The Wishing Season Read online

  The familiar smell of old treasures filled her nose as she walked into the store. She’d spent many summer afternoons here as a child, playing in armoires and breaking things.

  “PJ!” Her mom crossed the room, a feather duster in her hand, and squeezed PJ’s arm. With her blue eyes and winning smile, Joanne McKinley was still a beautiful woman. “Don’t you look like a savvy businesswoman. That red is stunning on you.”

  “I can’t believe it’s time. I’m so nervous.”

  “Relax. These people have known you all your life.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. They remember me running up the church aisle in my diaper, picketing Lonnie Terrell’s lemonade stand, and a hundred other foolish antics.”

  Mom’s eyes smiled. “Well, you always were a handful.”

  PJ pulled at her skirt.

  “You look beautiful, and you’re completely prepared. Relax and let your passion shine through.”

  A text came in and PJ checked her screen. “Kayla. Wishing me good luck.” Kayla was her roommate from college.

  “Did you tell her about your dangerous intruder?” Mom’s lips twitched.

  “I’m telling you, he busted through the door like a wrecking ball. Scared the tar out of me. How was he this afternoon?”

  “Better. Fever’s down. He’s alert, as you said. Polite, though not very talkative.”

  “Yeah, I kind of got that.”

  “He kind of has the looks of Tom Brady,” Mom said, “though it galls me to say so.”

  “I know, right?” This was Colts territory, after all. The Patriots were on their love-to-hate list. PJ covered her mouth as a sneeze built and escaped. Another one followed. “Great. I’m probably getting the flu. That’s what I get for tending a sick stranger.” She sneezed again.

  Mom waved the feather duster. “Or your dust allergies are flaring up again.”

  “Oh. Yeah, that’s possible.” PJ tugged at her skirt again. “Is this too short?”

  “Not at all. You’re just used to wearing pants. Hold your chin up and look them in the eyes. You’ve got a great plan for the Wishing House, and they’ll see that.”

  “Yeah, but my competition probably does too.”

  “You’ve got the hometown advantage. Mrs. Simmons loves you, and she knows you want what’s best for Chapel Springs.”

  “That’s true.”

  Mom walked to the front and flipped the Closed sign on the door. She checked her watch. “Well, I have a young man to check on, and you have an important interview to get to.” She opened the door.

  PJ slipped by her, turning on the sidewalk. “Wish me luck.”

  “Even better—I’ll pray for you.”

  Oh yeah. That too. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Chapter Three

  PJ PULLED TO THE CURB AND GOT OUT OF HER 2002 MONTE Carlo, her eyes taking in the Wishing House. Over a century old, it was a sprawling historical just outside of town on Main Street. A stone retaining wall separated the property from the sidewalk and ended at a set of cracked cement steps leading up to the lawn. A handful of ancient oaks towered over the well-manicured yard and immaculate flower garden.

  Her eyes moved over the two-story house itself: white built-in bays, a wide front porch, gingerbread molding that crawled along the high eaves. It was a veritable mansion. The perfect place for her bed-and-breakfast slash restaurant.

  She’d never be able to afford a place like this, not if she worked twenty years at Fiona’s Fudge Shoppe. And please, Lord—that can’t happen.

  With trembling legs, she crossed the yard, climbed the concrete steps to the porch, and pressed the doorbell.

  Evangeline Wishing Simmons appeared a moment later on the other side of the screen door. Her short stature gave PJ a bird’s-eye view of her short silver hair and frail frame. She was lively and spry for a woman in her mideighties and had been known for an antic or two of her own.

  “PJ, come right in.” Her voice crackled with age. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you. I hope I’m not too early.”

  “Not at all.” She poked her wire-rim glasses into place. “Almost everyone’s here. We’ll get started once the other candidate arrives.”

  The house smelled of lemon Pledge and old money. A brass chandelier half the size of PJ’s car dangled overhead on a brass chain, its light fractured by a thousand crystal pendants.

