3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Hailey
I wake to the sound of birds chirping outside my window, a soundtrack so different from the nights I spent catching a bit of sleep in the hospital when we were shorthanded.
The constant alarms, intercom announcements, and pages are so ingrained in me that for a moment, I forget where I am.
Sunlight filters through the lace curtains, another charming feature of my farmhouse that I initially planned to replace but now find oddly comforting.
Though they definitely need to be cleaned.
It's been two weeks since I arrived in Big Wood, and somehow the town is already wrapping itself around me like my favorite blanket. My phone buzzes, and Becky's name lights up the screen.
Becky: Morning glory!
Mrs. Geller is hosting her monthly pancake social at the community center.
You're coming, right? Non-negotiable, by the way.
She’s taken me under her wing and forced me to socialize in town. I get the feeling she thinks the more involved I am, the more roots I plant, the more chance I’m going to stay in town. What she doesn’t know is that I plan on staying, just for the peace and quiet and slower life.
Me: Do I have a choice?
I laugh to myself as I type it because I can see her look of determination to make sure I join her.
Becky: Absolutely not. Nine o'clock.
Bring your appetite and conversation skills.
Mrs. G will want to know your entire life story, blood type, and future aspirations.
Me: Should I prepare a PowerPoint presentation?
Becky: You are going to keep me on my toes, aren’t you?
Just bring yourself.
And maybe some maple syrup.
Mrs. Geller's pancakes are legendary, but she's stingy with the syrup.
Sighing, I set my phone down, glancing at the soldier's letters spread across my kitchen table. I've been reading them each night, tracing the careful penmanship with my fingertips.
Last night, I found one of the early letters that made my heart ache.
My dearest,
The stars look different here.
Everything does. I close my eyes and try to picture your face, but it gets harder each day.
The desert has a way of blurring the beautiful things.
I miss the simplicity of home—the way the light hits your hair in the morning, how you laugh with your whole body, the small wrinkle that appears between your eyebrows when you're concentrating.
Write to me about the flowers in your garden. Tell me about rain and sunshine and ordinary miracles. I need to remember there's still good in the world.
Sometimes I feel like I'm disappearing here, becoming someone I don't recognize.
Your letters are my anchor to who I really am.
The guys in my unit got a care package yesterday.
You should have seen them fighting like children over chocolate chip cookies.
It made me laugh for the first time in weeks.
Small mercies.
Forever yours,
J
I carefully fold the letter and tuck it back into its envelope.
"Who were you writing to?" I whisper to the empty kitchen.
"And why didn't she write back?"
I've started a journal, something I haven't done since high school, to chronicle my thoughts about these letters. I stare at my words I wrote before bed.
With all my heart, I wish I could have written him back. He deserved someone who took the time to answer him.
The clock on the microwave blinks eight o’clock, jolting me back to the present. I quickly shower and throw on a sundress and sandals, hoping it's appropriate attire for a pancake social. Whatever that is.
I grab the bottle of maple syrup from my pantry, a fancy Vermont brand I splurged on during my last grocery run, and head out the door. The morning air carries the scent of fresh-cut grass and something sweet baking in a neighbor's kitchen from across the street.
As I get in my car, I mentally rehearse what I might say to the locals. After fifteen years of medical training and practice, I've mastered the art of clinical conversation, but genuine small talk still makes me feel like an awkward teenager. In Savannah, relationships were forged in the trenches of overnight shifts and crisis management. Here, I'll need to learn the language of community events and casual encounters.
My phone buzzes with another text from Becky.
Becky: Don't even think about bailing. I can see your house from my kitchen window.
While at a stop sign, I pause and answer her.
Me: I'm halfway there. With maple syrup, as instructed.
I spot the community center at the end of the block as I pass downtown. Its parking lot is already filled with cars sporting local bumper stickers like "Big Wood: Small Town, Big… Heart" and "Honk If You Love Pancakes." Through the windows, I can see people milling about, laughing and talking with the easy familiarity of those who have known each other all their lives.
Hesitating at the bottom of the steps, I’m suddenly aware that I'm about to walk into a room where, except for me, everyone knows everyone. But before I can second-guess myself, Becky appears at the door, hands on her hips.
"I was about to send out a search party," she says, grinning. "Come on, Mrs. Geller's pancakes wait for no one."
The community center turns out to be a converted Victorian house with a sprawling wraparound porch filled with mismatched chairs and hanging plants. The empty lot beside it has been converted to a makeshift parking lot and the buzz of conversation spills out through open windows.
