That Place Called Home: Cedar Point, #1

By D.L. Lane

As children, they were best friends.
​In high school, they became so much more.
 
Sometimes we need to leave behind what we know—the journey to somewhere, anywhere else calling us onward into the world, and so we go. In time we grow older, wiser, and perhaps more than a little world-weary. Eventually, we realize the most important journey of our life will be making our way back to where we started.
 
For Breckin Lorry and Mason Miller, returning to their hometown of Cedar Point, Washington wasn't easy, but healing broken hearts while reconnecting won't be either.
 
Can the former sweethearts, who allowed their youthful, impetuous choices and misunderstandings tear them apart, discover the meaning of forgiveness? And if they do, will their reunion as the adults they've become be worth the twenty-years it took them to get there?

• Language: English
• Publisher: By Faith Publishing
• Release date: May 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781649212993

Book preview

Prologue

Before

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Bare feet pounded the blades of summer grass as she ran, laughter swirling around her. She was just steps away from the large black cottonwood tree they’d designated as safe, when the strap of her bright yellow sundress slipped off her slender shoulder.

Don’t let her touch it! one of the boys yelled, making her stumble, but strong fingers wrapped around her upper arm, keeping her from falling.

Tag! You’re it, Breck! Mason bellowed between heaving breaths, then bent, placing his hands on his knees, attempting to catch his breath.

Hey, she whined, that’s not fair. I thought you were helping me.

Straightening, a silly grin stretched across his cute face before he panted, I was, but I couldn’t let my chance get away either.

Hand on her hip, Breckin raised her pointed chin. You stink, Mason Miller!

He shrugged. I’m still the winner.

I’m tired of this, Eddie, one of Mason’s older brothers said, striding across the manicured lawn—cheeks rosy from the exertion. Let’s play something else.

Mason’s brow furrowed. Like what?

Truth or dare?

Kristyn Jennings jogged up, stopped next to Mason’s brother, and then twirled the ends of her long, dark ponytail around her finger. I’m with Eddie.

I’m in, Gage, Mason’s best friend added then smiled, showing off his braces.

I don’t know, Danica chirped. That game isn’t very nice.

Breckin pointed at her little sister. You only hate it ’cause you always pick dare.

That’s not it. Glancing around, she asked in a low tone, What if the preacher sees us doing things we shouldn’t?

Dad’s locked away in his office, busy working on Sunday’s message. He won’t come out here, Eddie assured her.

Truth or dare! Truth or dare! Kristyn clapped and bounced, mimicking her big sister doing a cheer.

Mason flipped his hand up. Whatever.

Yay! Bouncing, Kristyn tossed her fist in the air.

Eddie wiped his glistening forehead. I’m going first. Then we follow the circle, so gather around.

The six kids took their positions as Eddie’s hazel gaze fell on his younger brother. Truth or Dare?

Squaring his shoulders, Mason said, Truth.

All right. An evil grin turned the corners of Eddie’s mouth up. Someone here is your secret crush. Who is it?

Narrowing his eyes, Mason pushed his brother’s shoulder. You’ve been snooping in my room!

Eddie returned the favor. You’ve been in mine!

Okay, you two. Breckin sighed. I’m going home if you’re going to fight.

Are we playing or not? Kristyn huffed, crossing her arms.

Gage scowled, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. Yeah. Knock it off, you guys.

The two brothers stopped their shoving match and glared at each other for a moment. Answer the question or forfeit, Mase, Eddie said, those are the rules.

Kicking a dandelion with the toe of his Nike, Mason tucked his hands into the front pockets of his cutoffs, then glanced down. Breckin.

A collective Oooh... rang out, making a blush bloom on both Breckin’s and Mason’s youthful cheeks.

Truth or Dare, Breck? Kristyn asked, way too eager.

She might regret it, but she went with, Dare.

Lips twitching, Kristyn blurted out, "I dare you to kiss Mase for five seconds," holding up all five fingers spread wide to make herself clear as if she wasn’t already.

