Author: Kristan Higgins

Nicole—she was perfect. Moody these days, yes, and not the best at math, and she had a temper, and she thought she’d be prettier with pink streaks in her reddish-blond hair, and she’d thrown a huge hissy about the move…but she was perfect. The best thing in his life, the best thing ever.

“So, my math teacher, she, like, hates me,” Nicole said as they stood in the kitchen, working on dinner. They were eating late, still adjusting to the time change from California. Nic was peeling carrots, which had been her favorite veggie since she was eight months old. “She made all these totally snide comments about me being allowed to slide last year in algebra, and I was like, lady, hello? My mother died, okay? Sorry they didn’t bring out the whip and chains, but maybe in California, they actually like children.”

“Did you say that?” Liam asked, nudging the chicken as it sizzled in the pan.

“Duh. No, Dad,” she said, fondness softening her words. “So then we go to science, and it’s exactly what I was doing last year, and I was so bored I wanted to cry.” Nicole went on, detailing the shortcomings of the Bellsford school system, the cliques of her school, her fear of not fitting in—people had been nice so far, but you could never tell if they were being fake till they stabbed you in the back, right?—her dilemma over doing spring track or the school play or maybe trying lacrosse, the ugliness of mud season in New England, and the cold weather.

Her words were music, though. She was talking, and talking was good.

“One really good thing did happen today, though,” she said as they sat down at the table.

“What’s that?” Liam asked, taking a sip of his beer.

“I met a really cute boy.”

Good? This wasn’t good. Not at all. “What kind of boy?” he asked.

“The nice kind.”

“What does that mean? What did he do that was nice?”

“He just was.” She smiled, a sweet, private smile, and Liam felt sweat break out on his back.

“How? How was this niceness demonstrated, Nicole? How is someone nice just by being? There must’ve been something he did or said—”

“Jeez, Dad. Chill. You don’t have to wig out. I’m not pregnant or anything.”

He lurched to his feet. “Of course you’re not pregnant! Because you’re not having sex! Because you wouldn’t do that. Ever. Are we clear on this?”

Nicole rolled her eyes. “Dad. Relax, okay? I was joking.”

“Yeah, well, this nice boy is not nice. Trust me. I’ve been a boy. You have no idea how not nice we are.” He sat back down.

“We might go to the movies.”

“No. You’re too young to date.”

“Daddy,” Nicole said, that sweet little-girl note in her voice that worked so well. “Don’t be a jerk, okay?”

“Not dating. Too young. Eat your supper.”

“Fine! I won’t ever date! Like I’m not enough of a freak because Mom died, I’ll just stay locked in this stupid apartment for the rest of my life. Would that make you happy?” She shoved her plate back, stood up and stormed off to her room.

“Nicole,” he called. Her door slammed. “Don’t forget you have that Spanish test tomorrow.”

The Ramones began again—“I Wanna Be Sedated.” They weren’t the only ones.

Liam looked at his plate, sighed and pushed it away. His beer, on the other hand, was most welcome. He took a long pull, then looked at the ceiling. “Thanks, babe,” he said quietly. “You had some nerve, leaving me alone with a teenage girl.”

Maybe this hadn’t been the right move after all. Maybe he was screwing up Nicole beyond repair, and she’d end up tattooed and pregnant and on the back of some idiot’s motorcycle… Shit. Aside from the tatt, Emma had ended up just like that, and he’d been the idiot in question.

But Emma had turned out just fine—a successful lawyer, a good mother. But it was one thing to have a motorcycle-mechanic boyfriend who picked you up from your dorm and took you out for a drive along the coast, then back to his apartment for sex. It was another to marry him.

She’d tried. They both had. She’d tell him about the other people in her classes, he’d tell her about work, they’d acknowledge that their daughter was not only the most beautiful baby ever born, but also the smartest and sweetest. But as the years passed, their conversations grew shorter. They fought more. Spent less time together. Pretty typical story for two people who got married too young.

It was a bad, bad feeling, knowing the gap between you and your wife was spreading into a canyon, being helpless to breach it. He loved her; that never stopped. Hoped that things would turn around someday. Then came the call from that doctor, and though he knew it wasn’t exactly sane, Liam would’ve cheerfully killed Elliot Kramer, because with that phone call the doctor had taken away any chance Liam and Emma might’ve had at working things out. Eight months later, Emma was gone for good.

Liam stood up and started clearing the untouched dinner. Despite Nicole’s complaints, it felt good to be back in New England, back where there was real weather, away from the relentless perfection of San Diego. Away from the site of his marriage and those complicated memories. Bellsford was the first place he’d landed out of juvie, his great-uncle finally agreeing to let Liam come live with him. He liked this little town with its twisting alleys and odd little shops, the river on one side of town, Maine just across the bridge.

It’d been nice to see the Osterhagens today. Good people, those two. Funny how little that restaurant and the two of them had changed. Cordelia, too, didn’t look a day past sixteen—still looking a little like a chick fresh out of its shell, still staring at him as if he had two heads.

But being back in the kitchen where he’d worked in high school…it brought back a lot. The whole time he was there, he’d half expected to see Emma come in, same way she had back in high school. Back when she was on her way home from whatever after-school club she’d been running at the time. Her ponytail would swing, and she’d smile at him as he scraped plates and washed pans, and that smile would make Liam forget that he was some as**ole juvie who’d followed in his family’s footsteps toward a life of petty crime.