"You made it!" Delaney, Jace’s girlfriend, spots me from the porch and waves enthusiastically. Her hair is twisted into a messy bun today, tendrils escaping around her face. "Come meet everyone."
She grabs my arm and pulls me inside behind Becky, where the smell of butter and maple nearly knocks me over. The main room is packed with people of all ages, from babies to seniors, gathered around folding tables laden with plates of golden pancakes.
"Mrs. Geller!" Becky calls across the room. "I brought our newest resident!"
A tiny woman with silver hair pulled back in a bun and impossibly bright blue eyes turns our way. Her glasses sparkle with gemstones filling the frames, make me smile. Despite her diminutive stature, she moves through the crowd as if she’s got a backstage pass to life itself, every person clearing a path like they’ve been trained for this exact moment.
"So you're the Savannah girl who bought the Jenkins place," she says, looking me up and down with undisguised curiosity. "Brave of you. That house has been empty for years."
"It needs some love," I say, smiling.
"Don't we all, dear." She pats my arm. "Come get some pancakes. You're too skinny."
As Mrs. Geller leads me to the food table, she introduces me to what feels like the entire town: the postmaster who promises to hold packages if I'm not home, the librarian who invites me to join their book club, the owner of the hardware store who offers a standing discount for "first-year homeowners," and at least a dozen others whose names immediately blur together.
"Don't worry about remembering everyone," Mrs. Geller says, noticing my overwhelmed expression.
"They'll remember you, and that's what matters in a small town."
With a plate piled high with pancakes, I find a seat next to Becky, who's already halfway through her stack.
"So," I say between bites of the most delicious pancakes I've ever tasted, "what's the story with my house? Mrs. Geller and you have called it 'the Jenkins place.'"
While I’m trying to sound casual, I’m really hoping to get some info that might explain the letters.
Becky dabs maple syrup from the corner of her mouth. "Oh, that's right. You don't know the history. It belonged to Eleanor Jenkins, a widow whose husband died in the seventies. She lived there alone until she passed about five years ago."
"Did she have family?"
"A daughter, I think. Left town suddenly years ago. There was some talk..."
"What kind of talk?"
Winnie lowers her voice. "Small town gossip, mostly. The daughter, Rachel, I think that’s her name, was involved with someone. It ended badly, and she left town. She sent her daughter to stay with Eleanor over the summers and they were close too until… well, Eleanor never really talked about it."
My mind immediately goes to the letters. "When was this?"
"I'm not sure exactly. Before my time. Mrs. Geller would know."
As if summoned by her name, Mrs. Geller appears behind us.
"Know what, dear?"
"The Jenkins girl," Winnie says.
"Rachel. What happened with her?"
Mrs. Geller's expression clouds. "Such a shame that her daughter and granddaughter suffered the same fate. Eleanor was never the same after."
Very cryptic, like she is dancing around what happened on purpose.
"Do you know who she was involved with?" I ask, trying to sound casually curious rather than intensely invested.
Mrs. Geller gives me a shrewd look. "Found something in that old house, have you?"
I hesitate, then nod. "Yeah, it’s made me curious on the history is all."
"A local boy from a few towns over that joined the military right out of high school. He and Rachel were sweet on each other since they were children."
"What happened to him?"
"He came back from his second tour different. Quiet. Withdrawn. Not uncommon with soldiers." She sighs. "He left town not long after. The rumor was to chase after Rachel but then she passed and he never came back."
After breakfast, I head toward the hardware store needing to get some knobs for drawers and replace a few that were past their prime. The bell above the door jingles as I enter, and I'm immediately enveloped in the smell of wood, metal, and animal feed.
I'm pretending to examine paint swatches when a small tornado in the form of Olivia, with her dark pigtails dancing, comes barreling around the corner, nearly colliding with my legs.
"Whoa there," I say, steadying her by the shoulders.
"Sorry!" she chirps, looking up at me. “Nurse Hailey! I'm playing hide and seek with my dad, but he's taking forever to find me."
"Olivia?" a familiar deep voice calls from another aisle. "Where'd you go, munchkin?"
Her eyes dancing with mischief, Olivia puts her finger to her lips. "Shh! I'm hiding!"
Walker rounds the corner, his expression shifting from concern to surprise when he sees me. "Oh. Hello again."
"Hi," I say, suddenly feeling awkward. "I was just looking for paint samples."
