Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Lettie
The kitchen table had disappeared under jars and labels and twine.
I’d been working since dawn packing products, organizing inventory, making lists of what still needed to be done before Harvest Week officially started tomorrow.
Lavender soap wrapped in brown paper and tied with purple ribbon. Chamomile tea in small muslin bags with hand-stamped labels. Salves in tin containers. Lotions in glass bottles. Bundles of dried flowers tied with raffia. Everything smelled like earth and herbs and the careful work of my hands.
This was the version of me the town knew. The helpful girl who made things that soothed and healed. The quiet woman who sold products at festivals and never caused trouble. The one people came to when they needed sleep or pain relief or something they couldn’t ask for out loud.
She wasn’t the woman who grew hemlock behind a locked gate.
Cerberus lay near the back door, watching me move between the table and the counter. His presence was steady. Grounding. He’d been restless the past few days, but this morning he seemed calmer. As though he’d accepted whatever was coming and decided to wait it out beside me.
I wished I had his patience.
My hands moved on autopilot, tying labels, stacking jars, checking off items on my list. But my mind kept circling back to the wrongness that had been building all week.
My mother.
She’d been in the kitchen three times already this morning. Three times. Asking questions. Watching me work. Smiling in that strange, anticipatory way that made my skin crawl.
“What are you bringing to the festival, dear?”
“When are we leaving tomorrow?”
“Where will the booth be this year?”
“How long do you think we’ll stay?”
Not cruel questions. Not sharp or cutting. Just interested. Engaged. Happy.
And that was worse than any insult she’d ever thrown at me.
Because my mother was never happy. She was bitter. Resentful. Angry at the world for trapping her in a life that hadn’t turned out the way she’d planned.
But this week? She was almost giddy.
I tied another ribbon around a bar of soap and added it to the basket. My fingers were steady even though my pulse wasn’t.
The pattern had been there all along. I just hadn’t looked closely enough.
Every year, my mother helped at Harvest Week. Only Harvest Week. Not the spring festival. Not the summer markets. Not the Christmas bazaar. Just this one. Just the week in October when the whole town gathered to celebrate the end of growing season and the beginning of winter preparation.
She’d leave her room. Get dressed. Ask questions. Smile. Participate.
And then, the day after the festival ended, she’d retreat back into her den and stay there until the following October.
I’d always assumed it was because Harvest Week was the biggest event. The most important. The one that mattered.
But now, standing in my kitchen surrounded by products I’d made with my own hands, I realized I’d been asking the wrong question.
It wasn’t why she participated in Harvest Week.
It was why only Harvest Week.
What was she waiting for?
The back door opened but I didn’t turn around. Didn’t need to. I knew the sound of his boots. The weight of his presence. The way the air shifted when he entered a room.
Cerberus lifted his head but didn’t growl. Didn’t stand. Just watched as Brock crossed the kitchen toward me.
His hand found my lower back. Warm. Solid. The kind of touch that said I’m here without words.
I leaned into it. Just slightly. Just enough to feel the steadiness of him behind me.
“You’ve been busy,” he said quietly.
“Festival starts tomorrow.” I tied another ribbon, then added another jar to the crate. “I need everything ready by tonight so I can load the truck in the morning.”
His other hand came up and brushed my hair back over my shoulder. His lips pressed against the side of my neck. Brief. Grounding.
“You need help?”
“I’m almost done.” I glanced at the organized chaos spread across every surface. “Just need to finish labeling and pack the last crate.”
He didn’t move away; he stayed behind me. His body a wall of heat and muscle and protection. His presence alone made the wrongness feel less suffocating.
I picked up another jar and tied the label. His hand stayed on my back, moving in slow circles. Not sexual. Just there.
“Your mom been out today?” he asked.
My hands stilled. “Three times.”
“Asking questions?”
“Yeah.”
His fingers pressed slightly harder against my spine. “What kind of questions?”
“The kind that feel like she’s planning something.” I set the jar down and turned to face him. “She wants to know where the booth will be. How long we’ll stay. What I’m bringing.”
Brock’s jaw tightened. His eyes scanned my face, reading me the way he always did, seeing past the calm exterior to the fear underneath.
