Page 7 of Coming Home

“We’ll see. I’m more of a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. I can take or leave desserts.”

The door opened, and Dylan entered, carrying two large, brown-paper sacks with “Sid’s Diner” stamped on the side. Dylan set the bags on the counter. Jackson stood and offered his new brother-in-law his hand.

“Thanks for having me,” he said.

“Boo’s house is plenty big,” Dylan told him. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”

He thought now was as good a time as any to break the news. “I’m staying for good, Dylan.”

The town’s sheriff grinned from ear to ear. “That’s fantastic, Jackson. I’m sure Willow is over the moon.”

“I am,” his sister chimed in, smiling at him with a bit of the hero-worshipping little sister gaze he recalled so well.

“It looks as if I’m going to take Clancy Nelson’s place,” he continued.

“Clancy’s retiring?” Dylan asked. “It’ll be hard to imagine him doing so. Will you take over his law practice?”

Jackson nodded. “That’s the plan. I need to meet with him soon—hopefully, tomorrow—and work out the details.”

“Why don’t you call him now?” Willow suggested. “I asked Dylan to pick up dinner for us. Let me get everything plated and drinks poured. By then, you should be ready to eat. That can be your excuse to get off the phone, otherwise, Clancy will talk your ear off.”

“Okay.”

He left the kitchen and stepped into what Boo had always called the library because of the shelves lined with books that Murray Martin had brought home. By the time Jackson and Willow came to live with Boo, their grandfather had already passed, but they had spent hours going through his collection of books and reading them.

Closing the door, he brought up Clancy’s name on his cell and touched the phone number, looking around at the improvements in the room as the phone rang.

“Jackson Martin,” Clancy greeted. “I heard you were in town. Porter Williams glanced out his window and saw you driving by his office on the square. And Shayla Newton stopped by earlier. She’d also seen you.”

He shook his head, recalling what small town life was life.

“I’d like to come visit with you tomorrow, Clancy, if you’ve got room in your schedule.”

“Well, I don’t work Fridays, Jackson. That’s the beauty of being my own boss. I take Fridays off. Sleep late. Play a little golf. Drink a little beer.”

“That must be the secret to your longevity,” he quipped.

“Could be. But I’ll make an exception for you. Want to stop in the office around ten-thirty? That way we can talk—and then you can take me to lunch.”

“I’ll see you then, Clancy,” Jackson promised.

CHAPTER 3

Ainsley Robinson pulled her long hair back into a ponytail and left her small apartment, which was situated above her bakery. She moved quickly down the stairs, and reaching the bottom, unlocked the door separating her private space from the large kitchen area. Flicking on lights, she went immediately to the coffeemaker and set it to brew her first cup of the day. She limited herself to two cups—one when she first arrived and one more around nine o’clock. The morning rush was usually over by then, and she would take time to eat a little something and sip a second cup of coffee while she went over her To Do List for the day. Any more caffeine beyond that, and she would become certifiably crazy.

She removed the clipboard hanging from the wall and glanced over what she would be making this morning. The usual standards always appeared on the top of her list, including a variety of donuts and scones, bear claws, and cinnamon twists. Friday was also a good day for scones and muffins, especially blueberry. The bottom half of the list was devoted to orders that would be picked up that day. Since today was Friday, she had two birthday cakes to make and fifteen dozen cookies that a basketball mom had ordered for the local YMCA league, a standing Friday order.

Flipping the page, she looked over the second sheet on her clipboard. These would be the various items she would bake in addition to those on the first page. Different kinds of cookies. A few pies. Definitely cupcakes. She would also need to get ready for the weekend rush, which sometimes started on a Friday. That would include more homemade breads, brownies, and coffee cakes.

She put aside the clipboard and continued turning on lights throughout the bakery, unlocking the door so Gus could slip in. He was her Number Two and right-hand, having learned to bake in prison. While Ainsley had had qualms about hiring him, she had spoken to the names he listed on his resume, which included his probation officer, the head of the prison’s kitchen, and even the warden himself. All three had given Gus a glowing report, and the warden said he believed Gus hadn’t even committed a crime. That the car he was driving that smashed into a family of five had been driven by Gus’ little brother and the two men had switched places.

Ainsley had hired Gus on a probationary basis and never regretted doing so. He was quiet and kept to himself, but he was also reliable and talented, assuming more responsibility as time went on.

She turned to head back to the kitchen when she saw a figure streaking across the square, which only had a few street lights dotting its perimeter.

Jackson Martin.

She had heard he was back in town. Two people stopping in the bakery before it closed yesterday afternoon had mentioned it.

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