Small-Town Girl. Jessica Keller

the key Sesser had handed her after their meeting. Trepidation gnawed away at the pit of her stomach. This was it.

      Laying her other hand on the door, Kendall bowed her head. She didn’t pray as often as she should, but then again, she found it difficult to think of the right words when it felt as if they never made it past the ceiling. Kendall was one girl among millions. The daily issues she faced didn’t matter to the creator of the universe, did they? No. If her earthly father had been able to walk out of her life and forget about her, God could too.

      Still, she had to believe that God had led local tycoon Sesser Atwood to overhear the bank turning down her application for a business loan. If the elderly man hadn’t asked to hear her pitch and then offered to go into business with her, Kendall would be on her way back to Kentucky by now.

      Thank You for bringing me here. For orchestrating all this. If it’s not too much to ask, please let this be a place I can call home. Finally.

      She slipped the key into the old-fashioned doorknob and opened the door. The tiniest bell, hung on the upper part of the door, rang sweetly as she entered. A note taped to the desk from Claire, Sesser’s adult daughter, read that she had picked out the furniture and decorations and hoped Kendall liked everything. The furniture was meant as a gift, partner-to-partner. The note ended with a huge smiley face. Kendall started adding up the costs in her head and was beginning to wonder if she’d ever be able to pay Sesser back if she had to. Could Mr. Atwood really be so generous? Hopefully it came without strings, but in her experience, gifts rarely did. Especially gifts from wealthy men.

      On a separate note card Claire had written a verse in her pretty, swirling script. Kendall ran her thumb over the card, reading Isaiah 43:19 out loud. “‘See, I am doing a new thing. Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the desert.’” Finding a thumbtack, she stuck the verse onto the corkboard near her monitor. Claire didn’t know her, but she couldn’t have picked a better verse to encourage Kendall. Perhaps God did care about something as insignificant as Kendall’s dreams.

      She laid her purse on the desk and was just about to turn on the computer when an awful screeching sound vibrated the walls. “Oh. That’s not going to work at all.”

      Instantly she started for the door leading to the shared entryway. A high-pitched beeping sound echoed as she walked through the furniture store’s front door. Goose Harbor Furniture consisted of two sections; one area showcased completed handmade pieces and items that were ready to purchase, and the other was full of sawdust and half-finished projects. In the middle, two men hunched over a block of wood. One was wielding a power saw, which explained the noise.

      “Excuse me!” Kendall hollered.

      Both men turned in her direction. The taller, broader-shouldered man had sandy-brown, close-cropped hair, a firm jaw and a tug of a smile on his lips. His heavy boots, worn jeans and rolled-up flannel shirt screamed hard work. The shorter of the two had floppy brown hair and a full-blown grin lighting his boyish features. But what struck her most was both men had the same unique eye coloring. A pale green, like the underside of a leaf.

      Thankfully the smaller-statured one switched off the saw before swiveling around. “If you’re here for the whittling class, tonight’s lesson is canceled on account of the concert in the square.”

      She quirked an eyebrow. “Whittling? No.” She shook her head. “I’m here about that horrible noise.”

      The taller one walked forward. “Brice Daniels.” He extended his hand for a handshake, the calluses along his palm rubbing against her soft skin. “Back there—” Brice jutted a thumb over his shoulder toward the man with the saw “—is my brother Evan. He owns this place. You can blame him for all the racket.”

      “I’m Kendall. Kendall Mayes.” She laid her hand across her chest. “Nice to meet you both.” Then she zeroed in on Evan. “Do you normally use that during business hours?”

      He set down the saw and then hooked his hands on his tool belt. “Hey, it’s almost closing time.”

      Kendall popped her hands to her hips. “Well, I’m your new neighbor, and I don’t know how that’s going to affect my clients.” Her small office would mostly be used for planning, but she had to imagine that potential clients would want to be able to meet with her in a saw-free environment. Had Sesser been aware of the woodworker next door when he chose this location for her? If Evan was going to be carving loudly all day, she might not last in the shared storefront for long.

      “Relax.” Evan unclipped his tool belt and laid it on the workstation in the back of the room. “The tools I mostly use are quiet. The saw is used sparingly and only ever before the shop opens or near closing.”

      Kendall released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

      Brice tilted his head, considering her. “I spotted you at church last weekend, didn’t I? You’re new in town.” He had a slight cleft in his chin. Kendall tried not to stare, but there was no doubt about it; the man was an all-American hunk.

      “I am.” She offered a smile. “Is it so easy to tell?”

      Evan peeled off his heavy gloves. “We’re Goose Harbor lifers. Born and raised. We know almost everyone.”

      “You grew up here?” Kendall’s attention volleyed between the brothers. What must it have been like to live in such a picturesque place? Probably far better than the trailer homes she and her mother had constantly been kicked out of for not paying rent. “That must have been nice.”

      “At times. But not always.” Brice leaned against the counter that held the cash register and crossed his arms.

      Kendall took a few steps, pretending to examine the furniture for sale. “So, what’s this about a whittling class?”

      Straightening, Brice grabbed the stapler off the counter and twisted it around in his hand. His gaze quickly appraised her from head to toe. “You don’t strike me as someone interested in whittling.”

      “Don’t listen to him.” Evan rounded the small partition that separated the woodworking area from the store. “He doesn’t even work here.”

      “Okay.” Kendall put up her hands in surrender. “The truth is, I’m not interested in whittling at all. But I just had an idea. I’m trying to brainstorm some events that I could offer for tourists...on a weekly basis in correlation with my business.” Not that whittling would be the most exciting thing, but she didn’t know anyone besides a handful of ladies from a Bible study she’d attended for a few weeks when she first moved to town and she was currently grasping at straws. Sesser expected her to kick off her business with a bang and she didn’t want to disappoint him. Not after the risk he’d taken on her.

      “It’s a paid class that meets once a week and runs six weeks long. Most of the tourists are only here for a week or two, tops. There’s the occasional ones that stay for the whole season. But they’re few and far between.” Evan shrugged an apology.

      Kendall sighed. Whittling wouldn’t work for her weekly event. Which was probably for the best.

      Brice cleared his throat. “Maybe I can help point you in the right direction? What sort of business are you starting next door?”

      Here it goes. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. While Kendall really believed in her idea, embarrassment always rolled around in her chest whenever she had to explain it. Most people didn’t understand the need for such a place. “It’s called Love on a Dime. It’s a date-planning service, and—”

      “Hear that? A dating service.” Evan slapped Brice on the back. “She can finally find you a match.”

      Brice shot his brother a look that said if the lady wasn’t here right now I’d strangle you. “I don’t date.”

      She waved her hands. “I don’t find significant others for people. None of that matching stuff. I plan dates for people who are already together.” Despite Brice’s scowl, she rambled