Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
The pounding on the door matched the pounding in Claire’s head. That all-too-familiar headache—the one she always got when she didn’t get enough sleep—had arrived with a vengeance.
She groaned and pushed herself up on her elbows, squinting toward the clock on the nightstand.
6:30. Seriously?
She collapsed back onto the soft mattress and yanked the covers over her head.
“Claire, it’s Mrs. Sandy.” The landlady’s voice carried cleanly through the thick hardwood. “Are you awake?”
“I am now,” she muttered.
“Claire?”
“I said—just a minute.” She threw off the blankets and swung her bare legs over the side of the bed, a shiver running through her as cool air hit her skin.
What in the world could be so important that it justified waking someone up in the middle of the night? And yes, she counted anything before 8 a.m. as the middle of the night.
“Claire?” The rapping resumed. Her temples throbbed in time.
“I’m coming!” she snapped, stumbling toward the door without even bothering to grab a robe.
She fumbled with the lock, hair falling across her face like it had a personal vendetta. Just as she was about to scream in frustration, the bolt gave with a click.
She yanked the door open. Pain flared behind her eyes.
“Good morning.” Mrs. Sandy beamed.
Claire blinked. How could anyone be that cheerful at this hour? “Is something wrong?”
“Wrong?” The older woman looked genuinely confused. “Why no, I just wanted to see if you were up.”
“I am,” Claire said flatly.
“I’ve been up for over an hour,” Mrs. Sandy continued. “Just took the first batch of cinnamon rolls out of the oven.”
Only now did Claire register the warm, buttery aroma wafting in from the hall.
“Thanks, but I’ll eat later.”
She started to close the door, but Mrs. Sandy stopped it with her foot.
“I don’t think you understand.” Her smile was unwavering, but her tone left no room for negotiation. “I need you to help serve breakfast. The guests will start coming down around seven.”
Serve? Claire’s stomach clenched. She’d agreed to help out in exchange for the room, but she’d hoped to buy a few days of grace.
As if reading her mind, Mrs. Sandy’s gaze softened. “I know you were up late. And I hate to ask, but April’s not feeling well, and I really could use your help.”
The unspoken words hung in the air: You agreed.
Claire swallowed her protest. “I need to shower.”
“That’s fine.” Mrs. Sandy glanced at her watch. “Ten to seven should be enough. I’ll see you then.”
She turned on her heel and disappeared down the hall.
Twenty minutes. Claire stared at the empty hallway in disbelief. The woman expected her to get ready in twenty minutes?
She did her best. Trimmed her usual hour-and-a-half ritual into twenty-two minutes. Her hair, still damp, fell in loose waves down her back. Her makeup was bare minimum—foundation, a dusting of blush, a few swipes of mascara. Nothing more.
To her surprise, when she caught her reflection in the hallway mirror, she didn’t hate it. She looked… younger. Softer. Wholesome, even. Not a word she’d ever associated with herself, but it didn’t feel entirely wrong.
The three Advil she’d popped after Mrs. Sandy left had kicked in, leaving only a dull ache behind her eyes.
She glanced down at her tangerine-checked shirt and khaki pants. Not exactly her style, but better than those ridiculous black-and-white uniforms her father insisted the house staff wear.
See what you’ve done to me, Daddy? I hope you’re satisfied.
Her throat tightened. She refused to cry. Not today. Not on her birthday.
Because that’s what today was.
Her birthday.
And no one knew.
No one had remembered. Not even her father, who used to throw lavish parties and send out custom invitations as if Claire’s birthday were a national holiday.
That was then. This was now. And now, her only celebration was waking up to cinnamon rolls and a job in food service.
Her jaw clenched.
Maybe she’d been talking to the wrong father all along.
She tipped her head back, eyes lifting to the ceiling.
Dear Father, You know how much I hate manual labor. Please help me.
She winced. It wasn’t exactly a noble prayer. But it was honest. And if you couldn’t be honest when you prayed, what was the point?
