“Oh, please. I insist.” Grandma promised to send the flight details and said goodbye.
Robin wasn’t eager to go back to Deep Haven, as she’d never felt like she fit in there. But, sure, she’d work at the bakery, give things a chance to cool down over here. Then she’d be back. Paris was her dream. And she wasn’t giving that up.
It might be a nice break, being back home. After the fast pace and intense pressure of her job here, running a small bread bakery in a small town would be a piece of cake. Or, er, maybe brioche.
She would go home, ignore all memories of her once happy family, run the bakery for a few weeks, and then figure out a way to get back to Paris.
Where she truly belonged.
* * *
Deep Haven, mid-January
New year,new Sammy. Three years ago Sammy Johnson wouldn’t have pictured himself here, spending so much time at Deep Haven’s youth center, especially in the middle of the day. He would have imagined himself at the wheel of his semitruck, hauling lumber from Turnquist Lumber to the paper mill in Weyerhauser, Wisconsin. Or picking up a short-haul down to the mill in Duluth. But the accident, the aftermath, and the resulting therapy had changed all of that.
Now he couldn’t imagine getting back behind the wheel of a vehicle. Ever.
He didn’t know what he was going to do with the rest of his life. A question that plagued him more and more lately.
He pushed the thought away.
Instead, he focused on spending time with at-risk teens in between his courier and handyman gigs.
And this kid was doing fine. He just needed a little encouragement. Sammy stood next to seventeen-year-old Ben Zimmerman as he completed another five-minute sprint on the exercise bike in the youth center.
“C’mon, Ben, push it a little harder this time. We’ll have you up to speed and ready for baseball season in no time.”
A few years ago, Ben had been in trouble with drugs and had gotten a severe burn on his legs. Once his family had finally admitted he had a problem, they’d become supporters of the youth center, and Ben had slowly found better ways to occupy his time. Sammy was happy to help him focus on baseball instead of goofing off in the town gravel pit and getting into trouble.
Ben seemed to know where he was going in life. If only Sammy could say the same thing.
On the bike, the teenager pedaled a little harder. His designer joggers and sneakers belied the ache Sammy often saw in the teen’s eyes. His smartwatch beeped—five minutes down. Ben stopped pedaling and Sammy handed him a water and a towel.
Ben rubbed the back of his neck with the towel, his dark hair glistening with sweat. “I don’t know, Mr. Johnson. It’s not the speed or the endurance part of the tryouts I’m worried about.” The teen looked down at his Nikes. “I have a big history test coming up, and if I fail it, I won’t qualify for the team. I’ll be on academic suspension.”
Sammy shuddered away a quick flashback to his own high-school experience. He almost hadn’t made the football team for nearly the same reason. His friend Colleen had helped him in science. She’d been a great lab partner until they’d made a double batch of elephant toothpaste and their chemistry teacher split them up. Good thing he’d quickly been paired with Robin Fox, who’d also gotten him through math class. He’d had to work really hard the rest of the time.
What this youth center really needed was tutors. But in the meantime… “Look, I’m not super great at math, but what I am good at is learning study tricks.” He waited until Ben looked him in the eye. “I had trouble in high school too. Let’s get together and I can show you what I did to get myself through.”
A slow almost-smile spread across Ben’s face. “That would be great. Thanks.”
“Hit the showers. I have some deliveries to make, so I’ll need to lock up in fifteen minutes.”
While Ben showered in the tiny locker room nestled in a corner of the building, Sammy sat in the makeshift office of the youth center. A few years ago, the town, under the guidance of Vivien Buckam, had tried to set up a youth center in the old Westerman Hotel—a plan that had gone up in flames. Literally. The old, rundown place had burned to the ground.
Vivien hadn’t given up, however, and she’d drafted him and a team of other volunteers to look for a new place. They’d settled on this old building, not much more than a glorified pole shed. Sure, they had locker rooms, an ancient pool table, some donated exercise equipment, and a whole thrift store selection of old couches, but the building needed constant attention. Volunteers from around town loosely staffed the center. They offered a place for kids to go after school and on weekends.
He checked the volunteer schedule for the rest of the week. It looked slim. He added his name to a few extra slots. Sometimes this place was all a kid had. They could use a full-time staff. And tutors. And, he added to himself, a working treadmill, a computer station, and, if he was really dreaming, a kitchenette where they could cook and serve large dinners for kids who lived on free lunches at school.
Sammy scrubbed a hand across his face. So many needs. So little time. Vivien had done a great job getting the youth center up and running, and the directing board was full of supporters, but everyone was always so busy. It seemed everyone else had other things in their lives besides this volunteer gig. He would hit up the guys tonight at the VFW, see if anyone could take another shift.
The kids needed them.
“I’m ready to head out, Mr. Johnson.” Ben’s voice cut through his thoughts.
“Great. I’ll walk you out.” He locked the door behind them before zipping up his jacket against the early-January cold. He wound the scarf his mother had knitted for him an extra time around his neck. The fibers of the scarf caught in the stubble on his cheek. No reason to stay clean shaven in the middle of winter. Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out a stocking cap and tugged it down over his blond hair.
“Need a ride?” Ben asked, pausing with a hand on the door handle of a beat-up Chevy pickup.
