Page 18
"What did it say? The letter?"
I give a short, humorless laugh. "No idea. I ripped it up without reading it. Whatever excuses or apologies he wanted to make, it was too late."
She nods, accepting this without judgment. "And the money?"
"Used it to open the shop." I meet her eyes directly. "Felt like blood money. Dirty. Figured the only way to clean it was to use it to help people. Do something he never did in his life."
Understanding dawns in her expression. "That's why you helped me. Why you're always helping people around town."
I shift uncomfortably. "Just doing my job."
"No," she says with a gentle certainty that brooks no argument. "It's more than that. Lou told me how you fixed Mrs. Peterson's furnace in the middle of that snowstorm last winter. How you drove all the way to Portland to pick up medication for Mr. Gunderson when the roads were closed."
I frown. "Lou talks too much."
"He's proud of you," she says. "The whole town is, from what I can tell."
The thought makes me uneasy. I don't help people to be praised or noticed. Just the opposite—I'd prefer to go unrecognized, to blend into the background of Cedar Falls as much as possible.
"What about you?" I ask, eager to shift the focus away from myself. "You mentioned your father was in the military. Were you close?"
Her face softens at the mention of her father. "Very. He was... steady. Reliable. The complete opposite of my mother, who's all drama and impulse."
"Is that why you're estranged from her too?”
Lucy looks surprised that I remembered. "Not estranged exactly. We talk, occasionally. But we've never understood each other. She thinks I'm too serious, too focused on 'depressing things' like history and writing. She wanted me to be more like Emma—social, outgoing, the life of the party."
"And your father encouraged your interests?"
She nods, a sad smile playing at her lips. "He built me bookshelves when I ran out of space for my history books. Drove me to writing workshops three hours away because they were 'important for my development.' He was my biggest supporter."
The way she talks about him—the warmth, the obvious love—creates a strange ache in my chest. I try to imagine having a father like that, someone who built things for you instead of breaking them, who drove you places instead of driving you away. It's almost impossible to picture.
"I'm sorry you lost him," I say, and I mean it. "Sounds like he was a good man."
"The best," she agrees, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "That's why it's so strange to think of him growing up here and never talking about it. Never mentioning that his family helped found the town. It feels like there's this whole part of him I never knew."
"Maybe he had his reasons for keeping it private," I suggest. "Small towns can leave deep scars."
"Like they did for you?" she asks gently.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Yes, like they did for me. Like they did for Josh. Like they apparently did for her father, who left and never looked back.
Outside, the storm has mostly passed. The rain has slowed to a gentle patter, and the thunder is just a distant rumble. Through the window, I can see stars beginning to appear as the clouds break apart.
"Power's still out," Lucy observes, following my gaze. "But at least the worst of the storm is over."
This is my cue to leave. The roads will be clear enough now, and I've already stayed far longer than I intended. Shared far more than I planned. But something keeps me rooted to the spot—the warmth of the candlelit room, the easy way conversation flows between us, the simple fact that for the first time in years, I don't feel alone.
"I should probably go," I say reluctantly, making no move to stand.
“Stay," Lucy says, then quickly adds, "I mean, it's late, and without power, my guest room's going to be just as dark and cold as it would be if you left now."
She's offering me an out—a practical reason to stay that doesn't acknowledge whatever this thing is between us. Friendship? Connection? I'm not sure what to call it, only that it feels important, fragile, worth preserving.
"I wouldn't want to impose," I say, even as part of me hopes she'll insist.
"It's not an imposition," she assures me. "Actually, I'd feel better not being alone during a power outage in a strange house. Every creak and groan has me jumping." She smiles self-deprecatingly. "I've got an overactive imagination. Occupational hazard for a writer."
I give a short, humorless laugh. "No idea. I ripped it up without reading it. Whatever excuses or apologies he wanted to make, it was too late."
She nods, accepting this without judgment. "And the money?"
"Used it to open the shop." I meet her eyes directly. "Felt like blood money. Dirty. Figured the only way to clean it was to use it to help people. Do something he never did in his life."
Understanding dawns in her expression. "That's why you helped me. Why you're always helping people around town."
I shift uncomfortably. "Just doing my job."
"No," she says with a gentle certainty that brooks no argument. "It's more than that. Lou told me how you fixed Mrs. Peterson's furnace in the middle of that snowstorm last winter. How you drove all the way to Portland to pick up medication for Mr. Gunderson when the roads were closed."
I frown. "Lou talks too much."
"He's proud of you," she says. "The whole town is, from what I can tell."
The thought makes me uneasy. I don't help people to be praised or noticed. Just the opposite—I'd prefer to go unrecognized, to blend into the background of Cedar Falls as much as possible.
"What about you?" I ask, eager to shift the focus away from myself. "You mentioned your father was in the military. Were you close?"
Her face softens at the mention of her father. "Very. He was... steady. Reliable. The complete opposite of my mother, who's all drama and impulse."
"Is that why you're estranged from her too?”
Lucy looks surprised that I remembered. "Not estranged exactly. We talk, occasionally. But we've never understood each other. She thinks I'm too serious, too focused on 'depressing things' like history and writing. She wanted me to be more like Emma—social, outgoing, the life of the party."
"And your father encouraged your interests?"
She nods, a sad smile playing at her lips. "He built me bookshelves when I ran out of space for my history books. Drove me to writing workshops three hours away because they were 'important for my development.' He was my biggest supporter."
The way she talks about him—the warmth, the obvious love—creates a strange ache in my chest. I try to imagine having a father like that, someone who built things for you instead of breaking them, who drove you places instead of driving you away. It's almost impossible to picture.
"I'm sorry you lost him," I say, and I mean it. "Sounds like he was a good man."
"The best," she agrees, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "That's why it's so strange to think of him growing up here and never talking about it. Never mentioning that his family helped found the town. It feels like there's this whole part of him I never knew."
"Maybe he had his reasons for keeping it private," I suggest. "Small towns can leave deep scars."
"Like they did for you?" she asks gently.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Yes, like they did for me. Like they did for Josh. Like they apparently did for her father, who left and never looked back.
Outside, the storm has mostly passed. The rain has slowed to a gentle patter, and the thunder is just a distant rumble. Through the window, I can see stars beginning to appear as the clouds break apart.
"Power's still out," Lucy observes, following my gaze. "But at least the worst of the storm is over."
This is my cue to leave. The roads will be clear enough now, and I've already stayed far longer than I intended. Shared far more than I planned. But something keeps me rooted to the spot—the warmth of the candlelit room, the easy way conversation flows between us, the simple fact that for the first time in years, I don't feel alone.
"I should probably go," I say reluctantly, making no move to stand.
“Stay," Lucy says, then quickly adds, "I mean, it's late, and without power, my guest room's going to be just as dark and cold as it would be if you left now."
She's offering me an out—a practical reason to stay that doesn't acknowledge whatever this thing is between us. Friendship? Connection? I'm not sure what to call it, only that it feels important, fragile, worth preserving.
"I wouldn't want to impose," I say, even as part of me hopes she'll insist.
"It's not an imposition," she assures me. "Actually, I'd feel better not being alone during a power outage in a strange house. Every creak and groan has me jumping." She smiles self-deprecatingly. "I've got an overactive imagination. Occupational hazard for a writer."