Page 5 of Checking Mr. Wrong (Love in Maple Falls #3)

MABEL

The car rolls to a stop in the driveway, and I step out, the crunch of gravel under my boots somehow louder than I remember.

I straighten, stretching my arms over my head and taking a deep breath.

The air smells like pine trees and wet leaves, with a faint curl of woodsmoke from someone’s fireplace in the distance.

It’s exactly how I remember Maple Falls.

Joe circles around from the driver’s seat, pops the trunk, and starts unloading my bags. He sets them down on the sidewalk with a quiet grunt before he heads back to the car with a quick wave. “Nice meeting you, Mabel. Tell Murray I said hello.”

A minute later, the engine hums and he’s gone, leaving me alone with a stack of bags, a thousand memories, and the kind of silence you can only get in small towns and big moments.

I turn, looking up and down the street I grew up on.

It’s all so familiar yet strange, like this chipped tooth or like someone rearranged the furniture of my memories.

Across the street, Mayor Thompkins’ house looks exactly the same—bright blue shutters, a flag waving lazily in the afternoon breeze.

On the porch, his daughter Ashlyn is pacing with her phone pressed to her ear.

She looks up, does a quick double take when we make eye contact, then waves .

“Hey, Ashlyn!” I call, smiling as she waves back, but she’s already ducking inside, leaving the screen door to bang softly against the frame.

Next door to her place is Clara Johnson’s house. My chest warms at the sight of it, a flood of memories washing over me. Clara and I spent so many summers in her backyard, making friendship bracelets, flipping through teen magazines, and plotting our lives like we had any idea how they’d turn out.

“Is that my Mabel?”

The sound of my name pulls my attention to the porch of my house. Murray’s there, leaning on the railing, his weathered face lighting up when our eyes meet.

“Hey, kiddo!” he calls, his voice as warm and steady as it always was.

“Murray!” I yell back, grinning as I jog toward him. I take the steps two at a time and throw my arms around him, the scent of his aftershave and sawdust making me feel instantly at home. If there was a prize for Stepdad of the Year, he’d win it every single time .

“You’ve been missed,” he says, patting my back.

“I missed you, too,” I say, holding on a little longer. Because for all the chaos and noise in my life, this is the first thing that’s felt steady in a long time. “I swear, and do not tell my mother this, but you are the best part about coming back to this town.”

“I promise not to tell her,” he says, crossing his heart and laughing. “She’s been wound up pretty tight lately.”

“Sounds like an ominous warning?”

“It’s something.” He nods. “I keep telling her she needs to loosen up, but I only get a grunt for a response.”

“At least it’s a noise,” I say with a giggle as Murray grabs my bags and heads inside.

I follow Murray up the steps, the creak of the old wooden boards beneath our feet as familiar as my own heartbeat. He pushes the door open, and the smell of home hits me—cinnamon, lemon cleaner, and something faintly floral that I can’t place but have always associated with my mom.

The entryway looks the same, down to the small table with a bowl for keys that I swear hasn’t moved an inch in twenty years.

I pause, letting my eyes drift over the family photos lining the walls.

There’s one of me and my mom at the state fair, grinning with sticky cotton candy hands, and another of her and Murray on the day of their wedding, looking ridiculously happy. My throat tightens.

Murray sets my bags down by the stairs and gives my shoulder a quick squeeze. “She’s in the kitchen. No arguing, okay?”

“Why does everyone think I only want to argue? Am I coming off as defensive already?” I ask, but he’s already heading toward the garage, chuckling and waving me off.

I take a deep breath before entering the kitchen. Since the “incident” late last year, I’d found all the ways to avoid my mother. Until now.

She’s standing by the counter, her back to me as she stirs something on the stove.

She’s wearing her best pressed slacks and a neat, bright orange blouse, and her hair is pinned back in the same no-nonsense bun she’s worn my whole life.

She doesn’t turn around when she hears me, just says, “I thought I heard you come in.”

“Hi, Mom,” I say, leaning against the doorway.

She glances over her shoulder, her expression softening slightly. “You look tired.”

“Thanks?”

Her lips twitch, like she wants to smile but won’t let herself. Instead, she reaches for a mug and pours steaming water over a tea bag. “Here,” she says, setting it on the counter. “Peppermint. Thought it might help you settle in.”

I slowly inch my way to the mug, the warmth seeping into my hands. “Thanks.”

She nods, folding her arms across her chest. There’s a beat of silence, not uncomfortable exactly, but not exactly filled with party vibes either.

“Still like sugar in it?” she asks finally.

