Mr. Maybe Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Awards and Praise for M. Kate Quinn

  Mr. Maybe

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  He laughed. “So your family’s convinced we’re a couple. Isn’t that what we set out to do?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Okay, one problem down. Now what’s your biggest issue with dancing?”

  “No rhythm.”

  “No rhythm.”

  “Zilch.”

  “You like music?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, that’s a start.” He pushed some buttons on the device in his hand. “Let’s find something from this century and see what happens.”

  “Shane, it’s no use. I can’t.”

  “Let’s have a go at it.”

  She grabbed her empty wineglass. “I need wine.”

  In the kitchen she poured herself a half glass of the white zinfandel from the fridge. She took tentative steps to watch Shane as he scrolled through music videos on her television. His black hair curled at his collar, and she wondered what it would feel like in her fingers. Stop. She groaned.

  Shane turned to the sound. “Hey, I found a good one. Come here.”

  Just the way he beckoned caused her insides to melt like chocolate on a stove. If she were at all wise, she would listen to that little voice in her head and go lock herself in her room. But she and her glass of wine went to him. Just moments ago she couldn’t get her damn feet to move. Now, apparently, they wanted to dance.

  Awards and Praise for M. Kate Quinn

  SUMMER IRIS (July 2010, The Wild Rose Press) ~ a Golden Quill Award finalist for Best First Book

  ~

  MOONLIGHT AND VIOLET (June 2011, The Wild Rose Press) ~ Winner, Golden Leaf Award for Best Contemporary Novel

  ~

  BROOKSIDE DAISY (February 2012, The Wild Rose Press) ~ a Golden Leaf Award finalist

  ~

  VICTORIA AT SEA (2016) ~ Winner 2017, Heart of Excellence Readers Choice Award

  ~

  “Charming, a great rainy day read.”

  ~Uncaged Book Reviews

  Mr. Maybe

  by

  M. Kate Quinn

  The Sycamore River Series, Book 2

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Mr. Maybe

  COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Marykate Schweiger

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Champagne Rose Edition, 2019

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2764-8

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2765-5

  The Sycamore River Series, Book 2

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For my granddaughter, Quinn Mara—

  With a big heart filled with kindness,

  a spirit that never lets you forget she’s in the room,

  and the infectious laugh that gets us all going,

  she is pure delight.

  Chapter One

  Swollen gray clouds marched across the sky, and a feisty wind whipped at the leaves on the trees along the river. At eleven in the morning, it was dark as night. Kit Baxter laced up her running shoes anyway. She’d run in a typhoon if it would help her lose the eight pounds she’d put on since The Incident.

  It was her day off from her job as the seamstress of Rosie’s Bridals, but this morning her boss and best friend, Rylee, had texted that she needed to see her. With the way things were tanking at the shop, Kit worried Rylee was going to announce its closing. That would suck on so many levels, not the least of which was her possible joblessness now that she was a homeowner.

  She stepped out into the cool morning, the wind tugging at her ponytail. It had started to rain big fat drops, but so what. She was doing this. The climb up the hill to the road challenged her stamina, made her heart pound. Her calves burned. With each step, she cursed the pints of ice cream she’d ingested over the last few months, the number of chili dogs she’d bought from Gio, the vendor on the square downtown. She had to stop the emotional eating. Chili dogs fixed nothing.

  She’d learned that much in the time since The Incident of Christmas Eve. This was June, for God’s sake. Yet it was no easy task getting past the betrayal.

  Sometimes popping into her head out of nowhere, the Indicent would tease her first with the background elements of that night, the mental image of the festive holiday decorations in Aunt Dee Dee’s house, the dining room table set with her good china, a poinsettia-festooned cloth starched stiff. Sometimes she could almost smell the spicy aromas wafting out from Dee Dee’s kitchen. But then like the slice of a blade, she’d bleed with the memory of her cousin Co-Co elegantly positioned under the mistletoe dangling above the living room doorway, her slender arms lifted up and laced around Brian’s neck. Kit had stood there frozen in place, cemented in the moment, watching that betraying witch kissing her Brian, the man she had been convinced might be her one true love. Ha. So much for her ability to discern friend from foe, truth from lies, good from no-goddamn good.

  Their agonizingly long, passionate kiss broke, and with round-eyed shock they all just stared at each other like a frozen frame of a horror movie. She’d finally darted away from them, and in her black patent-leather flats with the grosgrain bow at the toe, she ran. She ran through the house, dodging the maze of furniture, pushed out the front door, and sped down the driveway. When she’d heard them calling her name, she ran then as she was suddenly running now. With all her might.

