Chapter Three
Theo
Despite the dry humor in how she said it, I almost fumbled my fork.
Aside from Oliver and my parents, I hadn’t spoken to anyone about the events leading up to my abrupt move to Asheville. No matter how close my mother might be to the woman across the table, I couldn’t imagine she’d given Esther any details about it, either.
Before I could respond, she grimaced, the expression almost comical set against her beautiful features.
She was stunning, really, so different from the elderly widow I’d imagined living out there in the guest house that I was still in shock.
With her long black hair falling halfway down her back, those beautiful moonlit eyes, and flawless, glowing skin, she was about as far from an old lady as she could possibly be.
I figured she must be somewhere around thirty, maybe a couple years past. Petite and curvy, she’d barely reached my shoulder as we crossed the distance between the houses.
Even dressed casually in a t-shirt, there was something calm and collected about her, a self-possession that made her seem wise beyond her years.
Christ, she was young to be a widow. I’d immediately discarded Ollie’s comment about her killing her husband, but I wondered what the hell had happened to start a rumor like that.
She was right, though—we represented two separate eras of Spruce Hill legend, apparently. The difference was that no one brought up my history, not anymore, and here I was, wishing she’d bring up hers.
Not so I could pry, but because I wanted to know what was lurking behind her quiet beauty. Gorgeous or not, she struck me as a little too solemn, a little too serious.
Those lips had looked so sweet when they curved into an unconscious smile only moments before, but now they were pursed and tight. It was a harsh contrast to the rest of her body, soft and generously rounded.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “That was…indelicate.”
I snorted at the word and shook my head. I didn’t want to talk about the past any more than she probably wanted to talk about her dead husband, but I didn’t want her to feel bad about bringing it up, either.
“Nothing to apologize for. Tell me about your food truck. How did you get into that? Did you always want to own a bakery?”
“Well. No,” she admitted, flashing me a sheepish grin.
“I like baking. When I was a kid, my mother was always making something or other for me to bring to birthday parties or on field trips. She didn’t want me to feel like I was missing out.
I never intended to make a living from it, though. My degree is in math.”
It was a little ridiculous how suddenly fascinated I was by this woman. “I guess baking involves a fair amount of math, huh?”
She shrugged. “Like I said, I enjoy numbers. I had no real plans for what to do after college. When my husband died, I started a tiny little baking business on the side, mostly just word of mouth. I didn’t realize how much demand there was out there for things made in a completely nut-free home by someone who knows about cross-contamination.
Overhead is crazy for an actual bakery, and renting kitchen space doesn’t really give me control over what allergens are present in the facility, hence the truck.
I love the freedom it gives me, so I’m sticking with it. ”
“That’s amazing,” I said, leaning toward her slightly. “So you met my mother through your math classes?”
“Yes, she was my academic advisor and taught quite a few of my courses. She encouraged me to go into teaching, but that was never my passion. We compromised and she got me into an accelerated program where I got both my bachelor’s and master’s with just one extra year of college.”
“So you’re a brainiac, like my mom.” I grinned at that.
“I guess so.” A tiny smile curled her lip, then it faded as she went on. “After Steve’s death, I was getting ready to sell the condo and she must’ve heard about it from somebody in town, because the next thing I knew, she was offering up the guest house.”
“Doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.”
“I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with myself, and your mother encouraged me to use some money from the sale of the condo to start the truck. My baking orders were taking off, so it was the next logical step.”
In a sudden flash of clarity, I could see it, the friendship between Esther and my mother.
This woman was clever and bright and clearly driven, all things Mom appreciated, but underneath the capable exterior that would've drawn my mother to her in the first place, there was also an air of loneliness.
I saw it because I’d experienced the same thing, and I was sure my mother saw it, too. She was too perceptive to miss it. If she’d helped to ease that wound for Esther, I was happy for them both. I knew firsthand how it felt to trudge through the mire alone.
Of course, Esther herself raised a brow at my sudden silence and I got the impression she probably didn’t give a shit about my opinion. I cleared my throat and flashed a smile, though she looked equally unimpressed with that.