“Yeah,” I say. “Two, please.”

She grabs the jar from the counter and spoons the sugar in, stirring briskly before handing the mug back to me. “Your room’s the same,” she says, almost casually. “Haven’t changed a thing.”

“Even the weird wallpaper?”

“Especially the weird wallpaper,” she says, and this time, she does smile. It’s small and brief, but it’s there.

I sip the tea, letting the minty warmth calm the nervous flutter in my chest. “It’s good to be home,” I say, and it’s not entirely a lie.

She leans against the counter, her gaze meeting mine. “It’s good to have you here,” she says softly. Then, after a beat, “Even if it’s only for a while.”

Carefully, I place the mug back on the table, all too aware my own mother hasn’t even given me a hug hello yet. Folks, she is that angry with me. Still.

I choose my words carefully. “Are we going to be like this the whole time I’m here?”

She looks at me with silent indignation. “I have no clue what you mean.”

“This is what I mean. You’re being a bit guarded with me because you’re still mad at how I lost my job.”

I can’t even believe the words as they come out of my mouth either.

As if it wasn’t bad enough I lost my job, in front of the world, but apparently my smother ( see definition: smothering mother ) was also publicly humiliated, and now I must face penance for my actions. Never mind that I stood up for myself.

“I wasn’t and I am not mad because you lost your job,” she says, her words tight. “I’m embarrassed at how you chose to conduct yourself. You’re a McCluskey, for goodness’ sake. ”

“I did what I did, and I can’t take it back now. Don’t you think I suffered through this, too?”

“You were on the phone calling yourself a legend.”

“I was kidding, Mom.” I shake my head. “We need a translator. Where’s Murray?”

“Don’t bring him into this just because you two get along and like to gang up on me.”

“Oh my go—Mother. I really don’t feel like I need to explain my actions to you about that day. I’m sorry you feel you were affected by it, but if I was given the chance to do it again I know I would do the same thing.”

“You never learn, do you?”

“Oh, the disapproval,” I mutter, crossing my arms. “I can feel it from here. It’s a proverbial wall.”

“You don’t get it, Mabel.” Mom narrows her eyes, her hands braced on the edge of the counter like she’s holding herself back from throwing a wooden spoon at me. “People here remember things. They talk. And when my daughter makes a spectacle of herself on national television?—”

“Spectacle?” I cut in. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”

“I’m not being dramatic,” she snaps, her voice rising. “Surely, you of all people remember that you dumped a bucket of dirty water on your reporting partner, Mabel. On camera. Calling him a?—”

“A lot of names that have four letters because that ‘reporting partner’ was my boyfriend. Who lied to me. Who told me he wanted to marry me, was designing a ring for me. We were looking at houses to buy together and were planning a future, Mom. He wanted kids. We were going to have two. But no, he ruined it and cheated. On me. Your only daughter,” I finish for her.

“So, yeah, I remember. And I stand by it.”

Her mouth opens, then closes, her cheeks flushing red. There’s such a “children should be seen and not heard” moment happening here and it kills me. Before she can unload whatever tirade she’s brewing, there’s a sharp knock at the front door .

We both freeze, the tension crackling between us like static.

“Don’t think this conversation is over,” she says, jabbing a finger in my direction before pivoting toward the door. Her steps are brisk, her back stiff, and I can practically see the steam coming out of her ears.

I lean against the counter, crossing my arms as I watch her march to the door.

The whole house feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for the explosion.

I’m sure Murray knows and it’s why he’s absconded to the garage.

Funny enough, I’m wishing I was back in the SUV sparring with Asher Tremblay. At least that was kinda fun.

But then, as her hand grips the doorknob, something changes.

She pauses, straightens her spine, and takes a deep breath. When she turns the knob and pulls the door open, it’s like watching an actor step into a role. Ah, the magic that is Mary-Ellen McCluskey.

“Mary-Ellen!” the neighbor at the door chirps, her sugary-sweet voice floating through the house. “I just thought I’d drop off these muffins. Freshly baked this morning.”

“Oh, Diane, how thoughtful!” my mom says, her voice a perfect symphony of warmth and gratitude. Her smile is dazzling, her laugh light and airy. She even takes the basket of muffins with an exaggerated sigh of appreciation, like Diane has just solved all the world’s problems with baked goods.

I stand there, sipping my tea, watching the transformation unfold like it’s the best live performance I’ve ever seen. And as Diane prattles on about something happening at the town square, I turn my attention to stare out the window into the backyard.

Yep. I’m home.