He’d only been back in Bellsford a week, but already the apartment felt safe, housed in a solid old factory building that had been converted to apartments five or ten years ago, according to the Realtor. Three bedrooms, two and a half baths, living room, kitchen, den. No memories of Emma walking through the door, which was both good and bad. In his closet hung Emma’s bathrobe… Sunday mornings had generally been their happiest times, when she didn’t work and he made pancakes and she looked so damn sweet in that pink puffy thing…?.

Well. Memories and all that.

“Things’ll be okay,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand across his face. He was astonishingly tired. Not that he’d done much today, aside from overseeing a shipment of equipment at the shop. Hopefully, a custom bike shop could bring in as much money here in New Hampshire as it did in Southern California. One thing that always surprised his in-laws—the blue-collar idiot their daughter married always made a decent living. Not as much as their daughter, but pretty good nonetheless.

Nicole’s door opened, and she stomped down the hall. “I have something to say,” she said, giving him the Slitty Eyes of Death. “You’re totally unfair, and if I run away, you shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Don’t make me put a computer chip in your ear,” Liam answered.

“It’s not funny! I hate you.”

“Well, I love you, even if you did ruin my life by turning into a teenager,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Did you study for your test?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He looked at his daughter—so much like Emma, way too pretty. Why weren’t there convent schools anymore? Or chastity belts? “Want some supper? I saved your plate.”

She rolled her eyes with all the melodrama a teenager could muster. “Fine. I may as well become a fat pig since I can’t ever go on a date.”

“That’s my girl,” he said and, grinning, got up to heat up her dinner.

CHAPTER THREE

SHILO, DON’T BE AFRAID. It’s just Al,” Posey said, trying to woo her dog from underneath the statue of Arpad the Archer, patron saint of Hungary, that currently graced the front yard of Irreplaceable Artifacts. “We love UPS! Don’t be scared.” Shilo whined, his tail wagging, but the truth was, the dog was a coward.

“I have a cookie,” Al said, kneeling down. Shilo whimpered and backed up, ramming his massive haunches against an old birdbath.

“He’s already eaten three donuts,” Posey said. “You have to up the ante, Al. Maybe a filet mignon.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Al said, getting back into the giant brown truck. “Have a good day, Posey.”

“You’re such a baby,” Posey told her dog. “Some watchdog you’d make. You’d hide and watch the killers hack me to pieces, wouldn’t you?” With the UPS truck safely gone, Shilo gave a fond woof and licked Posey’s wrist with his massive tongue.

Last year, Posey had made the mistake of going to the pound. Being adopted herself, she’d taken one look into Shilo’s red-rimmed eyes and just couldn’t say no. Bad enough that she’d inherited three cats with the church she’d bought, now she owned a 150-pound black-and-white Great Dane whose talents seemed to be sleeping, baying and cowering from deliverymen. He was, however, deeply devoted to Posey during his waking hours and didn’t quite realize that he outweighed her by a third; he often tried to sit on her lap (and succeeded more often than not).

Now that he was safe from Big Brown, Shilo went to sniff the pair of giant concrete lions from the old library up in Maine. Though her parents often frowned over why Posey had devoted her career to things that had outlived their purpose, Posey felt just the opposite. Salvage was practically a religion to her. Someone would want these things—the barbershop pole all the way from the Bronx, the wheel from an old tugboat, the stained-glass windows from an old Victorian, the chipped gargoyle from a church in Winooski—and they’d be cherished and enjoyed once more, and Posey’s job would be done.

But now it was donut time. Today was Thursday, the day when her two closest pals came over for goodies after school. Jon, her brother’s longtime partner, and Kate, Posey’s friend from grammar school, were both teachers at Bellsford High. Jon taught home-ec and was quite adored by the students… Kate, as phys-ed teacher, was not. Each year without fail, the seniors would dedicate the yearbook to their beloved Mr. White, something Jon enjoyed lording over the other teachers.

“Hi, guys!” Posey called, holding the door for her dog, who trotted happily inside, licking his chops. Three cream-filled pastries had apparently not been enough.

“Hi, Posey! How are you?” Elise Wooding, one of Posey’s two employees, beamed at her as if it had been years since they’d seen each other, not two hours. “How was Vivian today?”

“Well, she was Vivian,” Posey answered. “She didn’t love my haircut. And she didn’t sign anything, of course. Down East Salvage is taking her to dinner on Friday, as she told me three times. She showed me the date on her BlackBerry, just in case I was getting cocky.” Though a hundred and one years old, Viv was quite current when it came to the latest tech.

Vivian Appleton was the owner of The Meadows, a glorious old Victorian home on ten acres of land. The house was stunning—a three-story Victorian with ornate fireplaces and a butler’s kitchen, curved staircases and window seats. Every corner seemed to offer a treasure, whether it was an iron heating grate or a slipper tub as pretty as a calla lily. Viv didn’t live there anymore, having moved to a swanky elderly housing complex in Portsmouth. For more than two years, Vivian had been dangling the rights to The Meadows in front of every salvage operation in New Hampshire, Maine and Vermont.