Page 9 of Love, Untangled

Carlo mouthed the word hay. No way she was that broke—no way. She had to be kidding. Right?

Her footsteps tripped back the way she’d come. Carlo stepped around one of the trees to catch sight of Penelope’s shining cap of blonde hair as she and the much taller alpaca headed back toward her house.

Carlo watched how their bodies curved toward each other, the gentle sway of her hips as she sashayed along the narrow but well-trod path. She looked healthy. Well-fed.

Still, the weight of worry settled over his shoulders even though he didn’t want to worry over the girl next door. That was what she was—a girl. So young. Alone. Tripping her way through life without any of the necessary skills to ensure she made it.

Carlo headed toward his barn, turning back on his flashlight as he went.

“What kind of fool tries to fix a fence without a hammer?” he muttered, irritation flashing through him. “Or walks through a dark night without a light?”

Groaning, he realized he was worried about Penelope. That he liked her even after he’d done his best to push her away.

She’d saved that animal from a terrible fate—Carlo wasn’t sure how he knew that but he did. She’d done that even though she could barely take care of herself. She was generous as well as friendly and cheerful. How she managed those emotions he didn’t know. But she had—she did.

And Carlo was intrigued. Despite himself.

He put away his tools and went inside. He washed his hands and then set to work. He whistled, a comfortable feeling settling over him as he began the process of making bread for his neighbor. No way he’d let her starve. Or eat hay. Even if she’d been speaking hyperbole about eating hay, the mere idea of Penelope suffering twisted his guts.

He glanced out at the neat rows of apple trees and sighed. The alpaca had eaten the fallen apples—ones Carlo wouldn’t be able to use in the cider anyway. Alpaca Man hadn’t hurt anything. And, from what Carlo had read, a few apples were good for alpacas; they supplemented their diets. So really, munching through the downed apples helped both Carlo and the animal.

But Carlo had caused Penelope to fear him—or at least be wary of him.

He didn’t like that. So he planned to fix it.

He fell asleep with his head on the kitchen table, waiting for the dough to rise enough to put in the oven. He woke with a crick in his neck, bleary-eyed but somehow more rested than he’d felt in months. He rose, stretched, and groaned at the aches and pains slithering from his coiled muscles. He headed toward the coffeemaker and caught a glimpse of Alpaca Man slipping out his front gate. His body tensed. Clearly the alpaca planned to roam, and Carlo’s property was part of that territory the alpaca decided was his. Then a small, pale hand reached around the animal and shut the gate.

Ah, Penelope had brought him with her. His small smile widened, his cheeks stretching as unused muscles awakened. Penelope and her pet, Alpaca Man, reminded Carlo of himself at seven when he’d tromped and splashed through Northern California’s forests with his faithful dog, Champ.

He missed that dog. A mutt of the finest order, part Saint Bernard, but a lot something else—Champ was large, slobbery, and more than willing for an adventure with young Carlo. A pang of longing hit him hard in the chest. Much as he didn’t want to admit it, Carlo missed that level of companionship. He grabbed a mug from the cabinet as he mulled over his sudden desire for a dog. Since Cora’s death, Carlo hadn’t been interested in connecting with another being—whether human or animal. But the relationship blooming between Penelope and her alpaca warmed his heart…even as it caused him to yearn.

The coffee finished dripping into the carafe with a final hiss and sputter. Carlo poured himself a mug and moved toward the front of the house as he took a sip of the rich, black brew. For the past year and a half, since moving to Cinnamon Bay, Carlo had lived off coffee, bread, apples, and his desire to make sure Cora’s dream became a reality.

Carlo’s lips tugged up yet further into the first real smile he’d achieved in months as he noted the lumpy package on his porch. It was wrapped in a paper bag with Cinnamon Bay’s local grocer’s logo on the top. He set his mug on the small table next to the front door and eased the solid wooden panel open, glancing up to make sure young Penelope was gone. For some reason he didn’t want her to see him again. Not like this—sleep-rumpled and still in the same clothes he’d worn last night.

With a quick dash outside, a shiver as the early morning air tickled over his skin, he grabbed the lumpy package. He shut the door, collected his coffee, and took a deep drink, letting it warm his insides. Once back in the kitchen, he refilled his cup and settled the parcel on his kitchen table. He turned on the oven, pleased to see that the bread loaves he’d made had risen nicely. There was something therapeutic about kneading bread. Carlo enjoyed turning the smooshy lumps of flour, oil, water, and yeast into something pleasant and homey.

After another sip of coffee, his curiosity won out and he tore into the wrapping. He couldn’t help his ever-widening grin. When was the last time he’d smiled?

That sobered him a little because he knew—it had been that day before the fire consumed his life. He sat the package down at the table and lowered himself into the chair with a thud. His knees had given out, and he took a deep, slow breath, struggling to calm his racing heart. Nearly two years had passed since the day he lost Cora. Lost was such a silly word for the gaping wound in his soul. Carlo had been angry for a long time, furious that Cora had died.

He sat there, reliving those terrible moments again. The ache deepened, rooted into his chest, but it also reminded him he was alive. For more than a year, grief was all he’d felt. But Carlo enjoyed little things. He loved caring for the apple trees. He savored the taste of coffee, the texture of a well-baked piece of bread coated in local, fresh butter.

These were small things, tiny moments in his day. But Carlo felt them. Literally acknowledged each time the simple joys of life caught him off guard. Because those were the moments when he knew he’d survive Cora’s death. At first, he didn’t want to, and that made him angrier.

And he had a plan. A way to keep Cora alive. Well, not her—he understood she was gone, grieved her loss—but her dream. And he would. For her but for himself too. That was what therapy had taught him: the need to move forward while honoring the past. Carlo found the work difficult, especially around Cora’s birthday and their anniversary. He stared down at his hands. Recently he’d taken off his wedding ring.

That day had been hard. He’d felt vulnerable, unsure about his future—as if he’d just lost her all over again. But, as his therapist said, it was an important step toward getting back to living. And he wanted to live.

With a sigh, he shifted his gaze back toward the half-opened package before him. He tugged out the first item. It was made from some kind of wool. He set that aside and dug deeper, wondering what Penelope, who’d unwittingly admitted to being broke, would have gifted to him.

A jar of apple butter. The handwritten label was in a looping, slightly shaky hand. Carlo touched it, knowing it came from Mrs. Davis, the previous owner of the farm next door. That must be Penelope’s grandmother. What had she called her? Nana.

Penelope’s nana had made this. The older woman had asked Carlo to look after his new neighbor, remaining cagey about who would be moving in. Now he knew why. Penelope had said herself that she knew nothing of rural living. Maybe Mrs. Davis wasn’t sure Penelope would take her up on the offer of the house. Or maybe the elderly woman knew that her granddaughter would be overwhelmed by the task of rural living.

Mrs. Davis’s apple butter was legendary in these parts—pure sunshine in the mouth and sunny gold in a jar. And Penelope had given it to him. Even after he’d been mean to her. Carlo shook his head, shame at his actions yesterday roaring through him, causing his throat to tighten.

“I’ll do better. Be better,” he murmured. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Davis. I’ll watch over your granddaughter.”

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