Falling Into Forever Read online

  Falling Into Forever

  Singletree, Book 5

  Delancey Stewart

  Contents

  1. Pumpkin Spice Day

  2. Crosswalk Tango

  3. Employee of the Month

  4. Tuckers Smell

  5. Don’t Trust the Trust

  6. ‘Effin Creepy

  7. Gnomes in the Garden

  8. Sisterly Sarcasm

  9. Mice in the Mattress

  10. Lack of Air

  11. Old Houses and Unearthly Screams

  12. Thumps in the Night

  13. Tanner Trouble

  14. Old Bay Strikes Again

  15. Veggie Restoration

  16. Sandstorm

  17. Drool Can be Sexy

  18. A Moose on the Loose

  19. Virge in Lavender

  20. Lottie’s Learnings

  21. Dorky

  22. Vintage ‘Vette

  23. Half Cat Strikes Again

  24. How to be a Moron

  25. Babysitter Fantasies

  26. The German Shepherd’s Sadness

  27. We Don’t Joke about Coons

  28. Sunday Silliness

  29. Feuds and Fun Houses

  30. Mom Love

  31. Emmett Speaks

  32. Don’t Upend the Pens

  33. Ghostly Departures

  34. The Train to Crazytown

  35. Lottie Gets Mad

  36. Forced March

  37. Tween Truths

  Epilogue

  Also by Delancey Stewart

  1

  Pumpkin Spice Day

  Michael

  In my experience, Sunday mornings generally sucked. Sure, there were the ones when you got up late, made pancakes and lazed around in flannel pajama bottoms longer than you should. And those were okay, at least when Daniel was with me.

  But the Sunday mornings when my son was at his mom’s house?

  You’d think I’d be happy for the peace and quiet, for the freedom from the expectations and demands of a grumpy pre-pubescent twelve-year old. But you’d be wrong.

  That was what I lived for. We’d been divorced almost Dan’s whole life, and though I didn’t miss the chaos that had been my poorly thought-out and hastily completed marriage, I missed Dan anytime he was with Shelly.

  So Sunday mornings when I woke up alone in a quiet house with nothing specific ahead of me felt like purgatory. Like a penance of some kind. Like they were engineered specifically to remind me what my life was supposed to be about—and how I’d failed.

  I guzzled a cup of coffee, gave myself a pep talk—hard, since I was not a peppy guy exactly—and headed out to run.

  Let’s be clear here: running is not something I do. At least not historically. But I need to keep myself healthy for the sake of my kid, plus, it gets me out of the house on days when there’s a chance I might just decide to give up and wallow in my bed for the entire day. I’ve found that the feeling of actually running feels a little bit like running away might. And so on days when I have the chance, I pretend to run away. I pretend to run toward some shimmering version of a life I’ve already forsaken—one I turned my back on twelve years ago.

  It was a crisp fall day, one of those where you can practically smell winter just around the corner. The humidity of the mid-Atlantic had finally given way to cooler air, turning leaves, and that scent that always seemed to accompany the arrival of autumn, full of rich earth, dewy grass and cinnamon spice. That last part might not be so much due to fall as to Lottie Tanner’s penchant for baking cinnamon spice everything the second the first hint of fall arrived. The Muffin Tin, Lottie’s cafe, occupied one corner of the main square in Singletree, and though I made a point to cross the road instead of running directly past it, cinnamon still wrapped itself around me as I passed.

  The Muffin Tin was a popular Singletree locale, but aside from sending Daniel in with a fistful of cash now and then, it wasn’t a place I ever went. It was a Tanner establishment, after all, and I’d no sooner enter that place than Lottie or her sister Verda would buy a book at my aunt Veronica’s shop. Tuckers and Tanners didn’t mix. It was tradition.