Besides—He already knew.
* * *
Tony rolled over and slapped the alarm. For a moment he lay still, chasing the last threads of a dream—Claire, warm and close, her skin like silk beneath his touch, her lips soft and inviting.
He smiled.
Outside, a bird chirped its own wake-up call. The light streaming through the window revealed a clear blue sky. Another beautiful day—more like June than mid-May.
Mid-May.
Tony sat up fast, his heart jumping. He crossed the room in three strides, flipped open his planner, and exhaled in relief.
May 14. He hadn’t missed it.
Grabbing the phone, he dialed the number by heart.
“Hello?”
His mother’s voice filled the line, familiar and warm, and a fresh smile touched his lips.
“Happy birthday, Mom. It’s Tony.”
“Well, sweetheart. What a surprise. I didn’t expect to hear from you so early.”
“You didn’t think I’d forget May fourteenth, did you? Who else do I know who shares this day?”
Claire’s face flashed in his mind, unbidden. Her smile. Her laugh. The way her eyes sparked when she teased him.
His mother’s voice pulled him back. “I know you’re busy. How’s Iowa?”
They chatted for a few minutes, easy and affectionate. It had been too long since they’d had time to talk.
“I was thinking maybe you and Dad could come visit sometime soon,” he said. “The parsonage should be ready by July if all goes well.”
“We’d love that. We’re visiting Grandmama the last week in June. What if we came out for the Fourth of July holiday?”
“That’d be perfect.” He hesitated. “Bring Grandmama too, if she’s up for it.”
His mother chuckled. “She’s ninety-six, Tony. She doesn’t travel much anymore.”
“She’s spry. And when I saw her, she didn’t look a day over seventy-five.”
“She says the same about you. Must’ve told me a dozen times how much she enjoyed your visit.”
“We had fun.” He pictured her beaming from the passenger seat as they drove around the square, clutching a melting ice cream cone like a prize. “She told me stories I’d never heard.”
“She also told me she gave you her ring.”
He paused, picturing the antique diamond glinting in the box in his sock drawer. It wasn’t perfect—the center stone held a few dark specks—but Grandmama had called them “trouble spots.” Said every marriage had them. The ring reminded her to focus on the big picture, not the flaws.
“She insisted I take it,” he said softly.
“She wants it to go to someone who’ll treasure it.” His mother’s voice was quiet. “One day, you’ll find that woman.”
Tony swallowed. Everyone already thought he had.
Claire.
And yet… he hadn’t even thought about giving her a ring. Not once. Not even to keep up appearances.
“I think that time is still down the road,” he said lightly. “Odds are, she’ll probably want something different.”
“I hope not,” his mother said. “When you do find her… I hope she’s the kind of woman who’ll love that ring, flaws and all.”
Tony stared out the window, his thoughts far from the blue sky and birdsong. His mother’s words hung in the air, quiet and weighted.
Flaws and all.
“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see,” he said.
But even as he hung up, he wasn’t so sure anymore who was pretending—and who wasn’t.
* * *
“Miss, could I get a little more coffee?”
Claire’s gaze flicked to the man at the far end of the table, then to the coffeepot on the warmer two feet from him. She exhaled sharply.
“On second thought…” He stood and reached for the pot himself. “Never mind.”
“Ma’am?” A young mother gestured to Claire. “Justin spilled his orange juice. Could you get him another?”
The three-year-old grinned up at her, utterly unbothered.
Claire didn’t smile back.
“We’re running late, so if you could hurry, I’d appreciate it.”
This woman wasn’t backing down.
Before Claire could respond, Mrs. Sandy’s voice cut in behind her. “We’ll get that juice for your son right away, Mrs. Andrews.”
Claire stiffened. How long had she been standing there?
“Claire, would you get that for me, please?”
There wasn’t a question in the request.
“Of course,” Claire said tightly.
She slapped her palm against the swinging kitchen door and stormed through it without a backward glance. Inside, she yanked the orange juice from the fridge, her movements sharp and clipped.
