Chapter 15
" F raud!" The word crashed through me as I bolted through the community center's double doors. My vision blurred, tears welling faster than I could blink them away.
I ran blindly across the parking lot, my Mary Janes slapping against the asphalt. The cheerful yellow sundress I'd chosen so carefully for the fundraiser fluttered against my legs, now a mocking reminder of my naive optimism.
"Illegal." Ms. Coleman's clinical assessment echoed in my head, each syllable a hammer blow. "Potential tax evasion concerns."
I imagined myself in handcuffs, being led past the craft tables I'd so lovingly arranged. Past the donation box overflowing with checks that might now be evidence. Past Luca's distinguished, disappointed face.
Luca. Oh God. His career. His reputation. What had I done?
My chest constricted painfully with each gasping breath as I darted across Main Street without looking, earning an angry honk from Mr. Peterson's delivery truck.
"Sorry!" I called back automatically, though courtesy felt absurd in the middle of my meltdown. I couldn't bear to see another person from this town, couldn't stomach the whispers and stares that would inevitably follow.
"Did you hear about what Rebekah did?"
"Total disaster. Nearly got the community center shut down."
"Always seemed a bit . . . scattered, didn't she?"
My legs carried me instinctively away from the town square, away from the judgmental eyes I could feel boring into my back. I veered toward the tree line at the edge of town, where the wooded path began.
The waterfalls. My sanctuary.
The familiar trail welcomed me with dappled shadows and the scent of pine and wild honeysuckle. I stumbled over exposed roots, barely catching myself against rough tree trunks. Bark scraped my palms, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the shame burning through my body.
"I just wanted to help," I whispered to no one. "I just wanted to belong."
The distant sound of rushing water gradually penetrated my panic. The steady roar grew louder with each unsteady step, pulling me forward like a beacon. Like it had since I was a child and discovered this place during my first summer visit to my grandparents.
I burst through a curtain of willow branches into the clearing. Small Falls wasn't actually small—a twenty-foot cascade of crystal water tumbling over ancient stone—but it had been named by a child generations ago, and the name stuck.
The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy of maple and oak, casting quivering light across the water's surface. Tiny rainbows formed in the mist rising from where the falls crashed into the pool below.
My legs finally gave out. I collapsed onto the flat rock that jutted over the water's edge—my rock, the one I'd claimed during countless visits—and drew my knees to my chest.
For several minutes, I could only sit, drawing ragged breaths between sobs, watching the hypnotic flow of water without really seeing it. The force of my crying made my ribs ache.
"Stupid," I gasped, pressing my forehead against my knees. "So stupid."
The falls didn't answer, just continued their eternal journey downward, indifferent to my catastrophe. Water had been flowing here long before I existed and would continue long after today's humiliation faded into memory.
If it ever did.
I scrubbed roughly at my face with the heels of my hands. My carefully applied mascara probably resembled war paint now. I could almost hear Luca's deep, gentle voice: "Baby girl, you're making a mess." But there was no warm hand offering me a handkerchief, no strong arms to collapse into.
"I've ruined everything," I whispered to the falls. "All because I couldn't follow simple rules."
I closed my eyes, exhaustion suddenly weighing down every limb. My breathing gradually slowed, matching itself to the rhythm of the falls. Inhale with the crash of water, exhale with the rising mist.
What would happen now? Would the donors demand their money back? Would Luca face questions from the bar association about his connection to me? I imagined the judgment in his eyes when he realized just how badly I'd messed up.
He'd been my unexpected sanctuary in this small town, this man ten years my senior who somehow saw something worthwhile in my chaotic energy. Now I'd proven everyone right about exactly what kind of disaster I truly was.
I opened my eyes, watching a single leaf drift down from above, landing gently on the surface of the pool. It spun slowly, caught in conflicting currents, before being dragged inexorably toward the downstream rush.
Just like me. Spinning helplessly before being swept away.
As always when I was down, my parents' voices crept into my mind, uninvited but familiar guests.
"This is exactly why we worried about you taking on responsibility," my mother's clipped tone echoed with perfect clarity, as if she stood beside me at the falls. "You never think things through, Rebekah."
I could picture her precisely—arms crossed, that tiny furrow between her eyebrows that deepened with each disappointment I delivered. The water blurred as fresh tears formed.