  I jogged to the top of the hill past the town square, my breath coming hard as I pushed myself up the incline toward the old Easter mansion at the top. There was a time this would have been easy, back when I was pretty sure I was going to college to play soccer. I could run for miles back then. But that was twelve years ago. Now? I was an almost middle-aged dude trying to keep himself sane through sweat and near-death exercise experiences.

  The hill leveled off in front of a set of old iron gates, chipped and rusted in spots, but chained securely in front of the creepy old Easter mansion. The place had been beautiful once, I’d bet—all Victorian gardens and turrets, wide sweeping porches and an expansive front lawn. But now it gave me a chill every time I passed it, and I headed away, my lungs screaming.

  A group of boys on bikes pedaled past me in the other direction, cackling and hooting about whatever boys Dan’s age cackled and hooted about. I ignored them but glanced over my shoulder to see them drop their bikes outside the gates of the dilapidated mansion. They were up to no good, I could feel it, and since I thought I recognized a couple of them as Dan’s friends, I felt the urge to keep them out of trouble.

  “Hey, you kids!” I turned around and moved faster, upping my flagging pace to intercept them just as they were about to squeeze between the iron bars. The old Easter place was endlessly fascinating to local kids. Especially at this time of year as scary movies and pumpkins were getting brought out. “That’s private property, see the ‘No Trespassing’ signs?”

  “Yessir, Mr. Tucker. Sorry.” One of the kids had the guts to actually face me, which was reassuring, since I was now definitely sure these were some of Daniel’s lesser-known pals.

  I waved my arms at them. “Go on, get out of here!”

  The kids scrambled, hopping back onto their bikes and shrieking with laughter as they pedaled away, leaving me to realize I’d skipped mid-life and progressed directly into the high-pants-wearing grandfatherly phase of my time here on Earth, where I screamed at people to get off my lawn. And this wasn’t even my lawn.

  I stopped running, leaning over to catch my breath in front of the rusting gates of the big house. I let out a breath feeling disgusted with myself, but not just because I’d stopped some kids from vandalizing a decrepit old house I didn’t give a shit about.

  No, there were plenty more reasons for me to feel like I was watching my life swirling around the toilet bowl of existence, making a slow but steady spiral toward utter and complete failure. Or maybe not failure as much as stagnancy. I. Was. Going. Nowhere.

  Now more literally than usual, since I was just standing here in front of the creepiest house in town, staring at the old Victorian monstrosity when I was supposed to be jogging. But . . . Wait, had I just seen something move in the upstairs window? I was one hundred percent sure the place was deserted, and had been since I was a little kid. A chill ran through me as I squinted up at the darkened windows of the second floor. Creepy.

  “Now I’m seriously losing it.”

  I sighed and turned away, determined to finish my run, even if nothing else in my life had gone according to plan.

  2

  Crosswalk Tango

  Addison

  “Pie me.” Mom held her hands out for the lemon meringue that sat on the work table in the kitchen at the Muffin Tin. I’d been hiding in the kitchen for a couple days now, pretending to help, and Mom kept coming back and asking for things—her way of checking on me without really checking on me. I guessed it seemed to her this was better than demanding answers from her thirty-five year old daughter who’d shown
up suddenly at her childhood home, refusing to discuss what had happened in her fantastic independent life in New York City.

  I’d have to tell her eventually, I knew. But my mother, Lottie Tanner, had an affinity for gossip, even when it was her own. I couldn’t really tell her until I was ready for everyone in Singletree to know what an utter fool I was. For now, only my sister Paige knew what had happened.

  “Here.” I handed Mom the pie and looked around the small kitchen, gilded in stainless steel and feeling suddenly suffocating in its cleanliness and shine. “I’m going to take a walk, I think.”

  Mom’s eyes widened a touch beneath the perfect steel gray bob, and she pressed her lips together before saying, “Sure, honey. You go get some air.”

  Lottie was showing remarkable restraint, which I appreciated. I knew she had thirty thousand questions she was dying to ask, but instead she had welcomed me home with a hug, made up my old room for me, and told me I could stay as long as I liked.