Biting her bottom lip, Breckin looked at Mason, who turned his head to look at her, their gazes locking. I’ll do it, she whispered.

Her heart tha-thumped a rapid rhythm in her chest, but she thawed from her frozen state when Mason cupped his palm around hers and led her away from the group.

Where are you going? his brother called.

Behind the church! Mason hollered as the two of them rounded the corner of the imposing building. He stopped when they were out of sight. You don’t have to. He let loose of her, hand dropping to his side. We can just say you did.

Shaking her head, chestnut hair swishing along her back, Breckin glanced up at him. I’m not a cheater.

It doesn’t matter.

She put a hand on her hip. Yes, it does.

Brow crinkled, Mason asked, You sure?

I’m sure.

Okay. Mason took a step closer, his aqua blue eyes sparkling from beneath those thick, black lashes. How do you want to do this?

Just go for it, I guess. She swiped a clammy palm along the side of her dress.

Me or you?

It was her dare she figured as she gripped his forearm, popped up on her toes, closed her eyes, and smashed her lips against his.

One, two, three...

When Mason wrapped his arms around her, the warmth of his breath puffing against her skin, she lost her count. Breckin was so taken by surprise, she didn’t notice he’d let her go until she heard, You okay?

The question had her eyelids fluttering. I-I think so.

Look at me, then.

Opening one green eye then the other, she glanced up at him and touched her lips—the breeze tickling her gangly legs.

Somehow, Mason appeared to be much older than the ten-year-old boy he was just minutes before, reaching out and tucking a section of her hair behind her ear. Do you want to do it again?

Unable to speak, Breckin did the only thing she seemed capable of. She nodded.

Chapter One

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Mason Miller was a talented man in many ways—athletic, well-read, good with money, socially adept, gifted in the kitchen when it came to his business, proficient with technology, excellent organizational skills, and at one point in his life people said he had a brilliant legal mind. But no one had ever called him a talent when it came to décor.

Ever.

Humming to himself, he strived for contentment. But, upbeat tune aside, he didn’t enjoy the job of creating window displays. Regardless, though, he’d made up his mind to get one of his many projects done and marked off his list before he closed his shop for the night. So, with the last strand of blinking lights in place, Mason backed up, his lambswool-covered shoulder blades pressed against the glass, and tilted his head. I’d get a better view from outside. His cell phone pinged, interrupting the idea of hopping down from the platform and heading out to properly inspect the scene he’d made.

Dropping his gaze, Mason pulled his phone out of his shirt pocket, glanced at an e-mail notification for an order, and promptly tapped the screen to view the details.

2-boxes-16ct-item #148-chocolate sea salt caramels

1-box-12ct-item #123-peanut butter chocolate biscotti logs

1-box-32ct-item #108-assorted gourmet chocolates

It had only been six months since he opened his Choc-Oh! Cottage and, small-town or not, in-store sales were steadily increasing by the day. The coffee bar he’d installed seemed to be a big hit too, although what continued to look as if it were to become the real money maker was his online store. Since the day he’d started the web-based portion of his business, Mason had been shipping boxes of handmade artisan chocolate across the U.S.

Quickly, he scrolled down to see the shipping address on the order—New York. The city that never sleeps.

Part of him was happy he’d left that particular rat-race behind; nonetheless, he admitted, he’d swapped one busy lifestyle for another. Being the owner and head chocolatier of the COC wasn’t easy, and sometimes he didn’t know if he was coming or going in his attempt to make a success of his new venture. However, Mason was finally taking a hobby he’d learned from his grandmother and making something of it, using her old recipes and some of his own, so he supposed the long hours he put in was worth it.

Goodnight, Mr. Miller, Kasey said, interrupting his reverie. I cleaned the espresso station and coffee bar and closed out the till. The cash bag and the register tape are in your office, so I’m going to clock out.

Without really looking at her, a slight grin escaped his too stoic face. All right. Goodnight. And thanks.

Mason marked the notification on his phone for a reminder. He’d fill and ship the order first thing in the morning.

