’s?”

  Sam gave a derisive laugh. “Hell, no.”

  “Language,” Dylan warned.

  Carrie inclined her head to study the boy, then her gaze darted to Dylan. Questions swirled in their depths and he wanted to answer all of them. He wanted to explain to someone the trials the past year had brought. For a few seconds or minutes or however long she’d let him, he longed to share the burden of the promise he’d made to Wiley.

  He knew without a doubt she’d extend her support. She might hate him, but her heart was too kind to hear the story of an orphaned boy and not offer empathy.

  “Are you going to ensure the whole town is against me?” he asked instead. It didn’t matter what he wanted. He couldn’t allow himself to be vulnerable. That path led to pain, and he was full up on that at the moment.

  “Mary Ellen’s feelings about you have little to do with mine.” Her chin hitched, and once again he was reminded that Carrie had changed from the easy mark she’d been back in high school. “Did you think you’d be able to flash your fanc
y watch and expensive wardrobe in this town and have everyone fawn all over you?”

  Sam laughed again. “Dude, I told you those designer clothes you wear make you look like a tool.”

  “Eat your donut,” Dylan commanded.

  He tried to ignore the way awareness fluttered along the back of his neck like a summer breeze when Carrie stifled a giggle at the boy’s insolence.

  But Sam had heard it, and he loved an audience for giving Dylan grief.

  “You should see him in Boston,” the kid told her, fishing a donut out of the bag. “He wears scarves like they’re fashionable.”

  “I wear scarves when it’s freezing and the wind is howling,” Dylan clarified then shook his head. “I’m not defending the clothes I wear.”

  “Because you’d lose.” Sam was always ready with a snappy comeback.

  Carrie stared between the two of them like she’d seen a ghost.

  Dylan took his wallet from his back pocket and handed a five-dollar bill to Sam. “They sell drinks in the hardware store, or at least they used to. Go get one.”

  “Caffeine, carbonation and sugar to start the morning.” Sam nodded. “Breakfast of champions.”

  Running a hand through his hair, Dylan watched the boy disappear into the nearby storefront before returning his gaze to Carrie.

  “Is he yours?” she asked, barely above a whisper. All the color had drained from her face, and he wanted to reach for her. To apologize for shoving back into her life when he had no business being a part of it. To tell her how sorry he was for everything that had gone wrong between them.

  “No.” He shook his head and tried not to let emotion get the best of him. “Hell, Carrie, he’s fifteen. That would have made me—”

  “Sixteen. I wasn’t your first, Dylan. It’s conceivable that—”

  “He’s my cousin Wiley’s son.” He cleared his throat and focused on measuring his breathing. The mention of first had brought him back to a cold winter night Carrie’s senior year of high school. He might have been more experienced but being with her had made everything seem brand-new.