“You think she’s a threat?”
“I think she knows something I don’t.” I crossed my arms. Uncrossed them. Picked up another jar just to have something to do with my hands. “And whatever it is, it’s tied to Harvest Week.”
He was quiet for a moment, thinking. Processing. His hand never left my back.
“You want me to stay tomorrow? At the festival?”
“You were planning to anyway.”
“Yeah. But I’m asking if you want me to.”
I looked up at him and saw the seriousness in his expression. The way he was offering me a choice instead of making the decision for me.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “I want you there.”
He nodded before leaning down and kissing my forehead. “Then I’ll be there.”
The sound of a door opening made us both turn.
My mother stood in the hallway entrance. Dressed. Hair brushed. Makeup applied. She looked more put together than she had in months.
And she was staring at us.
Not at me.
At us.
At the way Brock’s hand rested on my back. At the way I leaned into him. At the closeness between us that she couldn’t control or manipulate or use against me.
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“Oh, Violet. I didn’t realize you had company.”
Brock’s hand stayed exactly where it was. Possessive. Steady.
“Brock’s helping me pack,” I said.
My mother’s gaze moved between us slowly. Deliberately. Taking inventory of the distance between our bodies, or rather, the lack of it. She noticed the way he stood close. The way I didn’t pull away.
“How industrious of him.” She moved into the kitchen, her movements careful and measured. Like she was calculating something. “You’ve been spending quite a bit of time together.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
“That’s nice.” She smiled. That same wrong smile. The one that had been building all week. “It’s good that you have someone.”
Something in her tone made my skin crawl. Not the words themselves but the implication beneath them. Like she was watching a game play out and waiting for the final move.
Brock’s hand pressed harder against my back. A silent message: I’ve got you.
My mother’s eyes flicked to where his hand rested. To the possession in the gesture. To the fact that I accepted it. That I leaned into it.
Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Is there something you need, Mother?” I asked.
“Oh, no. I was just checking on your progress.” She gestured to the table. “You’ve made so many lovely things this year. I’m sure they’ll sell wonderfully.”
“Thank you.”
“And tomorrow we’ll set up early? Before the crowds arrive?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Perfect.” She clasped her hands together. “I’m so looking forward to it. Harvest Week is always my favorite.”
She turned and walked back down the hallway. Her door closed with a soft click.
I exhaled slowly. Hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath.
Brock’s arm came around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. His chin rested on top of my head.
“She doesn’t like me,” he said quietly.
“She doesn’t like that I let you touch me.” I closed my eyes and let myself sink into his warmth. “She doesn’t like that you steady me when she used to be the only one who could unsettle me.”
“Good.”
I almost smiled. Almost.
But the dread was still there. Building. Pressing against my ribs like something alive.
“Brock?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Something’s going to happen tomorrow.”
His arms tightened around me. “I know.”
“I don’t know what. I don’t know why. But I can feel it.”
“I know,” he said again. “And I’ll be right there with you when it does.”
I turned in his arms, looked up at him, and saw the certainty in his eyes. The promise.
“What if it’s bad?”
“Then we handle it.” He cupped my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. “Together.”
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that whatever was coming could be faced and survived.
But my body knew better.
My instincts screamed that Harvest Week wasn’t just a festival. It was a door. And once it opened, there would be no closing it again.
I kissed him, hard and desperate, trying to anchor myself to something solid before the ground gave way beneath me.
He kissed me back, slow and deep, his hands in my hair, his body pressed against mine.
When we finally pulled apart, I was breathing hard, my heart pounding.
“I need to finish packing,” I whispered.
“I’ll help.”
We worked side by side, his presence a steady weight beside me. Grounding me. Keeping me tethered to the present instead of spiraling into the fear of what tomorrow might bring.
But even with him there, even with his hands on me and his voice in my ear, I couldn’t shake the feeling.
Something was waiting.
Something my mother knew about.
Something tied to Harvest Week and the pattern I’d been too blind to see.
And tomorrow, when the festival began and the crowds gathered and my mother smiled that knowing smile that made my skin crawl, the door would open.
And I had no idea what would come through.