Taking a few steps forward, he jumped off the display stage. The holiday window exhibit was good enough. Besides, he still had a work schedule to complete for next week, and since he pretty much lived at the store, rarely making the trek to the bank during regular working hours, he needed to get a deposit ready. He’d drop the bank bag into the night box on his way to the too-big home he’d, for lack of a better word, inherited.

Resigned to burning the midnight oil, he strolled to the back of the shop, slipped the phone into the pocket he’d tugged it from, and looked up to see Kasey grab her timecard from the drab steel-gray holder on the wall.

Oh, yeah, she said, drawing his attention to her again as her fuchsia nails tapped against the card. Those little sampler boxes with the gold COC insignia we’ve been using? They’re getting low.

Shoving his fingers through the short stubble of his freshly cut hair, he said, I placed an order for more yesterday, but thank you for taking the initiative and letting me know.

No probs. She stamped her card and placed it back into the slot. One more thing.

Okay.

I need to leave early Thursday, so I asked Penny if she could come in to cover for me, and she said she could.

That’s fine.

All right. Thanks. See ya tomorrow.

See you then, he said. Oh, and it’s starting to snow, so be careful driving home, Kasey.

She put her bright cranberry-colored coat on. I will, Mr. Miller.

Once Kasey gathered the rest of her things—purse, iPod, and winter gloves she never wore—Mason went to the front door and locked up behind her, keeping watch through the glass storefront for a moment to make sure she was safely inside her car. Cedar Point wasn’t a crime Mecca, but he felt somewhat protective of her. Silly though it might be, he still saw that little dark-haired girl who used to live next door, running through the sprinklers on his parents’ front lawn in the summer, not the young woman she’d grown into.

Feeling tired and old, Mason scrubbed a palm down his face, mumbling, You’re only thirty-eight, attempting to reason away the mindset of being ancient, then glanced back out the window.

As soon as the rusted clunker Kasey drove chugged away, he unplugged the neon open sign and left his spectator’s spot, ready to finish up his nightly chores.

***

Breckin sat inside her compact car, watching the snowflakes fall. They hit the windshield in white lacy perfection before dying a tragic death, dissolving against the warm glass. Once transformed into a liquid, the multiple winding streaks distorted the view. Idyllic Main Street, with its Victorian storefronts, had turned into a blur, and the Christmas lights adorning the poles of the streetlamps became an abstract version of a festive watercolor.

Peeking at her pale reflection within the rearview mirror, she tugged the collar of her wool coat up as a surreal feeling overtook her. She’d left town in a hurry, disappointed by the one person in the world who she’d thought she could always rely on. But shoving her pain aside, Breckin refused to be heartbroken. Though her refusal didn’t seem to matter, even though she focused on other things, like how she’d always wanted to travel—become a chef. And when she had pictured her future, it was bright and shining. No way was she going to be stuck in tiny Cedar Point like her mother, becoming just another overworked Mom and ever-present member of the PTA. Nope. Breckin made up her mind after the scare during her senior year—she would never settle for the mundane, which in her mind meant no white picket fences for her. Back then, visions of becoming the next Julia Child, hosting a cooking show with book deals, danced in her head.

Following her dazzling dream, Breckin flew to France, enrolled in one of the most prestigious culinary academies Paris had to offer, and walked the straight and narrow path toward her imaginings. Until she met Daniel Arquette—a brilliant chef and part-time teacher at the culinary academy. He’d been handsome, charming, and witty. And since she was nursing a broken heart, she’d been too easy to seduce; or perhaps it was just time to expand her narrow relationship horizons. Either way, it wasn’t long until word leaked about the two of them fraternizing. Of course, he was asked to resign his position at the academy, and she was promptly dismissed.

Distraught, she then thought about returning home with her tail tucked between her legs, but Daniel convinced her that being booted out of the snooty school wasn’t the end of the world, and whisked her away to his beautiful Paris apartment. Two weeks later, she was working alongside him as a pastry chef. Two years later, what started as a crush on an older, exciting, world-wise man, had turned into something real.