"For your... garden shed?" he asks, one eyebrow raised.
"For my kitchen, actually. The current color can only be described as 'Mustard's Revenge.'"
A hint of a smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "Sounds appetizing."
"Daddy!" Olivia abandons her hiding spot to wrap herself around Walker's legs. "I was hiding really good until I ran into Nurse Hailey. Did you know she bought the haunted house?
Walker winces. "Olivia—"
"Haunted?" I repeat, amused. "Is that what people are saying?"
"Kids' stuff," Walker mutters. "Town legends."
"I'm not scared of ghosts," Olivia announces proudly. "Daddy says they're just stories people make up when they can't explain things."
"Smart dad," I say, glancing at Walker, who looks uncomfortable with the entire conversation.
"Did you find everything you need?" he asks, clearly hoping to end our interaction.
I hold up a handful of paint samples. "Just browsing options. My walls are screaming for an intervention."
"If you need any recommendations..." he starts, then seems to think better of it.
"Yes?" I prompt, oddly pleased by his discomfort.
"Nothing. Just old houses can be tricky to paint. Plaster walls, uneven surfaces."
"Are you offering to help?" I can't resist teasing him a little.
His eyes widen slightly. "No, I—"
"Daddy's really good at painting!" Olivia interjects. "He painted my room pink with purple polka dots and it only took him three days!"
I bite back a laugh at Walker's pained expression. "Three days for polka dots? Impressive."
"They had to be perfect circles," he mutters defensively.
"Of course," I say solemnly. "Polka dot integrity is critical."
For a moment, I think he might actually smile, but he catches himself. "We should let you get back to your color selection."
"I'm between 'Herb Garden Glow' and 'Cottage Calm,'" I say, holding up two nearly identical light sage swatches.
Walker squints at them. "They're the same."
"Blasphemy! This one has blue undertones, and this one leans more gray."
"If you say so." He shakes his head, but there's something almost like amusement in his eyes.
"Daddy, can we invite Hailey for ice cream?" Olivia asks suddenly. "You said we could get ice cream after the hardware store."
The look of panic that crosses Walker's face is priceless. "Olivia, I'm sure Ms. Hailey has plans."
"Actually, I'm completely free," I say sweetly. "And ice cream sounds perfect."
I don’t know what processes me to say it. Maybe it’s the pull to spend more time with him and see if I can actually make him smile. I get the feeling he hasn’t done that in a long time.
Walker opens his mouth, closes it, and then sighs in defeat. "Ice cream it is, then."
Olivia cheers and grabs my hand, pulling me toward the door. "They have twenty-three flavors and Daddy always gets strawberry, which is so boring, but I like to try a different one every time. Last time I had bubblegum, but it turned my tongue blue!"
As she chatters, I glance back at Walker, who's watching us with an unreadable expression. I'm not sure why I'm so determined to crack his stoic facade, but something about him intrigues me.
"Coming, Daddy?" Olivia calls impatiently.
Walker sighs and follows us out into the sunshine. "You don't have to do this," he says quietly as we walk toward the ice cream parlor, Olivia skipping ahead.
"Do what? Eat ice cream? I wouldn’t call it a hardship." I smile at him.
"Let Olivia rope you into things. She's enthusiastic about new people."
"I like her," I say honestly. "And I could use some friends in town."
"Friends," he repeats, as if testing the word.
"Yes, Walker. Friends. Those people you occasionally speak to and sometimes even smile at. I've heard rumors you're capable of it."
He gives me a sidelong glance. "Don't believe everything you hear in small towns."
"Noted." I pause, then add, "So you grow up here?"
Walker's posture stiffens immediately. "Why?"
"Just trying to get to know my new friend better."
"Yes," he says, his tone making it clear the subject is closed.
Before I can press further, Olivia calls us to hurry up, and the moment passes.
The ice cream parlor is exactly what you'd expect in a small town. Checkered floors, vintage metal signs advertising sodas that haven't been manufactured in decades, and a teenage girl behind the counter who greets Olivia by name.
"The usual for you today, Mr. Ellison?" she asks, already reaching for the strawberry scoop.
"Yes, thank you, Amber," Walker says, his voice softening slightly.
"And what about you, miss?" Amber asks me.
"I'll try the Rocky Top Road," I say, studying the colorful array of flavors.
"Excellent choice," Amber says. "That's one of our most popular."
Olivia bounces on her toes in front of the display case. "I want... blue moon! No, wait. Campfire S’mores! No, Fried Pie Surprise!"
