for the gaping hole in it where thoughts of Carrie continued to consume him.
Like clockwork, Steven Ross’s attorney had called the day after Christmas. Clearly, Dylan’s instructions to wait until the New Year had been roundly ignored.
It made him wonder how much else Steven might ignore as part of this partnership. There was a reason Wiley had always dealt with their investors. Dylan didn’t want to compromise when it came to his vision. But by taking another firm’s money, he would have to give up some control.
He looked up as a group of people walked out of Il Rigatone. The smell of garlic and sweet tomatoes filled the air and a sudden vision of an updated version of the restaurant flashed across his mind.
As Carrie had predicted, he and Sam had one of the best meals Dylan could remember when they’d ordered carryout based on her suggestion. Thick cuts of chicken with a savory marsala sauce for him and a slice of lasagna that probably weighed close to five pounds for Sam. The quality of food had never been in question, but the image of a down-home mom and pop diner simply didn’t fit with what he wanted for the town.
What if his vision was wrong?
Ever since he’d left Magnolia, Dylan had been moving forward. Always fast and with unwavering faith that momentum would keep him going. The same thing had kept him going even upon returning to Magnolia.
He hadn’t listened—hadn’t wanted to hear anything Carrie was saying about the town and what might be best for it. He knew what was best. He always had.
He’d made a promise to his cousin. For Dylan, taking care of Sam meant ensuring the boy’s financial future. Giving him a legacy. Something that would belong to him. The one thing Dylan had always craved.
Listening to Sam discuss his memories of his parents—both good and bad—Dylan realized that keeping Wiley and Kay’s memories alive and helping Sam understand that both his parents loved him would be far more beneficial than anything material he could give the kid.
“You should go in.”
He turned as Mary Ellen Winkler approached from across the street.
“Nah. I’ve got the dog and, besides, it smells greasy from here. I’m just imagining the upscale steak restaurant that’s going to replace it.”
He’d wanted to punch himself in the face even as the words spewed from his mouth. What was it about this place—the town he’d chosen to return to—that made him act like such a jerk?
At least he could take comfort that he knew who he was in Magnolia. No one expected anything more. Except for Carrie.
Instead of huffing away or giving him a well-deserved lecture, Mary Ellen laughed. “Il Rigatone is the best Italian food you’ll find in either of the Carolinas. You’re just grumpy because Vinnie Guilardi hasn’t been willing to beg and plead for you to keep the restaurant open. He’s a proud man.”
Dylan narrowed his eyes. “I don’t need anyone to beg or plead. In addition to the steak house, I might hire someone to open a bakery. I’m friends with the guy who’s been voted best pastry chef in Boston for three years in a row.” Even though it was a low blow, the mention of some potential competition should stop her from having a laugh at his expense. Dylan hated being laughed at.
To his surprise, Mary Ellen’s smile broadened. “I remember that about you,” she said, dabbing at the corner of her eye with one chubby finger. “Your pride trumped everything. I think back to when you vandalized Sunnyside. You would have gladly worked unpaid for another month if it meant you didn’t have to say you were sorry for the damage to my shop. The apology cost you dearly.”
Guilt zipped through him, and he had trouble meeting her gaze. He’d thought he’d worked through the issues from his past but clearly he hadn’t. He was still copping an attitude. “I owed you a sincere apology more than anything,” he admitted ruefully. “I was a punk kid with too much attitude back in the day.”
“I imagine you developed that attitude in order to survive,” she said gently.
Irritation bristled across Dylan’s shoulders and he tugged on Daisy’s leash. He didn’t like discussing his childhood with anyone. Or his parents. Especially his father. Dylan would rather people see him as the bad guy than pity him for the way he was raised.
He wouldn’t tolerate pity.
“We all do what we can to survive,” he answered through clenched teeth. “I’m no