They were married in a small picturesque chapel nestled in the French countryside the day before she turned twenty.

With a weary sigh, Breckin realized how, somewhere along the way, she’d allowed her skewed priorities to shift, and a picket fence no longer seemed so wrong. She’d thought to spend her life with Daniel, envisioning both of them side-by-side, growing gray together. It didn’t matter she wouldn’t become a famous chef, because she would have been doing what she loved—baking and cooking with her husband in the restaurant they opened together with funds he’d borrowed from his father. And she didn’t even mind he was the one in the spotlight with lucrative book deals, because it had been a huge boon for their business. Everyone from Hollywood stars to dignitaries had dined at their place, including the Prime Minister, more than once.

There wasn’t any doubt, Daniel’s career had turned white-hot, and she’d been there along for the ride, but she was fine holding onto his coattails. Though, when it came to their personal life, everything hadn’t been perfect. However, as far as she was concerned, they’d been pretty good, even if someone else often entered her mind. When that happened, Breckin would shove those memories away and focus on her present, enjoying her life, especially when La Eatery Arquette received their first coveted Michelin Star, and there was talk about opening a second restaurant. But after a devastating loss, things changed. Or maybe all their problems happened before then, and she didn’t admit to them until it was too late.

Don’t think about it, she whispered to the woman in the rearview mirror.

No longer wishing to see the sadness etched into her face, she looked away from the shattered creature staring back at her and returned her green gaze to the windshield. It didn’t look as though the snow would be stopping any time soon, and she needed to get on with things before the weather took a nasty turn for the worse.

Reaching, she turned off the heater, then the ignition, and attempted to keep her mind on the task at hand—grabbing a few gifts for her sister’s upcoming Christmas bash and gift exchange. Apparently Danica, and her surgeon husband Marcus, threw one heck of an event every year, and it was all the rage among their snobbish professional crowd. While there wasn’t any denying Breckin wasn’t in the party mood, if she didn’t go—and didn’t show up bearing gifts—she’d be reminded yet again what a horrible older sister she was.

Reconciled to enduring the upcoming festivities, she grabbed her bag from the passenger’s seat and stepped out of her Kia Soul, a shiver racking her frame.

It was colder than she remembered the winters to be in the Pacific Northwest, but she bucked up and hopped over a slushy puddle, blinking to keep the drifting flakes from sticking to her lashes, and made her way to the book store.

The storefront sparkled with little multi-colored twinkle lights and sported faux frosted glass. She grinned. With the current developments in the weather, the frost on the glass would soon be real.

As she opened the door, jingle bells greeted her.

Wiping her cheeks, Breckin stepped into the place she’d considered her second home in her youth, taking in the smell of brewing coffee as she glanced around. Even though years had passed, nothing much looked different.

Breckin Lorry? Is that you, dear?

While she was using her maiden name again, it was still sort of a shock to her system to hear it, but, like it or not, Breckin Arquette no longer existed.

Trying not to look forlorn, she turned to see Bea Clark pluck the glasses nested in the gray curls of her hair free, placing them on her apple-doll face. Hi, Bea. Yes, it’s me.

I heard you were back.

Her eyes widened. I’ve only been here for twenty-four hours!

Bea rounded the register. Small town. Word travels fast; you know that.

Sure does. She bit her tongue, giving her full attention to the woman who waddled over, wearing a long red and white skirt with a bright red sweater that had a fuzzy white collar. The bejeweled candy-cane pin she’d tucked into the fake fur sparkled beneath the florescent lighting, reminding Breckin of the picture-perfect Mrs. Claus.

You’re looking good, Bea.

"Psft... She waved her speckled hand. I don’t know about that. I’ve got a bit grayer and a whole lot plumper since I saw you last. Her one-time employer hugged her tightly before releasing her. I’m so sorry to hear about all that nasty business with your divorce."

It was glaringly obvious the cat was out of the bag, so Breckin knew Mother had spilled to her bridge buddies. Heck, for that matter, the particulars had probably made the rounds on the phone tree.