Walker places a gentle hand on her shoulder. "One flavor, Liv. We talked about this."
"Fried Pie Surprise," she decides firmly. "With sprinkles."
We take our cones to a small table by the window. Olivia immediately launches into a detailed explanation of her kindergarten art project involving macaroni and glitter glue. Walker listens attentively, asking questions at all the right moments. He's different with her, softer, more present.
I catch him watching me over Olivia's head. "What?" I ask.
"Nothing," he says quickly. "You just... you're good with her."
"I'm a school nurse," I remind him. "Kind of comes with the territory."
"Right," he says, turning his attention back to his ice cream.
Olivia finishes her cone in record time, her face smeared with chocolate and sprinkles. "Can I go look at the ice cream and plan my flavor for next time?" she asks, and Walker nods.
“Did you ever leave town, or did you grow up here your whole life?” I ask, circling back to our conversation on our way over here.
He looks at me but doesn’t answer. “You ask a lot of questions.”
"Professional hazard. Diagnosis requires information."
"And what exactly are you diagnosing here?"
I smile. "The terminal case of seriousness afflicting one Walker Ellison."
For a moment, I think I've gone too far, but then, miracle of miracles, the corner of his mouth twitches upward. Not quite a smile, but definitely movement in the right direction.
"Terminal, huh?" he says. "No hope for a cure?"
"Well, early studies suggest regular exposure to ice cream and friendly company might help, but the research is still preliminary."
This time, the almost-smile reaches his eyes. "I'll keep that in mind."
As we finish our ice cream, I notice a bulletin board by the door covered with community flyers. There is a farmer’s market, a charity car wash, and a notice for an outdoor movie night in the town square tomorrow.
Walker follows my gaze. "The whole town turns out for those," he says. "They set up a big screen in the gazebo, and people bring blankets and picnics."
"Sounds fun," I say, wondering if it would be too forward to ask if he's going.
Olivia saves me the trouble. "We're going!" she announces, returning to the table. "Daddy promised. They're showing The Princess Bride . It's his favorite movie ever."
Walker actually looks embarrassed. "It's a good film," he says defensively.
"I love that movie," I say, delighted by this unexpected piece of information. "As you wish!"
His eyes meet mine, and for a second, I see something there, a flicker of connection, maybe. But then Olivia tugs on his hand, breaking the moment.
"We should get going," he says, standing up. "Thanks for joining us."
"Anytime," I reply, meaning it more than I expected to.
Walker nods awkwardly. "Have a good evening."
Later that night, I curl up on my porch swing with another letter from J. This one is dated later than the others.
My love,
It's been six weeks since I've heard from you. The other guys get letters, packages, and news from home. I tell myself the mail is slow, that your letters are coming, but doubt is a persistent companion out here. The nights are the hardest—when the base falls quiet and there's nothing to distract me from the fear about what is happening to us.
Yesterday, Martinez got a "Dear John" letter. We all pretended not to notice him crying behind the barracks. That's the unspoken code out here. You give a man privacy with his pain. But it scared me. Made me wonder if there's a letter like that somewhere, making its way to me across oceans and deserts to me.
Please write. Even a few lines would be enough. I need to know you're still there, still waiting. I keep the photo of us by the lake tucked in my helmet. It's fading from the sun and sweat, but I can still see your smile. Some days, your memory is all that keeps me going.
I count the days until I can come home to you. Sometimes it feels like forever.
Always,
James
I run my fingers over the paper, feeling the indentations where his pen pressed too hard in some places. My throat tightens at the raw emotion in his words. The loneliness, the uncertainty.
In my journal, I write my thoughts.
Who leaves someone like this hanging? What happened between them? And why did she keep his letters if she didn't care enough to write back?
The questions swirl in my mind as I watch fireflies dot the darkening yard. Big Wood is already feeling less like an impulsive escape and more like a mystery I need to solve. And somewhere in this town is a man who once poured his heart onto paper, never knowing if anyone was reading his words.
My phone chimes with a text from Becky.
Becky: Outdoor movie night in the square tomorrow. Bringing popcorn and blankets. You in?
I text back immediately.
Me: Absolutely.
As I get ready for bed, I realize something startling. I haven't thought about Savannah or my old job in days. Instead, my mind is filled with pancake socials and paint colors and the half-smile of a man who claims not to be offering help.
Maybe that's what growing roots feels like, when you stop noticing the absence of your old life because your new one has quietly taken its place.