  The rain came down harder now. She lost her footing and fought to right her stance, slipping on wet gravel, and went down hard on her ass. She tilted her head up toward the rain and let it drench her face. She yelled out l
oud, droplets falling on her lips and into her mouth. She grumbled in response to the thunder. Damn this rain, damn these wet clothes, and damn Brian and my lousy cousin.

  She scrambled up on her feet, a crack of lightning making her jump. Shit, this wasn’t worth it. She turned to head back home when she heard it. A roaring sound rushed to her ears, followed by an air-sucking whoosh, then cracking and screeching. An inner knowing fought to register in her head despite her attempts to dispel what she already surmised. She ran back down the puddling roadway toward her house, her mind chanting please, no.

  But at the end of her gravel driveway, the truth mocked her. The massive ancient sycamore she had been warned about at her closing, the mammoth eyesore she was told was her responsibility to remove only she hadn’t had the funds, had toppled over from its rotten, scraggly roots. The dead trunk had landed like a targeted missile onto her Honda, crushing the small SUV like a pancake.

  Kit was too stunned to move even as the stinging rain pelted her face and attacked her skin like needles. She blinked at the droplets that blurred her eyes like tears, only she was not prone to them. She would not cry and hadn’t since Christmas Eve.

  A hand gripped her arm, and she sucked in a breath. Her neighbor, the sweet widower who had begun their relationship as a nosy old guy with too much time on his hands but had morphed into a sort of quasi buddy stood there getting rain on his bare scalp.

  “Hop.” She wrapped her arms around him. He smelled like tobacco, and he wasn’t supposed to smoke anymore. She’d yell at him later.

  “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

  Just the authority in his voice comforted her. Her neighbor’s real name was Joe, but because a war injury had left him with a limp, the aging fire captain of the Sycamore River Fire Department was known to everyone in town as “Hop.” A take-charge man, he guided her down the driveway, the gravel wet and slippery under their feet. “We need to make a call to the police.” She swore like a sailor to which he responded, “Nice mouth.”

  As they neared the massive tree, her eyes were unable to leave the sight of her ruined vehicle. “Crap,” she said. “This is bad.” Her mind roiled with what this disaster would cost, all the money she’d need but did not have.

  “Come on. Staring at it won’t make it go away.” He pushed her to her front steps.

  In her kitchen he maneuvered her to a chair and gave her shoulders a push. “Sit down.”

  “Crap, Hop.”

  “You said that already.”

  “My car’s ruined.”

  “Okay, stop. Perspective, kiddo. Here’s what you have to think—it could be worse. Right? Thank God you weren’t in the damn thing. Cars can be replaced.”

  She snickered. Not if the delight of new homeownership had zapped every last cent she had to her name.

  Hop used his cell phone to call the police, and while he talked, her mind played a guessing game on what it could cost to remove the monster tree and the mangled carcass of her car. A few hundred dollars? More? She moaned. Even if she could cough up the money for removal, there was no way she’d be able to buy another car. She had herself to blame. She should have thought it through when she’d decided to omit the comprehensive portion of her insurance policy since the Honda was over ten years old. It had made sense to her at the time, but the thing that made sense today was that she was unequivocally screwed.

  Hop came over to the table and sat in the chair across from her. “Okay, they’re sending out an officer to do a report for you to send to your insurance company.” He reached across the table’s surface and patted his thick fingers on her hand with a gentle touch. “Relax. It’ll be okay.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “What’d I tell you? If you don’t believe, you’ll never achieve.”

  His hokey philosophy wasn’t worth a damn, so the errant stinging that came to her eyes surprised her. She blinked the sensation away. “You’re the best neighbor, Hop. What would I do without you?”

  “Ah,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m a sucker for your dopey face.”

  “My face is not dopey.”

  He chuckled. “You should see it now.”

  The policeman arrived, and Hop greeted him by his first name, giving a little salute. Hop knew everyone. The officer, a big strapping guy named Leo, took her information and told her a report would be available in a couple of days for her to submit to her insurance company. He explained the town would be expecting the timely removal of the tree and vehicle, or they might issue a summons. Yeah, she was screwed.

  She and Hop stood by the kitchen sink, peering out the window to watch Leo drive away. Hop had his hands on his hips, his head tilted at an angle. “Look, I’ve got an appointment at the fire house to meet with a new recruit. After that I’m going to call a guy I know about hauling that tree out of here.”

  “Hold up, Hop. I need to come up with the money first. How much does something like that cost?”

  “Couple hundred or so.”

  Her stomach squeezed. “What happens if I don’t have it?”

  He held her gaze. “You’re going to get charged a fine if you don’t move on this.”

