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Chapter twenty-nine

R uby

The town hall meeting room smelled like lemon cleaner and stale coffee, which felt oddly fitting for what we were about to walk into—clean slates clashing with very old stains.

Damien held my hand as we entered, but I could feel the tension in his grip.

Not anger, not yet. Just the storm gathering at the edge of calm.

Eleanor was already seated at the long table, her reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, an intimidating stack of documents in front of her.

Hazel stood by the window, arms folded, trying to look professional but bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet like a cheerleader in business casual.

The town zoning officer, Mr. Bennett, a wiry man with more paperwork than personality, cleared his throat as we took our seats.

“We’ve reviewed your plans,” he began, flipping through a manila folder. “And there’s a small complication.”

Damien tensed beside me.

Mr. Bennett continued. “A section of your proposed garden space—about fifteen feet on the north side—overlaps with land designated as a protected historical zone. The Hartwell family homestead once stood there.”

“But there’s nothing there now,” Damien said, already leaning forward. “No structure, no sign, not even a stone.”

Eleanor adjusted her glasses. “It’s not about what’s visible. It’s about what was. And preserving heritage is a core part of Cedar Springs’ zoning laws.”

Hazel chimed in with a hopeful smile. “Maybe there’s a workaround? A revised design?”

Damien shook his head. “This is the kind of red tape that crushes projects before they start. We’ve already invested in the layout, in community involvement. We can’t keep reshaping this thing every time a forgotten fence post turns up.”

I touched his arm gently. “Let’s hear all the options first.”

But his eyes were already stormy.

“It’s just fifteen feet,” I added softly. “We could reroute the footpath. Maybe turn that edge into a heritage garden—a tribute.”

Damien exhaled. “This isn’t a scrapbook, Ruby—it’s a business. We have timelines. Stakeholders.”

My stomach clenched. Not because he was wrong. But because the version of him who said those words sounded eerily like the man who’d walked away from this town once before.

“And it’s our home,” I said, voice steady. “I’m not bulldozing it just to make a point.”

Hazel looked between us, wide-eyed.

Mr. Bennett coughed awkwardly. “You could file an appeal to rezone the historical boundary, but the process may take up to six months, and there’s no guarantee it’ll be approved.”

Damien stood, pacing a few steps, then turning back. “And in the meantime, we do what? Host community yoga in the parking lot?”

I met his eyes. “We adapt. That’s what we’ve always done.”

He didn’t respond. Not immediately.

There it was again—that quiet crack in us. We’d come so far, built so much. But underneath the daisies and sawdust, we were still Ruby and Damien. Chaos and control. Feeling and force.

Eleanor reached across the table and handed me a small sketch. “I took the liberty of drafting an alternate layout. Smaller footprint, same intention. No historical overlap.”

I looked down at the drawing, my throat tightening. It wasn’t perfect. But it could work.

I glanced up at Damien. “Let’s try it this way. Just for now.”

His jaw clenched, but then he saw something in my face—maybe the same thing I saw in his on the porch that first night back. The effort. The exhaustion. The hope.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Fine. Let’s give the tribute garden a shot.”

Mr. Bennett made a note. “We’ll pause approval on the current blueprint pending the revised submission.”

The meeting wrapped soon after, Hazel practically skipping out the door like she’d just passed a final exam.

Damien and I walked in silence down the stone steps of town hall, the early autumn air crisp and scented with turning leaves.

“I know you want to fight every battle,” I said finally. “But sometimes, patience builds more than bulldozers ever could.”

He stopped walking, looked down at me.

“You were right,” he said quietly. “I got scared.”

“Of what?”

“That we’d lose this before it ever started.”

I stepped closer. “We’re not building a business, Damien. We’re building a life. There’s no rush to finish if we’re going to live in it.”

His hand found mine again, softer this time.

“Let’s revise the layout together,” he said.

“And add a plaque for the Hartwell homestead,” I added.

His lips twitched into a smile. “And maybe a footpath that spells out ‘Ruby was right.’”

I laughed. “Careful. I might take you up on that.”

As we walked back toward the construction site, past flower stands and neighbors waving from porches, the tension between us melted—not gone, but reshaped. Like the garden itself.

Not broken.

Just reimagined.

By the time we got back to the site, Damien was already halfway to the clinic. No goodbye. No see-you-tonight. Just a faint nod before he walked away, shoulders stiff like they carried more than just the weight of blueprints.

I stood there a moment, arms crossed against the late afternoon breeze, trying not to let my heart unravel. I knew him. I knew this part—the part that shut down, clamped tight like a storm shelter. When he felt too much, he folded into logic. Strategy. Solitude.

But this time, it stung more than I expected.

I turned toward the new layout, Eleanor’s sketch fluttering slightly in the wind where we’d pinned it to the bulletin board.

