His Baby Dilemma. Catherine Lanigan
Fifteen months ago
GRUMBLING AT HER travel-weary reflection in her palm-sized mirror, Grace Railton used a cotton swab to clean away the mascara smudges under her eyes. Jet lag. No sleep and a seven-hour time difference between Paris and Indian Lake are not your friends, Grace. She peered into the mirror. Nope. Not by a long shot.
“Next stop—Indian Lake. Indian Lake!” the conductor announced as he trundled down the crowded aisle.
Grace inhaled—for courage or stamina, she didn’t know. Almost there.
“Indian Lake!” the conductor shouted again as he passed Grace’s seat.
Grace reached out to touch his sleeve. “Excuse me, would it be possible to get some help with my bags when we stop? I’ve been traveling for nearly fourteen hours and—”
“Not my job,” he barked back and started to move away.
Grace gripped his sleeve. “Sir. I’m most happy to pay for the service and I—”
“We don’t take tips.” He peered at her, taking in her clothing. “You’re not from around here.”
“I just flew in from Paris.”
“Let me guess. You’re the one with the huge bags blocking the exit?” He glared at her.
Grace wasn’t about to be shut down. “I only need help off the train.”
He continued to glower at her. Hard.
“Thirty dollars?”
“I’ll meet you by the door.” He looked down at her high-heeled boots. “Think you can manage the steps in those things?”
“I’ll be fine,” she assured him with a bright smile.
Grace wasn’t sure if the man was angling for more money or if he was criticizing her apparel. Either way, she’d gotten what she wanted out of the bargain. Her bags were overloaded and overweight—and for good reason. She would be staying in Indian Lake for over a month, helping her Aunt Louise at The Louise House ice-cream shop while she recovered from back surgery.
Aunt Louise’s request was one that Grace wouldn’t have dreamed of declining. Louise was the only family Grace had left. Grace’s father, Jim Railton, had died when she was very young and her mother, Amanda, had died the day after Grace’s high-school graduation.
However, Aunt Louise was always a prominent part of Grace’s life and all of Grace’s happy childhood memories featured Aunt Louise’s quirky presence.
Louise had always treated Grace as the daughter she never had, and because Grace had dreamed of a career in fashion design, Louise had insisted that only Parsons, one of the best design schools in the country, was good enough for her talented niece. Grace had already saved nearly half the tuition from her Junior Miss Illinois and Miss Teen Illinois pageant winnings. Since Grace had grown up in fashionable, urban Chicago, the competition for the crown was stiff, but her determination and talents had bloomed early. Louise had generously offered to cover the rest. Once she graduated, Grace had diligently sent Louise a check every month, though she’d never asked to be repaid. Grace was no longer in financial debt to her aunt, but she wasn’t sure she could ever repay the kindness and support Louise had given her over the years. Helping her at the ice-cream shop was merely a drop in the bucket.
The train rumbled past a riot of autumn-bronzed trees and rolling farmland, golden now with harvested corn shocks and soybeans. The land was serene and lush with abundance, and Grace realized she’d never quite felt the same about any other place. Not even the South of France, with its vineyards, cobblestone streets and outdoor cafés, held the allure for her that Indian Lake did.
Odd, it’s taken so long for me to return here.
The last time she’d been in Indian Lake she’d been two months shy of her sixteenth birthday. Her mother had still been alive. Grace had been the first runner-up in the Miss Teen Illinois contest. After winning the crown for Junior Miss Illinois in prior years, Grace was blindsided by her near miss. She’d been certain she would win. Her piano performance was impeccable. The gowns she’d designed and that her mother had helped her make were perfection. She’d delivered answers to the judges’ questions with insight and flawless diction. She should have won. But she hadn’t.
That summer was a turning point in her life. After that summer, Grace had altered her goal of becoming a model and directed her ambition toward fashion design. It had been a summer for growing up. That much was certain.
Grace ran her palm over the lapels of her jacket, making certain they lay flat.
Nervous habit, she groused to herself and dropped her hands. She’d worked hard on the design she was wearing. Her fingers traveled over the wool fabric she’d snagged at a bargain price from Johnstons of Elgin. The cashmere was from Nepal, but Grace believed the Scots knew how to weave it best. As comforting as her black jacket and slim skirt were, she was anxious.
She leaned