  “But I can’t come up with it until maybe the end of the month if I promise myself to eat nothing but peanut butter and jelly for a while.”

  “Tell you what—I’ll take care of it, and you can owe me. Pay me when you can.”

  “Absolutely not.” She shook her head. “No. Are we clear?”

  “Then what’s your plan B?”

  Good question. She knew she couldn’t call her mom for a loan. She’d already tapped her mother for help with the closing on this place. But take money from Hop? No. She folded her arms across her chest.

  “I’ll figure something out, Hop. But I’m going to need some time.”

  “I’m telling you, Kit, they’re going to slap you with a fine, and the longer you wait the bigger the fine.”

  “It’s my property. Maybe I like having a gigantic dead tree in my driveway. That’s not a crime.”

  “It’s the law, buttercup.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Hop poked a finger in her direction. “I’m not taking no for an answer, so don’t try telling me different. You can owe me.”

  A lump formed in her throat. There was a time to argue and a time to face facts. “I will not take a handout. You get that?”

  Hop blew out a lungful of air.

  “I mean it, Hop. Either we agree I pay you back or no thank you.”

  He lifted his mitt-sized hands in surrender. “No handout. Trust me. I won’t let you off the hook.”

  She’d grown up without a father or even a grandfather. This old man was the closest thing she had to a relationship like that. In truth, when she’d first moved into her house, Hop’s presence next door felt a bit claustrophobic. The old guy was always looking for a chance to stop by, talk, or take time to visit. She was used to solitude, and there had been a time or two she’d pretended she wasn’t home when he’d come knocking, not that she was proud of that.

  When she’d lived in her little apartment downtown, her neighbors were as busy with life as she was. She’d relished the alone time, so having Hop next door had taken some getting used to. But he was funny and helpful, and she eventually found herself looking forward to seeing him. The more time she spent with Hop, the more she liked him.

  He lived alone, had no kids of his own, which was a shame because in her opinion he’d have been a good dad. They developed a routine, sharing a pot of coffee on Saturday mornings, enjoying a cold beer out on his deck on a warm night. He came over for scrambled eggs sometimes.

  His dark eyes, almost black, shiny and bright, were locked on hers. Suddenly, it felt as if she’d disappoint him if she protested his help any further.

  “This is beyond kind, Hop. But I will pay you back. In the meantime, if you ever need anything—I mean anything—just ask. I owe you
more than whatever that disaster out there is going to cost.” She uttered a favorite expletive. “I need to find a way to get a new car.”

  “That’s covered by insurance. You should be okay minus a deductible.”

  She looked away from his gaze. “Just out of curiosity, what happens if I don’t have comprehensive?”

  “Tell me you do.”

  She bit her lower lip. “I did. But now I don’t.”

  “Why, Kit? Why would you drop it?”

  “To save some money. The car’s ten years old. Since buying this place, all I do is make repairs to stuff around here. You remember last week the showerhead fell off the wall in my bathroom. Boom. Right off the damn wall.”

  “Welcome to the joys of home ownership.”

  “When I decided to buy the house, things were more lucrative at work. Things changed, and times are tight now.” She shook her head. “Just didn’t see that coming.”

  Hop pointed his thumb toward the window. “Well, that baby’s a goner. Maybe you can get a good deal on a used car.”

  “I’m going to have to find a way to earn some extra money. Get a part-time job, maybe.”

  “Hey,” Hop said, eyes alight. “Go on Greg’s List. I hear they are supposed to have everything.”

  “Maybe I’ll take in a border. It’s Craig’s List, by the way.” She suppressed a smile.

  “Whatever. That could be your answer.”

  ****

  Shane Dugan shook the fire captain’s hand, marveling at how the older man had quite a grip for someone in his sixties. His energy was a contradiction to his short, barrel-chested frame and that crooked gait he was quick to tell came from a war injury. Folks called him “Hop” because that’s what he did when he walked. He hopped.

  “Congratulations, Irish.” Captain Monaco’s bushy gray mustache quirked when he grinned. He patted Shane on the back. “Hard to believe you’re not that skinny kid anymore. You’re all grown up, son. Your father would be proud.” He poked a finger to Shane’s shoulder. “And you grew to be just as ugly as your old man, too, I see.”

  Shane couldn’t wipe the smile off his own face. Hop had been his father’s war buddy, his closest friend. Any story his father used to tell about the old days included his friend Hop. Just seeing him felt like family. Shane remembered when Hop would visit; he’d tease Dad about his good looks. The black hair and green eyes and his broad frame were like Dad’s, but Shane wasn’t a dead ringer. Yet Hop’s teasing about it today felt good and connected him to the man even more.