LITMIR.BIZ

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leg out.

      The door opened. Cole’s hopes rose, then sank, when he saw the inn’s owner, Carol, not Emily, come onto the porch. “Are you okay? I thought I heard a crash,” Carol said.

      “The step broke.” Cole put up a hand of caution. “That porch isn’t safe. You might want to block it off or hire someone to fix it.”

      “Okay.” One word, spoken on a sigh, topped by a frown.

      Cole had been in business long enough to read the signs of a beleaguered owner, one who had more bills than cash. “I could call someone for you. Considering I broke the step, I should be the one to fix it.” Sympathy filled him. He still remembered those early, cash-strapped days when he’d been building his business, watching every dime and trying to do everything himself. Sacrifice had been at the top of his to-do list for many years.

      Carol shook her head. “I couldn’t possibly ask you—”

      “Consider it done,” Cole said. He had his phone halfway to his ear before he reconsidered.

      Fixing that board would only take a minute or two. Calling someone to fix that board would take a lot longer. At least an hour, even if he paid a rush fee, to get someone out here, just to nail a board in place. Judging by the looks of the place, the inn’s owner had enough problems on her plate without adding in a wait on a contractor.

      “If you have some nails and a piece of wood, I could put in a temporary fix,” Cole said. Where the heck had that come from? He hadn’t done contractor work for years. His hands were so soft from working at a desk they might as well be mittens.

      “I have lots of supplies,” Carol said, pointing to a building a few yards away. “Help yourself.”

      “Will do.” Maybe it would feel good to work with his hands again. And maybe he was just trying to delay leaving, hoping for a miracle with Emily.

      Carol went back inside, so Cole headed for the garage. It took him a little while, but he found a tape measure, some plywood and a hammer and nails. He measured the space, ripped the board on a dusty table saw, then hammered the wood onto the risers. The actions came naturally to him, as if he had never walked away from construction.

      The sun beat down on him, brought sweat to his brow and a warmth to his back. He had hung his suit jacket over the porch rail, taken off his tie and rolled up his sleeves. By the time he finished, all four stairs had new treads. And yes, it had probably taken as long as it would have taken had he called someone, but he had the bonus of feeling like he’d done something productive. Something he could look at and see, an almost-instant result, the opposite of how things happened when he made decisions at his desk.

      Emily came out onto the porch. Surprise lit her features when she saw him. “What are you doing?”

      “Fixing the board I broke. Then I noticed the other steps were about ready to break, so I replaced those, too.”

      She moved closer and peered over the railing at his work. “You still remember how to do all that?”

      “Like riding a bike.” Cole leaned against the handrail, which he’d made more secure with a few nails earlier. “It was just like the old days.”

      Did she remember those days? That tiny apartment they’d lived in, how they’d rushed home at the end of the day, exhausted but excited to see each other? She’d bandaged his cuts, he’d bring her a glass of cheap wine, and they would sit on the fire escape and watch the city go by. The world would be perfect for a little while.

      “I guess you don’t forget some things,” she said.

      “No, you don’t.” But he wasn’t talking about hammers or measurements or anything related to construction. “Do you remember those days, Em?”

      “Of course.” Her voice was soft, her green eyes tender, then she cleared her throat and drew herself up. “We’ve moved a long way away from those days, though. In more ways than one.”

      He pushed off from the rail and stood beneath her. “What if we could get them back? What if we could be the people we used to be? Would we have a chance then?”

      She bit her lip and shook her head. “Fixing some steps doesn’t bring us back there, Cole. You’ve changed...I’ve changed. What we want has changed. You can’t turn back the clock.” She gave the railing a tap. “Have a safe trip back.”

      Then she went inside and shut the door, closing the door on him, as well. Cole stood there a long, long time, then picked up the tools, returned them to the garage, got in his car and drove away. He’d done all he could here, he realized. And the sooner he accepted that fact, the better.

      But as he left the Gingerbread Inn, and the run-down building got smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror, Cole wondered...if he could turn back the clock with the inn, maybe it would be enough to turn back the clock with his wife, too.

      CHAPTER THREE

      BY BREAKFAST THE next day, Emily had ten pages written and a swelling sense of satisfaction. They might not be good pages, heck, they might not even be publishable pages, but they were closer than she’d got to her dream of publishing a novel in years. All those years in high school and college when she’d written short stories, and made fits and starts at different novels, but never finished any of them. Now with hours of uninterrupted time, her creativity exploded, with pages springing to life as fast as she could write them. She got to her feet, stretching after the long hours in the hard wooden desk chair.

      Nausea rolled through her in a wave. She gripped the back of the chair, drew in a deep breath and waited for it to pass. It didn’t.

      “Hey, kiddo,” she said to her belly, “I thought this was supposed to end with the first trimester.”

      The baby, of course, didn’t answer, and the nausea kept on pitching and rolling her stomach, neither caring that the calendar said Emily was just past three months pregnant. Her clothes still fit, if a little snugly, but she knew it wouldn’t be long before she would start to show.

      And that would mean telling people about the baby. People like Cole.

      Emily sighed. She loved her husband—she really did—but she had stopped being in love with him a long time ago. She’d tried, Lord knew she’d tried, to make it work, thinking maybe if she kept acting like a wife, she’d feel like one. But the relationship they had had when they’d first got married had drained away, like a hose with a pinhole. The loss had come so gradually that one day she’d woken up and realized it was over, in her heart, in her head, and continuing the facade would only hurt both of them. Six months ago, she’d asked Cole to move out, and he’d gone, without a fight.

      Then Cole had come to her one night, telling her he’d do anything to have his wife back. He’d been so sincere, so racked with sorrow, she’d believed him, and found the old passion ignited. One crazy night, a night where she’d believed yes, he finally got it, and maybe they could make it work—

      And in the morning he was gone, off on yet another business trip. She was left alone again. She’d had a good cry, called a lawyer and filed for a formal separation.

      Two weeks later, she’d realized her period was late and that one night had resulted in the only thing Emily had ever wanted—and Cole never had.

      A child.

      She’d kept the pregnancy a secret, and kept her distance from Cole, resolving to do this on her own. Now she had a baby on the way into her life and a husband on his way out. Either way, Emily was determined to make her new existence work.

      She pulled on some sweatpants and an old T-shirt, then headed out of her room and downstairs toward the kitchen. A little dry toast should take the edge off this nausea, and then she could go back to work on the book.

      Emily was just reaching for the loaf of bread on the counter when she heard a tap-tap-tapping coming from outside the window. She leaned over the sink, and peeked out into the bright late-fall day.

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