"When will you learn that enthusiasm isn't enough?" My father's disappointed sigh followed.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, but the memories only intensified. The school art fair when I was eleven. I'd spent weeks on that watercolor, pouring my heart into every brushstroke, so proud of the result—until my parents arrived.
"The proportions are all wrong," my mother had murmured, tilting her head critically. "See how the arms are too long for the body?"
"If you'd just slow down and pay attention to details . . ." my father had added, while around us, other parents hugged their children and hung their artwork on refrigerators regardless of proportions.
"I did pay attention," I whispered to the rushing water, my voice breaking. "I tried so hard this time."
The familiar weight of never being good enough settled over me, heavy and suffocating. I'd lived with it for twenty-seven years, carried it from my childhood home to college to every job and relationship since. Always the enthusiastic one, never the competent one.
I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them, making myself as small as possible against the vastness of my failure. The rock beneath me was hard and unyielding, cold seeping through my jeans.
But through the fog of shame, another memory surfaced—Luca's face when I'd proposed the craft stations for the fundraiser. Not the pinched skepticism I was used to, but a genuine smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the corners in a way that made my heart skip.
"I wouldn't have thought of that," he'd said, leaning against his kitchen counter, coffee mug in one hand, legal pad in the other. "That's brilliant, Rebekah. Getting the kids involved means their parents will stay longer."
"You really think it'll work?" I'd asked, waiting for the caveat, the correction, the subtle undermining I'd grown to expect.
Instead, he'd set down his mug and legal pad, crossed the kitchen in three long strides, and kissed me with such warmth that I'd melted into him.
"I think you're remarkable," he'd whispered against my lips.
These past weeks with Luca had been . . . different. The way he'd looked at me when I described my vision for the community center—not with tolerance, but with genuine interest. How he'd introduce me to others in town: "This is Rebekah, the creative force behind our new programs." The quiet confidence in my ideas that he'd shown when the committee questioned my budget estimates.
"Trust me," he'd told them, his hand finding mine under the table. "She's thought this through."
For the first time in my life, I'd felt capable, valued for exactly who I was—not in spite of my enthusiasm but because of it. Those moments had started to build something new inside me: the tentative belief that maybe my parents were wrong. Maybe my natural creativity and energy weren't flaws to be corrected but strengths to be embraced.
"But now I've proved them right," I whispered, watching a dragonfly dart across the surface of the pool. It hovered, iridescent wings catching the light, before disappearing into the shadows.
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, remembering how Luca's fingers had done the same last night as we lay tangled in his sheets, how he'd called me his "beautiful, brilliant girl" in that low voice that made me feel simultaneously safe and wildly desired.
"I'm sorry," I said to his absence, wishing desperately I could go back three hours and do everything differently.
A jay called sharply from a nearby tree, startling me out of my thoughts. The sun had shifted, lengthening the shadows across the clearing. How long had I been sitting here? The town would be buzzing with gossip by now. Everyone would know.
I dragged my sleeve across my tear-stained face, the damp fabric rough against my skin. The humiliation burned fresh in my memory—Ms. Coleman's clinical assessment, her tortoiseshell glasses sliding down her nose as she'd examined my haphazard records. The whispers had rippled through the crowd like a contagion, and Janet's pitying expression—that had been the worst. I could still see her perfectly arched eyebrow, the slight downward turn of her mouth that said, "I expected better, but not really."
"Nonprofit status," I murmured, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. "Audits. Tax fraud."
I'd failed in the most public, most devastating way possible. Not just a silly mistake like ordering too many napkins or misspelling a donor's name on a thank-you card. This was something that could have legal consequences. The community center might lose its nonprofit status. Donors might be audited.
And Luca—oh god, Luca. A lawyer whose girlfriend committed tax fraud. The irony would be laughable if it weren't so painful.
"I was so stupid," I whispered to the rushing water. "Thinking I could handle something this important."
The falls responded with its steady, thundering indifference.
"Lucy warned me to double-check everything," I continued, pulling my knees closer to my chest. "But I was so sure I had it right."
What a nightmare.
"The children's art classes," I muttered, picking at a loose thread on my jeans. "The senior book club. The afterschool program."