“So,” I said, searching for a safe thread of conversation, “where’s the truck now?”
“I park it at Mr. Ankarberg’s plaza most of the time, though your parents don’t mind me parking it in the driveway when I need to. I try to limit that so the neighbors don’t complain.”
“People complain?”
She lifted a shoulder. “The name isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. My parents hate it.”
Something in the way she said it convinced me she didn’t want to discuss her family, so I just nodded and we fell into a less awkward silence as we ate our meal.
All the while, I wondered how much she knew about my family’s past, whether my mother had told her anything about why I left.
Now that I knew a bit of Esther’s history, it seemed like she was a kindred spirit.
In those odd, silvery-green eyes, I saw the kind of pain that resonated inside me, and somehow I knew she’d understand if I confessed everything to her then and there.
Fortunately, common sense—or self-preservation—kicked back in before I could lay those years of conflict before a complete stranger.
Esther refused to be waved off again when she rose to help me clear the table. “Even your mother lets me help with the dishes, you know,” she insisted.
“Fine, fine,” I muttered, joining her beside the sink.
We settled into an easy rhythm, her rinsing the dishes and me loading them into the dishwasher. Even with Esther joining me for the meal, we still had enough leftovers for two separate containers. I put one in the fridge and set the other on the counter for her to take home.
Strangely, when the time came to walk her out, I didn’t want her to leave.
“Will you be at any of the holiday events around town? With the food truck, I mean?”
Her moonbeam eyes widened slightly, but she nodded.
“Some of them, yes. November is mostly business bookings and personal orders, but I’m scheduled for the tree lighting and then the Carolcade in December.
This time of year gets pretty slow otherwise.
Were you planning to go to those events while you’re in town? ”
I grimaced, unable—or unwilling—to lie to her. “No, I wasn’t, but if I don’t go, certain Spruce Hill residents will be all over me for locking myself away and I’ll end up bullied into joining them for Thanksgiving and Christmas.”
“The horror,” she replied with a shudder.
Though I laughed, there wasn’t even a hint of a smile on her face when she said it. Either this woman was extraordinarily good at poker or she was as uneasy about being roped into socializing as I was. That suspicion touched something deep in my chest, another flash of connection between us.
“I’ll have to stop by and get some more baked goods,” I said, inwardly kicking myself for the stupid phrasing.
Esther didn’t seem to mind; she offered a smile, broader than any I’d seen from her so far, with the barest hint of a dimple appearing at one corner of her mouth.
It hit me like a fist right in the center of my chest. She was stunning anyway, but that smile—shit, I hadn’t responded like this to a smile since high school.
The reminder of where that particular smile had led crashed over me like a bucket of ice water.
“I’ll set something aside for you. I usually sell out in the afternoon,” she said, slipping her boots and jacket back on as I stood there and watched, my entire body practically frozen in place.
“Thank you,” I managed, though the words sounded a little hoarse. “For joining me tonight, I mean.”
“Have a good night, Theo.”
The simple words were uttered without much warmth, as though she’d sensed my withdrawal and accepted it as some sign of dismissal.
Before I could even attempt to respond, she was walking along the paved path to the guest house.
For a long moment, I stood there, watching the distance between us grow and wondering what the hell I’d been thinking, agreeing to come back here.
I was off-kilter, that was all. Under normal circumstances, I’d never have been so affected by a woman’s smile, so awkward at conversing with a stranger that I fumbled the conversation like I was thirteen again.
Beautiful or not, she probably wasn’t interested in me at all, and I damn well shouldn’t be interested in her, either.
Just after she disappeared through the door to the guest house—without a glance back toward me—my phone chimed with a text from my mom.
I snorted at her request for a photo of me and Toni, then let myself back into the house.
The feline in question wove between my legs as I strode toward the kitchen, poured myself a glass of my father’s second-best scotch, and dropped down into a chair, thinking about Esther.
I realized my mother had never referred to the woman’s age, only that she was a widow.