  PJ followed Mrs. Simmons down a short hall and into the grand sitting room where the sound of quiet chatter echoed through the nearly empty house. It had been cleared out in anticipation of Mrs. Simmons’s move to Colorado to live near her kids and grandkids. She could’ve just sold her family home like a normal person, but “normal” was a word no one used to describe Evangeline Simmons.

  The formerly elegant room was an open space, with high white walls and age-worn wood floors. A table stretched across the back of the room. On its far side, facing her, sat a handful of people she’d known all her life. Mrs. Simmons’s Persian cat, Snowball, sat in the center, her white tail flicking regally.

  PJ greeted the panel, set down her laptop, and sat at the end of the table next to Mrs. Simmons. The advisory panel would help determine the outcome of the final round, though PJ suspected that the only “advice” that mattered would be Mrs. Simmons’s own.

  Cappy Winters was on the other side of Mrs. Simmons. He owned the local pizzeria. Beside him was Carl Dewitt, owner of Dewitt’s Marina, where her brother-in-law Beckett worked part time. Janet Lewis was last. She was on the board of tourism.

  PJ had to convince them her plan was the best for Chapel Springs. She hadn’t gotten a bachelor’s degree to work at a fudge shop. This was her shot, and she was going to win, regardless of what her siblings thought. Maybe she was the baby of the family, but she was still capable of big things. Not that they’d ever come out and say otherwise.

  As she opened her laptop to her PowerPoint presentation, the doorbell rang. Mrs. Simmons went to answer the door, and Snowball leapt from the table and pranced silently across the floor in her wake. The cat turned in the doorway and gave the panel a pretentious look before continuing on her way.

  PJ heard voices in the foyer, then footsteps. Mrs. Simmons appeared in the doorway, followed by a man. PJ’s lips parted, and a small squeak escaped.

  The man moved more easily than PJ remembered. He was immaculate in a black suit, crisp white shirt, and satiny red tie. His jaw was smooth-shaven, his hair neatly groomed.

  “Panel and PJ,” Mrs. Simmons said, stopping in front of the table, “please meet our second candidate, Cole Evans.”

  Chapter Four

  COLE SCANNED THE GROUP, A POLITE SMILE IN PLACE UNTIL he came to the end of the table. Even with the lingering fog of illness, even with her professional updo and careful makeup and starchy red suit, he recognized her.

  Her mouth was open, her eyes startled. He looked away, refocusing, and took a seat at the opposite end of the table, setting his presentation pieces on the floor. He felt woozy as he straightened. His head hammered. The pain pills hardly took the edge off.

  His fever was gone, with the worst of the aches, but his head was still fuzzy. Please, God. You have to help me out here. I need this. The kids need this.

  “We drew straws before you arrived,” Mrs. Simmons said after she’d introduced everyone. “PJ, you’re first.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Simmons.” Susie Sunshine smiled widely at the group and took a moment to set up her laptop. A minute later a photo of Mrs. Simmons’s mansion flashed on the screen at the front of the room.

  The easels he’d requested stood beside the screen. He looked at the three handmade posters at his feet and shifted in his chair.

  PJ began her presentation. She wanted to open the Wishing House B & B with a fine-dining restaurant called The Grille. It was clever, giving the place Mrs. Simmons’s family name. The elderly woman would like that. He wished he’d thought of it.

  PJ outlined her qualifications, starting with a bachelor’s degree
in culinary arts and hospitality and management, then immediately focused on ways her business would benefit the community. Her eyes brightened as she spoke, her enthusiasm pouring through her words and body language.

  She showed slide after slide delineating potential income and increased revenue for the town. She had graphics showing the town’s lack of lodging for tourists and how her restaurant would draw people from neighboring communities and offer jobs to locals.

  When she finished her closing speech, the panel was all smiles. They applauded as she disconnected her laptop and took a seat at the other end of the table.