  I didn’t want to stay at all really, and not just because Mom shared her home with three free-range chinchillas. But I had nowhere else to go. Except back to New York, and I couldn’t even think about that yet.

  I pushed out through the front door of the cafe, offering friendly smiles to a few of the townspeople who gathered there on Sunday mornings for muffins and coffee.

  The air had turned crisp, and I wrapped my arms around myself, wishing I’d thought to pull my jacket from the hook before going out. I didn’t want to go back inside though, the cinnamon spice felt almost oppressive with its air of comfort and family togetherness. It reminded me of happier times, of feeling loved, of being where I was supposed to be. But this place wasn’t where I was supposed to be. I’d moved on, and coming back here felt like a concession. A failure.

  I was moving toward the crosswalk, ready to cross the square to avoid walking in front of the little bookshop a block down from Mom’s cafe—I avoided it out of habit, not because I really had any beef with the Tuckers. That was Mom’s thing. I thought the old feud was ridiculous, especially since not a single person seemed to know how it had started. But it was better to avoid conflict, I figured, so I didn’t walk in front of Veronica Tucker’s bookstore, though it was exactly the kind of place I’d love to go lose myself now.

  The square was busy for a Sunday morning. There was a man jogging down the other side of the street, looking fit and healthy in a way that made me realize I probably needed to stop self-medicating with Mom’s muffins soon, and there was an old woman in the crosswalk, moving at a dying snail’s pace across the street. Just as I turned to cross, she stumbled and crumpled to the ground in front of me, and as my heart rushed into my mouth with fear and concern, I rushed to kneel at her side.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, the question echoed in deep masculine tones on the other side of the old woman. I looked up to find the runner kneeling on the woman’s other side. He must have seen her fall too. I looked a moment longer at him and surprise flooded me as I took in the dark blue eyes, the square jaw and tousled ginger hair. He was a Tucker. Michael, I thought.

  “Well,” said the little pile of old woman between us. “Well, I don’t know.”

  I didn’t see any blood, and the woman seemed to be lucid—those were good signs.

  Might-be-Michael helped her come to a sitting position, and she lifted a small wrinkled hand to her head, glancing between us. “Is my hair all right?”

  Her hair was arranged in a cloud-like pouf at the back of her head, and it looked unharmed by the fall.

  I laughed, recognizing Filene Easter, who was a long-time friend of my mother’s and had been my babysitter, once upon a time. “It looks fine, Mrs. Easter. Are you all right, though?”

  “Did you hit your head?” The runner asked, and his deep blue eyes were fixed on her face, full of concern. Something about his sincere attention made my heart twist inside my chest.

  “Maybe you kind children could just help me up,” she suggested, and after exchanging a brief glance, we complied. I felt a little jump of amusement at having been referred to as “children.” I wondered if Maybe-Michael-Tucker recognized me—we’d never really known each other, but we’d both been kids in a very small town, so we knew who the other was. If, in fact, this was Michael. Might-be-Mike had gotten handsome, either way. Even if he was possibly a Tucker.

  “Let’s just sit for a moment,” the man suggested, guiding Mrs. Easter to the bench in front of Mom’s shop. “You’re Addison, right?” he asked me, narrowing his eyes. “Your mom isn’t going to, uh . . .” He looked at me questioningly. So he was a Tucker—the trepidation in his eyes confirmed it.

  “She’s not really part of the ‘shoot any Tucker on sight’ side of the family,” I assured him. Though Mom was part of the “ask a million questions if she catches me out here with a Tucker,” side. “And you’re Michael?”

  “Oh, I see. So she’s just part of the ‘unleash a thousand crickets in a bookshop’ contingent, huh?” he said, bitterness narrowing his eyes. “And yeah, I’m Mike.”

  Wow. So we were going there? Better not to engage. This was not my fight. I would not get involved. Definitely-Mike was acting like kind of a dick. “Mrs. Easter,” I said, addressing the old woman and hoping the Tucker at my side would let it drop. “Does anything hurt?”