All these community center programs would suffer because of my carelessness. Children would miss out on art classes. Seniors would lose their meeting space. Teh Littles League would no doubt shut down. All because I'd been too scattered to do proper research, too caught up in my enthusiasm to properly check the regulations.
"You were right, Mom," I said to the empty forest. "I never think things through."
I took a deep, shuddering breath and stared at the cascading falls, my decision crystallizing with each passing moment. There was only one thing to do.
I had to leave Small Falls.
I couldn't bear to walk down Main Street knowing everyone was whispering about my failure. Couldn't stand the pitying glances, the awkward silences when I entered rooms. And Luca—my chest constricted painfully at the thought of his face—I couldn't do that to him. Couldn't drag his reputation through the mud along with mine.
"Tonight," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the rushing water. "I'll pack tonight."
I'd write Luca a note. Something simple but clear. He deserved someone better than me. Someone who didn't make catastrophic mistakes that affected an entire town. Someone who thought before they acted. Someone whose enthusiasm was tempered with actual competence.
The logistics began to take shape in my mind as I wiped away fresh tears. I'd need boxes. The landlord would require thirty days' notice, but I could pay and not stay. My car could hold the essentials; I'd arrange shipping for the rest. Maybe my friend Charlotte would let me crash at her place in Portland until I found somewhere permanent.
"I can be gone by midnight," I calculated, hugging my knees tighter to my chest. "Before anyone realizes."
The thought of never seeing Luca again made something in me physically ache. Never feeling his strong arms around me, never hearing him call me "baby girl" in that low voice that did strange things to me. Never again experiencing the way he seemed to see past all my scattered energy to the person I could be.
But it would be selfish to stay. To drag him down with my mess.
"It's for the best," I tried to convince myself, but my voice cracked on the last word.
I was so absorbed in my misery that I almost missed the first faint sounds filtering through the trees. Voices. Multiple voices. Getting closer.
My body tensed immediately. I wasn't ready to face anyone—not like this, tear-stained and broken. Not when the humiliation was still so raw. I glanced frantically around the clearing, eyes landing on the large boulders near the edge of the pool. Maybe I could hide behind them until whoever it was had passed.
But even as I started to rise, I knew there wasn't time. The voices grew louder, more distinct. And one voice in particular made my heart stutter in my chest.
Luca.
His deep, commanding tone was unmistakable, even from a distance. But he wasn't alone. I could hear other voices mingling with his—many others, a whole crowd by the sound of it.
"Why would they . . . ?" I murmured, confusion mingling with mounting dread.
Had the entire town come to witness my disgrace? Was this some kind of public reckoning? My imagination conjured images of pitchforks and torches, the angry mob coming for the woman who'd endangered their community center.
"Pull yourself together," I hissed, frantically wiping at my tear-streaked face with my sleeve. I ran trembling fingers through my tangled hair, trying to achieve some semblance of dignity before whatever confrontation was coming.
The voices grew louder, closer, until I could make out snippets of conversation, though not distinct words. My hands shook as I pushed myself to my feet, determined to at least face my accusers standing.
I turned toward the trail, heart hammering against my ribs, and waited for whatever judgment was about to descend.
It wasn’t just a few people. It looked like half of Small Falls had made the trek to my hiding spot. Lucy appeared first, concern etched in the lines around her eyes. Then Dwight, focusing as he navigated the rocky path, followed by Marie with her ever-present clipboard. Marcus was there too, along with what seemed like every volunteer, sponsor, and visitor from the fundraiser.
I pressed back against the rock, my sanctuary suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable. Their faces weren't contorted with anger as I'd expected, but instead showed a mix of expressions—some smiling gently, others with furrowed brows of concern.
My mind raced with increasingly irrational possibilities. Had they formed some kind of intervention? Were they here to collectively tell me I needed to leave town? Maybe they wanted me to sign some kind of liability waiver before I disappeared.
The crowd paused at the edge of the clearing, maintaining a respectful distance, and then parted like a wave as Luca stepped forward. My chest ached at the sight of him. His broad shoulders were tense beneath his tailored shirt. But his face—his face held none of the disappointment or disgusted anger I'd been bracing for.
Instead, his eyes were soft with concern as he crossed the space between us.
"Rebekah," he said, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to reverberate through the clearing. He reached for my hand, his movement slow and careful, as if approaching a wounded animal.