In fact, it seemed odd now just how emphatically she’d stressed that part.
I’d barely even paid attention to Esther’s name, but now I had to admit I hadn’t been paying close enough attention to the rest of the conversation, either.
The next time I spoke to my parents, we were going to discuss what constituted pertinent information about my current living arrangements.
By the time I finished my scotch, I decided Oliver also owed me an explanation and hit call on his contact in my phone.
“Hey, man, miss me already?”
“Ollie, what the fuck?”
For a beat, he was silent, then he started laughing. “You met Esther,” he guessed.
“Yes, though technically we met when I stopped at her food truck on my way into town. Why didn’t you tell me she wasn’t an old lady?”
“I thought this way was more fun.”
I sighed loudly enough for him to hear it over the phone. “You owe me.”
“Happy to pay up,” he replied. “Let me guess—you want intel on the beauty living in your backyard?”
I didn’t dignify that with a response, just asked, “Is she from Spruce Hill?” Surely I’d remember Esther if she’d grown up around here.
“Nah, she’s from Oakville. Came here for college.”
Oakville was the next town over, even tinier than Spruce Hill. They were our biggest rivals in high school soccer, but that was about the extent of my knowledge of the place. I was still trying to regain my equilibrium after all those stupid assumptions crashed down around my ears.
“So you know her?” I pressed.
“It’s Spruce Hill, man. Of course I know her. She was Sof’s college roommate, actually, and I think they had a lot of classes together. They used to hang out all the time, but Esther got married after graduation and they kind of lost touch.”
“Who did she marry?” I asked.
Oliver’s tone soured. “Steve Pautler.”
The name was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. “I don’t remember him. Did we go to school with the guy?”
“Nah, he was much older than us. Jesus, probably fifteen years older than Esther. Some kind of real estate developer. Do you remember when the old Randy’s Hardware building was knocked down? I think we were juniors.”
“Yeah, vaguely. There were protests, right?”
Oliver huffed a laugh. “Tons of them. My mom called Steve a snake oil salesman once and believe me, it fit. Smarmy bastard talked the town council into accepting his development plan—or greased the right palms. You can thank him for the shiny new condos around the corner, too.”
Memories started coming back to me, but my brain caught on something else Ollie had said. “Esther married a man fifteen years older than her?”
“Yup. Look, you know I’m not one to gossip,” Ollie said, lowering his voice, “but the dude was sketchy as hell. He could turn on the charm when he wanted to, but there was always something creepy about him. Sofia didn’t even think Esther liked the guy, then suddenly they were engaged.
She called me a couple times crying because she was worried about Steve cutting Esther off from her friends. ”
I felt a stirring of sadness for her, but I forced myself to remember the bastard was dead and no longer posed a threat. Still, my fist clenched against my thigh. “You think he was abusing her?”
“It’s possible, but Sof didn’t think so.
Your mom was pretty protective of Esther.
She probably would’ve castrated him with a protractor if she had proof he was hurting her.
After Steve died, Sofia’s been in touch with her a little more.
I think she’s been trying to get Esther to go out with a group of them. ”
“That’s good,” I said, but Oliver made a scoffing sound.
“Esther shoots her down every time, but gently, I guess. Sof’s not offended, just more determined than ever to get Esther back out in the world. She’s even more of a recluse now that she’s in your parents’ guest house than when she was married, according to my sister.”
“Hmm.” I stared into my empty glass.
“Don’t do it,” Ollie warned.
I scowled at the phone. “Don’t do what?”
“Don’t make it your personal crusade to rescue her.”
“I’m not on a crusade, Oliver,” I ground out.
“She’s no damsel in distress and from what I hear, she happily grinds potential suitors under her heel. God knows why your mama didn’t warn you herself, but all Esther wants is to be left alone, bro.”
“I’m not an idiot. And I’m leaving in two months, anyway.” I frowned. “How did Steve die? Even with the age difference, he couldn’t have been that old.”
“And that, my friend, is the million dollar question. Nobody knows.”