I wonder if their gossip line has gone cellular now. Letting the thought drop, she held the polite smile she’d put on, forcing herself to relax her stiff shoulders. What was done was done; nothing to do about it. After all, in the scheme of life, she supposed there were worse things other than the whole town knowing about the epic failures that forced her to move back home; however, what exactly could be worse eluded her at the moment.

Thank you for the condolences, she said, remembering her manners.

Of course, dear. Bea patted her arm. Now, tell me. What brings you in on such a snowy evening?

Chapter Two

Before

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Faith Hill’s voice drifted from the speakers on the radio singing This Kiss as Breckin dusted the shelves at Bea’s Book Nook. She only had another fifteen minutes left on her shift, and then she would be as free as a bird. Well, as free as she could be on a school night.

Intermittently she hmm-hmm, hmm, hmmed the pretty melody and smiled. Breckin figured most seventeen-year-old girls would have been disappointed to know they would be spending their evening in a too-hot kitchen with someone’s grandmother, but not her. She’d be with Mason at his granny’s. The sweet woman with the snow-white hair and warm smile had a new candy recipe she wanted to share, and Breckin was eager to give it a go. Besides, Mason would help, so while preparing fresh and savory meals was her passion, making chocolates was always fun. Not to mention having him by her side, helping, made things special—something they shared.

Swaying, she pretended the cloth in her hand was a microphone, gave up on the humming, and sang along with the song, losing herself until the tinga-linga-ling of the bell on the front doors echoed through the room, drawing her attention.

Smiling from ear-to-ear, Mason swiped his long fingers through the damp strands of his midnight-black hair, the disruption causing a piece to fall over the arch of his right eyebrow. Don’t stop on my account.

Embarrassed, she put the rag down. No, I think I’m good.

Wearing his red and gray letterman’s jacket, he came to her in that pure male ‘I’m a state championship quarterback’ saunter, the worn denim covering his powerful thighs doing fluttery things to her stomach.

How was practice, she asked, never giving away a hint of what seeing him did to her, though she suspected he knew.

Reaching for Breckin’s chin, he gently took hold, lifting as he bent to place a kiss on her lips, before he whispered, Good.

I missed you, she said, brushing her nose along his.

One more lingering kiss, then he rested his forehead on hers. Ditto. I wish you guys had cheer practice after school, too.

Morning practices work out as far as my schedule here. Besides, Bea already accommodates my Friday and Saturday evenings when need be, so I can do my thing at the games.

I know. Mason heaved a sigh. I guess I wish things were still like when we were freshmen, and I’d see you sitting in the bleachers watching me. He traced the line of her jaw with his fingertip. I play better when you’re there.

You never have a bad game, regardless. Tucking her arm into his toasty-warm jacket and curling her fingers into the back of his t-shirt, Breckin was drawn to him as he wrapped his arms around her small waist.

Like magnets pulled together, they stayed in their little bubble of two, eyes closing, existing in the moment.

When he nuzzled his nose into the hollow beneath her ear, he hummed low in his throat, the vibration sending chills over her skin. Never stop using that shampoo.

You like it that much? she asked, giggling.

"Mmm.... Every single time I smell the ice cream Dad dishes up, I think about that night on the shore, breathing in the strawberry scent of your hair. The way your body felt beneath mine as we kissed. He placed his lips to her ear. Trust me. It can get a bit embarrassing when Mom serves strawberry shortcake for dessert."

Stepping back, she play-smacked his hard chest. Mase!

What? He grinned. I’m just saying.

I know what you’re ‘saying’. Her cheeks turned hot.

He skimmed his knuckles down the flaming red color. I love it when I make you blush.

Breckin looked up into the most extraordinary blue-green eyes she would ever see and said, I love you, Mason Miller.

Palming the back of her neck, he took her mouth with his, the tip of his tongue drawing the line of her lips, parting them, then slipping past her teeth and twirling it around and around hers in the dance of flesh they’d perfected. The two of them had come a long way since their very first kiss behind his father’s church when they were