I flinched away instinctively, shame burning hot beneath my skin. I couldn't bear to see the moment his professional legal mind fully processed what I'd done, when that softness would inevitably harden into judgment.
"I'm so sorry," I blurted, the words tumbling out in a ragged rush. "I never meant to—the fraud—I didn't know—" My voice caught on a sob. "I should have researched better, I didn't think it through, I just—"
Luca shook his head, cutting off my stumbling apology. His eyes never left mine as he stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his familiar scent—sandalwood and leather.
"Baby girl," he whispered, using the endearment that he usually saved for our most intimate moments. My eyes widened at hearing it here, in front of everyone. His voice was low enough that only I could hear, but the tenderness in it nearly broke me.
"There's no fraud," he continued, his gaze steady and unwavering. "You haven't done anything wrong."
I stared at him, uncomprehending, certain I'd misheard. Behind him, the crowd of townspeople waited silently, their presence a bewildering backdrop to his impossible words.
"But Ms. Coleman said—" I started, confusion tangling with the remnants of my panic.
"No," Luca said firmly, shaking his head again. "You haven't done anything wrong."
His hand found mine, and this time, I didn’t pull away.
"After you left," Luca said, holding my trembling fingers in his warm grasp, "I had a longer conversation with Ms. Coleman and reviewed the documentation more thoroughly." His thumb traced soothing circles across my knuckles. "It turns out the community center operates under a special provision for small, volunteer-run organizations."
The rushing waterfall behind us provided a gentle soundtrack as I struggled to comprehend his words. Tears still clung to my lashes, my breath hitching.
"What . . . what does that mean?" I whispered.
"It means," he said, his voice taking on that measured, precise quality he used when explaining legal matters, "that simplified donation tracking is perfectly acceptable for fundraisers under $5,000. Your system was actually compliant with those guidelines."
Hope flickered, fragile and uncertain. "But she said—"
"She was wrong." Luca's voice was gentle but firm. "Ms. Coleman mistakenly applied standards for larger nonprofits. When we went through the actual regulations together, she realized her error."
I glanced over his shoulder at the gathered townspeople, searching their faces for signs of judgment or disappointment. Instead, I found only concern, support, and—most bewilderingly—smiles.
"There's absolutely no fraud," Luca emphasized, his eyes never leaving mine. "No one's in trouble. The donations are valid. You didn't do anything wrong, Rebekah."
The weight that had been crushing my chest began to lighten, just slightly. Could it really be that simple? That all my catastrophizing had been for nothing?
"You're sure?" I asked, needing to hear it again, needing to believe.
His lips curved into a small smile. "Trust me on this one."
The last of my adrenaline drained away, leaving me exhausted and shaky. "I was so scared," I admitted, my voice thin and watery.
Lucy stepped forward from the crowd, her plump face creased with concern. "We were worried about you," she said, patting my arm with her flour-dusted hand. "When you ran out like that . . ." She shook her head. "I've never seen someone move so fast in heels."
A weak laugh escaped me, more from shock than humor.
Dwight ambled up beside Lucy. "Your creativity transformed the entire event," he said earnestly. "Those craft stations you set up? Pure genius. Kids were actually staying to listen to my music while they made stuff."
My heart squeezed. This wasn't the reception I'd expected. Where was the disappointment? The judgment?
An elderly woman with wire-rimmed glasses approached. I recognized her from the book sale table—Mrs. Winters, who had initially seemed skeptical of my "newfangled" ideas.
"No one has cared this much about the community center in decades," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "Those of us who remember its better days . . . well, we'd given up hope, if I'm being honest."
I stood there, stunned into silence, as person after person offered support instead of the condemnation I'd been certain was coming.
Then the crowd parted slightly, and a small figure darted forward—Emma, the eight-year-old with pigtails who'd spent nearly two hours at the craft table. She held something colorful in her hands.
"I made it just like you showed us," she said shyly, holding out a delicate flower crafted from tissue paper and pipe cleaners. The petals were slightly crumpled, the stem crooked, but it was unmistakably the design I'd taught at the craft station.
"For me?" I asked, my voice barely audible.
Emma nodded, her pigtails bouncing. "You ran away before I could give it to you."
I accepted the homemade gift with trembling hands, overwhelmed by this small act of kindness that somehow meant more than all the reassurances. Emma had created something because of me. Because I'd shown her how. Because my enthusiasm and creativity had given her a moment of joy.