Happy birthday, Claire.
She’d thought, for a moment, about telling Mrs. Sandy. But what would she get? A scrub brush with a bow on it?
She hadn't expected much. Just... not this.
The day only got worse. She and Mrs. Sandy cleaned the upstairs bathrooms together, and while Claire tried to skim the surface, the landlady’s eagle eyes missed nothing. The second time she made Claire redo the shower, Claire had come this close to quitting—only the knowledge that she had nowhere else to go kept her from snapping.
By evening, she was done.
Now she sat in the overstuffed chair, nerves frayed, feet aching, waiting. Tony was seven minutes late. After the day she’d had, being kept waiting was the final straw.
She’d hoped, when he came into the kitchen at lunchtime, that he’d ask her to come with him. But when Mrs. Sandy rattled off the afternoon’s to-do list, Tony had simply kissed her forehead, told her to “have a good day,” and disappeared.
She’d had better days at the dentist.
The door creaked open.
“You’re late,” she snapped.
Tony’s easy grin didn’t fade. “Hello to you, too. How was your day?”
“Horrible,” she said flatly. “How was yours?”
The grin dimmed. He shifted, uneasy. For a flicker of a second, she regretted biting his head off—but she couldn’t seem to help it.
“I have something for you.” He reached into his pocket. “Hold out your hand.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Unless it’s a million dollars, I don’t want it.”
“Claire,” he said again, firmer this time, a note of steel threading through his voice.
She hesitated, surprised by the command beneath the calm. Finally, she lifted her hand.
He dropped a small velvet box into her palm. She blinked. “A gift?”
“You could call it that.”
His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes now.
Claire flipped open the lid—and froze.
“It’s my great-grandmother’s ring,” he said quickly. “You needed an engagement ring. I thought this would do. It’s a family heirloom, though, so… you can’t keep it?—”
“Keep it?” she blurted, recoiling slightly. “Why would I want to do that? It’s not exactly my style.”
Tony flinched. His jaw tightened. The hurt in his eyes was immediate—and sharp.
“If you feel that way…”
“No—I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quickly, her throat tightening. “It just surprised me, that’s all.”
“It’s okay.” He reached for the ring, and she knew it wasn’t. Not even close.
The door creaked open again.
“Pastor, I’ve got everything arranged. They all—” Mrs. Sandy’s voice faltered as her eyes landed on the ring. “Oh my, how beautiful.”
Claire summoned a smile. It felt brittle.
“We were wondering why Claire didn’t wear an engagement ring,” Mrs. Sandy said, eyes bright. “Now we know why you waited.”
Tony’s answering smile was hollow.
“It’s exquisite,” the landlady murmured. “I bet you love it, don’t you?”
Claire nodded. “I do.” She wondered briefly if lightning would strike her for lying.
“Does it fit?”
“I haven’t tried it on yet.”
She started to lift it from the box, but Mrs. Sandy stopped her gently. “No, my dear. Let Tony put it on you.”
Tony took the ring. His expression was shuttered now.
As he slid it onto her finger, Claire expected it to be too loose—but it fit perfectly. Her eyes widened. “It fits.”
She usually had to have rings resized.
She glanced down. The stone, though not flawless, sparkled in its antique setting. On her hand, it didn’t look so bad. In fact… it looked kind of beautiful.
“Looks like it was made to be on your finger,” Mrs. Sandy said dreamily.
Claire looked at Tony. He wasn’t smiling.
“I’ll leave you two alone.” The landlady patted Claire’s hand and bustled out. “Don’t forget—the barbecue starts at seven.”
The silence that followed was thick.
Claire turned toward him. “Tony, I didn’t mean?—”
“Forget it.” He waved a hand and stood. “It doesn’t matter.”
But it did. She could see it in his eyes as he walked out of the room.
She stared at the ring on her finger. And for the first time all day, Claire didn’t feel angry.
She felt like she’d made a mistake.
One that mattered more than she wanted to admit.