Chapter 23 New
New
Grace helps Eli clear the table, Isaac close at her side, their hands brushing once or twice as they pass plates. Each time, her cheeks bloom pink, and each time, he pretends not to notice while failing miserably.
I dry while Eli washes, the rhythm grounding. Clara hovers nearby, folding napkins with too much care, her silence stretched tight. I ache to reach across the narrow counter, to take her hand, to ease the storm I know still spins inside her.
When the last dish is set aside, Eli dries his hands on a rag and leans against the counter, his eyes bright. “Grace,” he says casually, “do you like to dance?”
She blinks, startled by the question. “I do,” she admits softly.
Eli’s gaze flicks to Isaac, a knowing smile tugging at his mouth. “Then you ought to take her to Ropers. Little bar in town, live music most nights. It’d do you both good to cut loose a bit. Lord knows it’s been a heavy evening.”
Isaac’s ears go red clear to the tips. “I—uh—” He glances at Grace, flustered, then steadies himself. “Would you like to?”
Grace bites her lip, and her smile gives her away. “I’d love to.”
The air between them crackles, young and bright and sweet in a way that twists something deep inside me. I remember when Clara and I smiled like that—when just saying yes to being in the same place felt like rebellion.
They gather themselves quickly, Grace slipping her cardigan over her shoulders, Isaac fumbling with his hat. They leave with shy laughter trailing behind them, the front door closing gently in their wake.
Eli watches them go, the corner of his mouth lifting. Then he turns to us, his tone softening. “I’ll sleep in the bunkhouse tonight.”
Clara looks up sharply. “Eli, you don’t have to—”
“I do,” he says firmly, though his eyes stay kind. “You two deserve the house to yourselves. Been a long time coming, don’t you think?”
I freeze, the rag still in my hand, the words burrowing deep. Clara’s breath stutters, her fingers twisting in the hem of her flannel.
Eli sets the rag down, giving me a sly look. Then he heads for the door, leaving the silence swollen and fragile in his absence.
And just like that—after decades of waiting, dreaming, despairing—we are alone.
Clara stands near the edge of the kitchen, the hem of her flannel brushing her hips.
She doesn’t fidget this time. Her eyes find mine and hold there, steady and searching.
There’s a flicker of uncertainty, yes, but beneath it is something stronger—composure, grace, the quiet strength of a woman who’s fought her own battles and survived them all.
“Well,” she says finally, her voice a little too bright. “I suppose it’s just us now.”
“Suppose it is.” I lean against the counter, trying to keep my tone light, steady, when inside my chest everything rattles loose.
We linger in the kitchen like strangers instead of two people who once knew each other’s souls. The weight of everything we’ve said tonight—letters hidden, love stolen, years lost—presses heavy, and neither of us seems to know where to start.
“I don’t even know what to do with myself,” she admits softly. “It feels…peculiar. To be here with you like this.”
I let out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Feels peculiar to me too. Peculiar, but right. Like the first time I asked you to dance and thought my knees might give out if you said no.”
Her lips twitch, a faint smile ghosting there. “You were nervous?”
“I was terrified.” I grin a little. “You had on that blue dress, and I swear I couldn’t breathe looking at you. Thought if I touched you, I’d burn alive.”
Her cheeks warm, and she shakes her head. “You still remember that?”
“Clara,” I say, my voice thickening, “there’s not a thing about you I’ve forgotten.”
Silence stretches, and then she whispers, almost shy, “I feel foolish. Like I’m twenty again, sneaking glances, trying to decide if I should sit or stand or—”
“Come sit with me,” I interrupt gently. “No need to decide alone.”
We move to the old sofa in the front room, side by side but with space between us, hands folded, shoulders stiff.
After a beat, she laughs softly, breaking the tension. “Look at us—two spirits who’ve lingered decades, and yet we’re sitting here as though we’re on our very first courtship call.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” I murmur. “Maybe we start there. Just…being with each other again.”
Her eyes meet mine, steady, shining with the same light I remember from a summer that never left me. And for the first time all night, I feel her lean ever so slightly closer, like the years between us have finally started to collapse.
Clara’s shoulder brushes mine—light, accidental, but it sends a shiver through me all the same. She glances up, lips parting like she might apologize, but leans into me instead.
We sit in that moment, held still by something bigger than either of us. My hand shifts, almost without permission, until the back of my fingers graze hers where they rest on her lap. She doesn’t pull away. She curls her hand, tentative at first, then laces her fingers with mine.
“Clara…” My voice is rough, like gravel. “Can I—?”
But she doesn’t let me finish. She leans in, closing the space between us, and her mouth finds mine.
The first kiss is light, testing. My breath stutters, the world falling silent except for the rush of her against me. She tastes like courage, like memory, like the one thing I thought I’d never have again.
I kiss her back gently—until her hand slides to my chest, fingers curling in the fabric of my shirt. That single tug undoes me. The kiss deepens, turning hot, hungry, and edged with years of longing we never got to spend.
Her lips part underneath mine, her breath warm and quick. I cradle her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing away tears. She lets out a sound—half sob, half gasp—and presses closer, like she’s afraid I might vanish if she loosens her hold.
I pull her into me, greedy now, her body fitting so perfectly against mine like it always should have. The years fall away in the urgency of it, in the way she clings to me, in the way her mouth moves with mine like we’ve been waiting sixty lifetimes, not just sixty years.
When we finally break for air, our foreheads rest together, breaths ragged, hearts thundering in unison.
“I know I don’t deserve to say this, Marcel,” she whispers, her voice shaking, “but I can’t stop wanting you.”
“Then don’t,” I murmur, my thumb sweeping across her cheek. “Don’t stop. Not tonight. Not ever.”
Her lips find mine again, harder this time, heat rising sharp and unrelenting. And I know—deep in the marrow of me—that I’m not letting go of her tonight.