"Thank you," I whispered, fighting fresh tears—different tears this time.
Marie stepped forward next, her usual stiff demeanor softened around the edges. She clutched her clipboard—the same one she'd been obsessively checking all day—but her knuckles weren't white with tension anymore.
"I thought you'd want to know," she said with uncharacteristic gentleness, "we not only hit our goal but exceeded it. Three thousand dollars plus another thousand on top."
My mouth fell open. "Four thousand? That's . . . that's impossible."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. Dwight nodded enthusiastically.
"After you left, people were asking what happened," he explained. "When word got around that there might be a problem with the fundraiser, folks just started opening their wallets wider."
"Ms. Coleman's confusion actually worked in our favor," Lucy added with a sly grin. "Nothing motivates Small Falls like a little drama and the chance to prove someone wrong."
I couldn't process what I was hearing. While I'd been here sobbing, convinced I'd ruined everything, the community had rallied rather than retreated.
Luca's hand found mine, his fingers warm and steady against my still-trembling ones. "Mr. Pearson was particularly impressed," he said, his deep voice washing over me like a balm. "When he saw how everyone pulled together, he honored his matching pledge despite the initial confusion. Even added a bit extra."
"He did?" I whispered, remembering the stern businessman who'd barely cracked a smile during the entire event.
"Said he hadn't seen community spirit like this since his wife was alive," Luca confirmed, his thumb tracing gentle circles on my palm.
I looked down at the tissue paper flower in my other hand, struggling to reconcile my catastrophic fears with this impossible reality. My mind kept trying to find the catch, the mistake, the moment when they'd all realize I wasn't worth this effort.
"The fundraiser was a complete success," Luca told me, his voice filled with a pride that made my chest ache. "Because of you, Rebekah. You made this happen."
"But I ran away," I protested weakly. "I didn't even—"
"You brought us all together," Lucy interrupted firmly. "Your ideas, your energy. That's what mattered. We love you."
I looked around at the faces watching me—expectant, supportive, genuinely affectionate. Not a hint of my mother's pinched disappointment or my father's weary resignation. These people weren't waiting for me to fail. They weren't mentally cataloging my shortcomings.
They were . . . on my side.
Something shifted inside me then, a tectonic plate of self-perception slowly grinding into a new position. All my life, I'd believed the critical voices—that my enthusiasm was childish, my creativity impractical, my natural exuberance something to be tamed rather than celebrated. I'd internalized my parents' constant corrections until self-doubt became my default setting.
But here was evidence to the contrary. Tangible, undeniable proof that perhaps my parents had been wrong. That maybe the very qualities they'd tried to suppress in me were actually strengths. That my way of moving through the world—with heart-forward enthusiasm and genuine excitement—wasn't a liability but a gift.
Luca must have seen this realization dawning on my face because he gently pulled me to my feet. His hands settled at my waist, strong and sure, anchoring me in this new reality.
"I'm so proud of you," he whispered against my hair, his breath warm against my ear. The words sent a shiver through me—not just because they came from him, but because for the first time, I believed I deserved them.
Then, before I could respond, he tipped my chin up with one finger and kissed me. Not our usual careful, private kiss, but something deep and deliberate and unmistakably claiming. In front of everyone—not strangers, but friends. His lips moved against mine with tender possession, his hand cradling my face as if I were something precious.
I heard the crowd erupt in cheers and whistles. Through the haze of sensation, I registered Dwight's wolf whistle and Lucy's delighted laugh. But I couldn't focus on anything except Luca—the solid warmth of his chest against mine, the gentle authority in the way he held me, the wordless promise in his kiss.
Against his lips, I smiled through tears that no longer felt like shame but like release. For my whole life, I'd been searching for the place where I fit, where I made sense, where I was enough exactly as I was.
Who would have thought I'd find it in Small Falls, surrounded by near-strangers who'd become more family to me in weeks than my own parents had been in decades?
For the first time in my life, I wasn't fighting the current of who I naturally was. I wasn't trying to be smaller, quieter, more serious, more proper. And it turned out that when I simply allowed myself to be—enthusiastic, creative, earnest Rebekah—I finally found where I belonged.
Right here. In this moment. In these arms. Among these people.
Home.