Page 8 of The Lucky Heart (Jamison Valley 3)
But there was also love here.
There was family.
After my breakup with Tyson, the first person I’d called had been Mom. I’d been so mad that she didn’t have an iPhone to FaceTime, I’d gone to buy her one. But as I’d stood in line at the Apple store, realization had dawned. Phone time wasn’t good enough anymore. Infrequent visits weren’t good enough anymore. Wha
t I’d never find in Seattle was my family.
And I wanted a family.
My dad had left his behind. I’d done the same but I still had a chance to fix my mistake. Just one week in Prescott and the bonds I’d broken were starting to regrow. It would take time, there was still a long climb ahead, but I was convinced now more than ever that leaving Seattle had been the right decision.
Grabbing my keys off the motel desk, I decided to blow off work for the afternoon and go for a drive. Refamiliarizing myself with the area was just what I needed to brush off Tyson’s call.
I pulled out of the motel parking lot and turned my black Range Rover down Main Street, enjoying the charm of my hometown. Prescott was located in southwest Montana, close to Yellowstone National Park, and a lot of the town’s commerce came from tourists. Outsiders loved the quaint feel of Prescott, so business owners took care and pride in making their window displays attractive and tasteful.
Our small town had a clothing boutique, a couple of gift shops, a moderately sized sporting goods store, a few restaurants and two bars. I’d eventually miss shopping in Seattle or the city’s vast restaurant selection, but for the time being, I was content.
It only took me three minutes to cruise down Main Street, pass the community fishing pond and cross the truss bridge over the Jamison River. Then I was free, driving through the wide-open spaces like a girl in a Dixie Chicks song.
There would be no claustrophobia for me in Montana. This time of year, Seattle was almost always cloud covered. I had lived in an expensive, yet cramped downtown apartment, and between the gray skies and tall buildings, I had often felt trapped. But here, everything was open, big and blue. Even at the beginning of November, the sun shone brightly over miles and miles of golden plains. In the distance, the indigo mountains stood tall.
The rustic scenery may have been rough for some, but for me it was soothing.
It was home.
After an hour of driving nowhere, I came back to town and swung into Maple’s for coffee.
“Felicity?”
I turned toward the gasp and froze three steps away from the counter. Sitting at a small table was a former classmate, and not just any classmate, but Khloe.
Just my luck. My first run-in with a high school acquaintance was with the girl who had been on the receiving end of one too many of my nasty teenaged jokes.
I came unglued and walked to her table. I smiled and hoped that she knew it was genuine. “Hi, Khloe! It’s so nice to see you.”
“Uh, okay.” She focused intently on her coffee cup.
“I was just going to get a coffee. Could I buy you a refill? I’d love to catch up.”
“Oh, no, that’s okay. I’m sure you’re busy. I shouldn’t have said anything. I was just surprised to see you, that’s all.”
My shoulders fell as my heart sank. Felicity’s Journey Home wasn’t just about rebuilding relationships with family and friends, it was also about making amends with people I’d wronged. And I owed this woman an apology.
“Please?” I asked quietly. “I’d really like to visit.”
She shrugged but didn’t say no. I hustled to the counter to place my order before she could duck out. When I sat across from her, she slid away from the table a few inches.
I took a sip of my coffee. “Having spent so many years in Seattle, I can say with authority that Maple’s coffee is better than Starbucks.”
Khloe nodded but didn’t engage with my small talk. Her posture was rigid and she wouldn’t make eye contact. I couldn’t blame her. She had every right not to trust me and look for the first opportunity to escape.
“You look great,” I said. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
She didn’t respond.
How ironic was it that I had teased her about her looks? She was a knockout and time hadn’t done anything but make her prettier.
Her dark-brown hair hung in sleek panels past her shoulders. She wore the same black-rimmed glasses I had teased her about in high school. I had told her they made her look like a spinster when they actually made her look like a hot librarian, accenting her green eyes perfectly.