Fifteen feet. That’s all we’d lost. But standing here, watching the sun dip over the field, it felt like I’d lost something more intangible.

Control, maybe. Or the illusion of perfect harmony.

Hazel appeared beside me with two cups of cider and the expression of someone who’d seen enough emotional tailspins to recognize one forming in real time.

"You want the sweet version or the straight-up truth?" she asked.

"Just tell me what I did wrong," I murmured, wrapping both hands around the cider.

She took a slow sip. "You didn't do anything wrong, Ruby. You just expected love to be tidy. And Damien Cole doesn't come with neat corners."

I exhaled sharply. "I thought we were past this. That we knew how to fight without falling apart."

Hazel tilted her head. "Love isn’t always ease. It’s who shows up when the garden floods. When the permits fall through. When fifteen feet feels like fifteen miles."

I stared down at my boots; dirt crusted around the toes. Everything felt off-kilter.

"He’s just scared," Hazel added. "You both are. That means it matters."

That night, the cottage was too quiet. Even the chimes in the garden felt like they were holding their breath.

I tried to journal but only managed a grocery list.

I tried to watch a movie but turned it off ten minutes in.

Finally, I gave up entirely and grabbed my jacket.

The clinic was mostly dark when I arrived, except for a soft glow from Damien's office. I hesitated at the door, hand hovering above the handle.

Inside, it was a mess of papers, coffee cups, and blueprints. And there he was—asleep at his desk, one arm slung across the plans, the other hand loosely holding my daisy sketch like it was something sacred.

My heart squeezed.

I moved quietly, setting a muffin on his desk from the basket Hazel insisted I take earlier. I brushed my fingers against his shoulder. "Damien."

He stirred, groggy and disoriented. "Ruby? What time…?"

"Late," I said softly. "You didn’t come back."

He sat up, blinking at the room. "I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I just…needed to think."

I nodded, sliding into the chair across from him. "And did you? Think?"

He looked at the daisy drawing in his hand. "Yeah. Maybe too much."

"I shouldn’t have pushed so hard earlier," I said. "I know this matters to you. I just want us to move forward together."

Damien leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "You were right to push. I just... when the zoning issue came up, it felt like everything we were building could unravel. And I panicked."

"I know."

He met my gaze, tired and tender. "This place, this project—it’s the first time I’ve imagined a life outside of operating rooms and hospital schedules. And that’s terrifying."

I reached across the desk, covering his hand with mine. "It should be. Because it’s real. It’s messy and imperfect and full of people who will drop shovels on their toes and cry during speeches."

He smiled. "Hazel again?"

"Naturally."

We sat there for a long moment, just breathing in the quiet. Outside, a raccoon tipped over the trash can, and we both laughed at the clatter.

"And Ruby?"

"Thank you for showing up. Even when the garden flooded."

My voice caught. "Always."

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then he straightened, stretching out his stiff limbs, and looked up at me with something soft and steady in his gaze.

“What if we scaled it back,” he said slowly, “focused more on what this town actually needs? On the kids. The elders. The artists. The heartbeat of Cedar Springs.”

I smiled. “A center where people can plant something and watch it grow. Not just flowers. Hope. Purpose. Healing.”

He grabbed a pencil and slid a blank sheet toward us. “Okay,” he said, eyes shining. “Let’s rework it.”

We sat shoulder to shoulder, sketching out a new plan—less sleek, more soulful. We added a community kitchen, a rotating therapy garden, a gazebo built from reclaimed wood. A mural wall for the kids. A quiet nook with wind chimes for those who just needed stillness.

I watched him draw with focus, lines sure and strong. And I knew this version of him wasn’t trying to impress anyone. He was just being himself—brilliant, grumpy, generous Damien.

When he finally set the pencil down, he turned to me. “Let’s plant something people will still be talking about in fifty years.”

I leaned in and kissed him. Deeply. Joyfully. The kind of kiss that said: We made it. We’re still here.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against mine. “You always knew how to steady me.”

“No,” I murmured, “you just finally stopped running.”

We spent the rest of the night fine-tuning details and laughing more than we had in weeks. Our joy was raw and real, stitched together with compromise and care.

The next morning, the sun barely peeked over the horizon when my phone rang.

“Hello?” I answered, still tangled in the afterglow of hope and coffee.

“Is this Ruby Shea?” a voice asked, formal but warm.

“Yes, speaking.”

“I’m calling on behalf of the Magnolia Arts Foundation. One of our donors saw your competition piece and read about your center’s mission. They want to fund the entire project.”

I blinked, stunned. “All of it?”

“Every cent,” the woman replied. “They believe in healing—especially the kind that blooms where it’s most needed.”

I looked over at Damien, who was pouring coffee in the kitchen, shirt rumpled, smile crooked. My heart nearly burst.

“Tell them,” I said, voice trembling with disbelief and joy, “that they just changed everything.”