  “That was wonderful, PJ. Just wonderful,” Mrs. Simmons said. “Cole, dear, whenever you’re ready.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His eyes drifted to PJ.

  She lifted her chin a notch and raised a delicate brow in challenge.

  Game on, Sunshine.

  PJ’s leg bounced under the table as Cole stepped to the front of the room. He set three white boards on the easels, back sides out, and turned toward the group.

  “As you know, my name is Cole Evans. I have one goal in life, and that’s why I’m here.” His voice was deep and quiet, but sure. It somehow made the room hum with energy.

  PJ knotted her fists in her lap. He didn’t seem so sick now. There was no frog in his throat, no sweat on his brow. She couldn’t believe she’d been nursing her adversary back to health. Putting him up in her garden shed because she’d felt guilty about whacking him on the head.

  She jerked her mind back to Cole and his presentation. He was talking about the foster homes he’d been in. He flipped the first board over. It was covered with photos of children.

  “These are the faces of foster children. I know all of them because, at one time or another, I was in a foster home with them. Some of them have lost both parents. Others have parents who are drug-addicted or in jail or otherwise unable to care for them. Most are too old to be adopted, so they end up in foster care for the rest of their childhood. Sometimes the foster homes are pretty good. Sometimes not.”

  PJ felt a stab of pain and glanced at the panel. Mrs. Simmons dabbed at her eyes.

  “When you’re in foster care and you turn eighteen, that’s the end of the line. We call it ‘aging out.’ You have to leave your foster home—the only home you have. Most have no family to turn to. In Indiana you receive minimal financial support. You’re in the middle of your senior year in high school. You have no transportation, no means of supporting yourself, and no idea where to go or how to take care of yourself.”

  PJ’s heart sank. Both for the situations he was describing and for the way this was going. But something like this was going to cost a fortune. It wasn’t a moneymaker; it was a money pit. And it wouldn’t benefit the community—something that mattered to Mrs. Simmons.

  Cole flipped over another board, revealing neatly drawn graphs. “When youth age out without a permanent family, the statistics show that 12 to 30 percent of them struggle with homelessness and 40 to 63 percent don’t finish high school. Between 25 and 55 percent are unemployed, and only 38 percent of those who get jobs are still employed a year later. In addition, 40 to 60 percent of the young women become pregnant within twelve to eighteen months.”

  A sniffle down the table drew her attention. Janet Lewis blinked rapidly. The knot in PJ’s stomach tightened.

  When he finished with that board, he flipped over the third. More charts and graphs. PJ read the neat print, and her heart sank. Funding! He already had funding.

  He spoke quietly about the commitments he’d already secured. He’d worked up potential costs based on a transitional house in Florida.

  Finally he wrapped it up. “Eighteen-year-olds are still kids. They need a place of transition. A place where they can belong and have support and stability while they finish high school and learn a trade or put themselves through college. They need to learn how to work, how to support themselves, how to budget for a household, and so many other things.

  “When I saw the ad online for this contest, I knew this was the place to start. It’s my dream to open up Crossroads, a transitional home for post–foster care children. I hope you’ll give me the opportunity to help these kids. Thank you.”

  PJ looked down at the table, her heart in her throat. This hadn’t gone well at all. Even she was ready to open her doors to these kids.

  But one of the criteria for this contest was community benefit. Cole had barely brushed over it because there wasn’t a benefit. It would be a not-for-profit. A constant financial drain. Not to mention a bunch of rowdy teenagers running through the Wishing family parlors. That couldn’t be what the woman had in mind for her beloved home.

  “Thank you, Cole,” Mrs. Simmons said. “I’d like to talk to my panel for a few minutes, if you two would please step into the foyer.”

  “Certainly.” PJ stood and walked to the doorway, her heels clacking against the floor.

  Once they were in the hall, Cole pulled the pocket door closed behind them, leaving them alone.

  Shoulders back, she met his gaze. “Nicely done.”

  “You too.”

