“Let’s ask them now,” I whispered into my husband’s ear.
“Okay.” He kissed my cheek.
I took a fortifying breath, then looked around our circle. “We wanted to run something by you guys.”
“For the wedding?” Kat asked, sitting straighter.
“Sort of.” I laced my fingers through Karson’s, silently telling him to take over.
Like Katherine, I was a bundle of emotion this week. While she buried hers in activity, I’d resorted to what seemed like an endless stream of near-tear moments.
I was so happy for Gus. I was so proud of the man he’d become. And he loved Delilah with every cell in his body, treating her with such adoration and respect. I’d told him as much in another mess of tears a few days ago. Gus had hugged me and said he’d learned that from watching Karson. His dad.
But happy and proud, I still felt like I was losing my baby boy. So I’d been leaning on my husband, like tonight, to speak up for me when I couldn’t get the words past the lump in my throat.
“We drove the Cadillac up here,” Karson said. “As you know.”
The day we’d pulled into the lodge’s parking lot, everyone else had already been here. They’d descended on the car, greeting it like an old friend. This wasn’t the first trip to Montana that we’d brought the car, and like past times, having it here gave everyone the chance to drive it again.
Gemma and Katherine had taken it to town on grocery store runs. Londyn and Brooks had spent a few hours getting lost on the Montana highways. Then Aria and Brody had done the same.
“We want to give it to August and Delilah,” Karson said. “As a wedding present. But we wanted to check with you guys first.”
The crackle of the fire was the only sound.
Then Londyn nodded and the smile that stretched across her face was brighter than the flames. “Yes. Absolutely.”
“Best idea ever.” Gemma nodded.
Cash shook his head in disbelief. “Are you sure?”
“It’s time for that car to go to the next generation,” Karson answered. “Your daughter. My son. I can’t think of a better pair. And maybe someday, they’ll continue the tradition. Send it down the road with someone else who needs it.”
Katherine buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Cash stood and scooped her up, settling her on his lap. She took a moment, then sniffled and looked up, drying her eyes. “Sorry. I’m a wreck this week. Who needs another beer?”
Cash trapped her before she could stand. “No one needs another beer, sweetheart.”
“Let’s have a toast.” Aria raised her beer bottle into the air. “To the original Lou.”
I smiled. She’d deemed one Lou the original and the other Lou—my son—the famous Lou. “To the original Lou.”
The circle cheered.
Lou usually got a toast at these functions. He’d stuck with us all, decades later, especially since every woman in the circle was wearing a piece of his jewelry. Lou had gifted Hope’s jewelry to us all, along with our own respective letters.
Well, except for me.
Over the years, we’d shared the contents of those letters with each other. Mostly, Lou had written about his wife. Combined, those letters had given us a glimpse of his love for Hope, and wearing something of hers was an honor.
To Londyn, he’d gifted a gold locket. To Gemma, an opal pendant necklace. To Katherine, a pair of ruby stud earrings. To Aria, a ring adorned with tiny gold roses. I wore Hope’s wedding rings as my own. And Karson wore Lou’s wedding band, the piece Lou had gifted to me.
It was almost like he’d known that the man it was destined for was Karson. I liked to think so.
I dropped my forehead to Karson’s, closing my eyes. “I love you.”
“Love you too, baby.” He cupped my cheek, tipping my face so he could cover my lips with his. We kissed like we had in the beginning. We kissed like we hadn’t kissed for twenty-three years. We kissed like two people who had never taken our days for granted.
After I pulled my lips away from Karson’s, I sat up straighter. “One more toast. To the junkyard.”
It had long been demolished, but it lived in our hearts.
“To the junkyard,” nine other voices said in unison.
To the place where our stories had started and the place we’d found a family.
To the place where I’d found the love of my life.
To the place that would bind us together forever.
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Preview to Gypsy King
Enjoy this preview to Gypsy King, book one in the Tin Gypsy series.
BRYCE
“Morning, Art.” I saluted him with my coffee as I walked through the glass front door.
He returned the gesture with his own mug. “Hiya, Bryce. How are you today?”
“Fantastic.” I shimmied my shoulders, still feeling the dance party I’d had in my car on my way in to work. “The sun is shining. The flowers are blooming. It’s going to be a great day. I can feel it.”
“I hope you’re right. All I can feel at the moment is heartburn.” Art chuckled and his protruding belly jiggled. Even in a pair of cargo pants and a light blue button-up, he reminded me of Santa Claus.
“Is Dad here?”
He nodded. “Been here since before I showed up at six. I think he’s trying to fix one of the presses.”
“Damn. I’d better go make sure he hasn’t gotten pissed and dismantled the whole thing. See ya, Art.”
“Bye, girlie.”
At the Clifton Forge Tribune, I was girlie, dear and the occasional sweetheart, because at thirty-five, I was the youngest employee by thirteen years. Even as part owner, I was still seen as the boss’s kid.
I cruised past Art at the reception desk and pushed through the interior door that opened to the office’s bullpen. The smell of fresh coffee and newspaper filled my nose. Paradise. I’d fallen in love with this smell as a five-year-old girl when I’d gone to work with Dad on a Bring-Your-Daughter-to-Work Day, and nothing had topped it since.
I walked the length of the empty bullpen, past the desks on each side of the center aisle to the door at the back that opened to the pressroom.
“Dad?” My voice echoed in the open room, bouncing off the cinder-block walls.
“Under the Goss!”
The ceilings extended high above me, the ductwork and pipes exposed. The unique, musky smell of newspaper was stronger in here, where we kept the giant paper rolls and drums of black ink. I savored the walk across the room, inhaling the mix of paper and solvents and machinery oil as my wedge heels clicked on the cement floor.
My childhood crush hadn’t been on a boy, it had been on the feel of a freshly printed newspaper in my hands. It was a mystery to my parents why I’d gone into TV and not newspaper after college. There’d been a lot of reasons, none of which mattered now.
Because here I was, working at my dad’s newspaper, returning to my roots.
The Goss printer was our largest and main press. Positioned along the far wall, it extended from one side of the building to the other. Dad’s jean-clad legs and brown boots were sticking out from beneath the first of four towers.