  She looked between us, a tiny smile playing on her thin lips. “At my age, everything hurts, dear.”

  Michael chuckled, and I realized that when he wasn’t being an ass about a hundred-year-old feud, his smile might have been considered charming—as was his concern for Mrs. Easter as he asked, “How about anything new hurting since falling a few minutes ago?”

  She sighed. “My knee hurts a little bit.” She leaned forward and pulled the hem of her long skirt up higher, revealing combat boots and tall socks beneath. But she also uncovered a bleeding scrape and a rapidly swelling bump. I winced in sympathy. That looked like it hurt.

  Michael sucked in a breath and his eyes flew to mine. He looked worried, and in that second, I knew we’d both dropped the topic of the feud. “Oh, that’s just a bump,” he said, in the way one would reassure a worried child.

  “Let me give my sister Paige a call,” I suggested. Paige was one of the family doctors in town. “I bet she’ll fix that right up.”

  “Oh, no. I don’t want to be a bother on a Sunday morning. I’m sure she’s enjoying some time with that handsome man of hers.”

  My stomach twisted a little with envy, thinking that Mrs. Easter was probably right. Paige was probably lounging in bed with Cormac, or enjoying a family breakfast with him and his two adorable little girls. She had a ready-made family, and I—well, that wasn’t important right now.

  “She won’t mind a bit,” I assured her, pulling my phone from my pocket. I stepped away and explained the situation to Paige, who agreed to come down and take a quick look. “Why don’t we just go inside here and wait for her? Maybe have some tea? It’s a little chilly out here.”

  Mrs. Easter smiled. “That would be nice.”

  Michael looked hesitant, but to his credit, said nothing about being led into a Tanner-owned establishment.

  As we walked through the door, my mother gasped and dropped the coffee cup she’d been pouring for a customer. “Addie, what do you think you’re doing?”

  The broken cup spun across the floor, and then a cold silence spread through the shop, doused in the scent of cinnamon. Michael froze in place, Mrs. Easter at his side. I pulled out a chair at a table by the window for Mrs. Easter.

  “Mrs. Easter fell outside,” I said, looking around and feeling like I had to explain myself, not just to my mother but to all the concerned busybodies of Singletree who were staring now, hoping for something to talk about later. “And Michael and I were both right there. Paige is coming to take a look and make sure she’s okay, so I suggested we come in here to wait. It’s cold outside.”

  Mom seemed to recover herself, and rushed to Mrs. Easter’s side. “Of course
! Oh, you poor dear. Come sit. Let’s get you some tea.” She managed to take the old woman’s arm from Michael and turn her back on him rather obviously in the process.

  “Maybe I’ll just . . .” he said, clearly uncomfortable.

  “No, no,” Mrs. Easter said. “You stay and sit. If I need to be carried or have questions about farm supplies, I’ll need you right here.”

  Well, that was odd—and it felt like Mrs. Easter had an ulterior motive, but neither of us seemed inclined to question an injured old woman. Michael sighed and sat down next to the old woman, and my mother’s annoyance was practically tangible. There would be no holding off the barrage of questions later.

  “Lottie, that tea sounds lovely,” Mrs. Easter said. Besides the knee, she seemed completely fine. She looked between Michael and me, a little smile pulling at her lips. “You know,” she said. “I remember you both from when you were small.” Mrs. Easter didn’t seem too affected by her fall, and I thought maybe she was actually enjoying the extra attention.

  “You do?” I laughed, taking a seat beside her. I remembered her a little bit, but wondered what exactly she remembered about me, the serious Tanner sister, as a child.

  “Oh yes, dear,” Mrs. Easter said. “I don’t know if you remember that I used to run a daycare up at my house when I lived in the big place at the top of the hill. Very informal, of course, nothing fancy. But I always loved being around the little ones. And there was a time, Addie, when you were my little helper.”