  “You look a lot better. Almost like you’re not sick anymore at all.”

  He looked at her a long time. His eyes were the color of tree moss. But there were slivers of gold in there too. And brown, the shade of molten caramel. She fought against their pull and found herself on the losing end. She finally wrenched her eyes away.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Just saying.”

  “I didn’t know you were the other candidate.”

  “Of course you didn’t. How could you?” Her heart was beating a million miles an hour. What was wrong with her?

  “Then what’s your point?”

  “No point. There’s no point at all.” Except that she’d nursed her opponent back to health so he could come and steal her dream away.

  He was looking at her still, and this did nothing to slow her heart rate.

  But there was something fishy. Had there really been a mix-up with her rental? Maybe he’d known all along who she was. Maybe he’d snooped through her things while she’d been at work. This was his dream too. Who knew what lengths he’d go to?

  “How did you end up with a key for my house again?”

  He looked at her for another long second. “I rented the house until Friday.”

  “I rented it through July.”

  He held eye contact. “All the same, it’s true.”

  She turned her body toward him and crossed her arms. “I know the Tacketts personally. I’ve had the place booked since last fall. Mrs. Tackett is a friend of my family’s. She gave me a great rate.”

  He shrugged. “I booked it a month ago when I found out I was a finalist.”

  “How’d you get the key?”

  “It was under the plant on the porch, just where he told me it’d be, Susie.”

  “Sus—it’s PJ. And I’ll be calling Mrs. Tackett about this.”

  “Do that.”

  “And I hope you’ve packed your things, because my garden shed is officially closed.” She tipped her chin up and set her jaw.

  They did battle with their eyes. It was an unfair fight.

  The door slid open, and still she couldn’t break free from the weird hold he had on her.

  Someone cleared her throat.

  PJ swung her head toward Mrs. Simmons.

  The woman’s penciled brows drew together as she looked between PJ and Cole. “Everything okay, dearies?”

  PJ’s eyes bounced off Cole as he straightened.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “Just peachy.”

  Mrs. Simmons took them both in for a long second. “Well then. I’ve come to tell you that you’ve made our job incredibly difficult. The panel is split, and that means the ball is in my court. I’m afraid I’m going to need a couple days to think this over.”

  PJ felt her stomach slide down to her squished toes. Stupid heels. N
evertheless, she patted Mrs. Simmons’s slight shoulder. “Of course. It’s a big decision.”

  “I’ll call you both when I’ve made up my mind. Fair enough?”

  Cole gave a nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Simmons.”

  “You’ll hear from me by Friday.”

  Chapter Five

  TALK ABOUT NO ROOM IN THE INN. PJ HADN’T BEEN KIDDING about the town being short on lodging. This was apparently the first week of the farmers market, and there wasn’t a spare bed in the whole town. It was late, his head was banging, and he was ready to call it a day.

  He drove until he found a darkened lot near the back of a park and pulled in. Across the way the marina lights twinkled over the river. A roll of thunder rattled the windows of his truck. A minute later the downpour started.

  Feeling the drain of the day, he bundled up his duffel bag and laid it against the window to cushion his head. He thought back to the presentation. It had gone well. He’d left nothing on the field.

  But neither had PJ. Her plan made better business sense. He could see that. It all depended on whether Mrs. Simmons decided with her head or her heart. And he didn’t know her well enough to make that call. All he could do was wait.

  He shifted, trying to stretch his legs in the tight space. The rain pounding the roof was almost deafening. He hoped it wouldn’t keep up. Lightning flashed in the sky over the river, and another crack of thunder sounded. The smell of rain permeated his truck.

  He thought of the nice warm bed where he’d spent the past two nights, remembered that PJ had left the shed unlocked. He wasn’t even tempted. No wonder the house had come so cheap. It was occupied—with a chatty, weapon-wielding crazy lady.

  He’d better get his money back. He punched up the duffel and resituated, taking the strain off the knot on his head.