Chapter 8
Eight
Saturday morning arrived with the kind of crisp December air that made Jake’s Atlanta upbringing feel deficient.
He’d grown up with the hustle and bustle of city life—concrete, high-rises, traffic, exhaust fumes—nature had always been something you sought out in parks, not something that surrounded you.
But here in Spoon, stepping out of the Hawthorne House into the brittle cold, he could smell wood smoke and pine and something spice-like he couldn’t name. Cloves?
His phone buzzed before he’d even reached his rental car.
Wes: Busiest day of the season. Wish me luck.
Jake smiled, typing back: You’ve got this. Call me tonight?
The response was immediate. Count on it.
He sat in the car for a moment, engine warming, watching his breath fog the windshield.
Two days ago, he’d been in Wes’s workshop, pressed against a workbench with sawdust clinging to his slacks and Wes’s calloused hands all over him.
He’d driven back to the Hawthorne House in a euphoric daze, showered, and spent the evening fielding texts from Wes that ranged from nervous (Did we just fuck up?) to sweet (Can’t stop thinking about your fingers) to funny (Henry’s asking why I keep smiling at my phone).
Jake had assured him that the restructuring was signed and filed before they’d touched each other. Technically and professionally, they were in the clear.
Emotionally, though? That was uncharted territory.
He pulled out of the Hawthorne House’s gravel drive and headed toward the peach orchard on the outskirts of town.
Diane Crawford had been his easiest client so far—a widow in her early sixties who’d inherited the orchard from her late husband and was drowning in both debt and grief.
Her December appointment was mostly a formality.
They’d already restructured her loan back in October, and Jake was just checking in again to see how the winter preparations were going.
Plus, he enjoyed visiting her.
The orchard sat about twenty minutes outside Spoon, down a county road that wound through farmland and forest. Most of the trees were bare now, skeletal branches reaching toward a pale sky. Jake pulled up to a modest farmhouse with peeling white paint and a sagging porch.
Diane met him at the door, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. “Mr. Marley. Twice in one week? And a Saturday, no less. Am I in trouble?”
“Not at all… and I told you to call me Jake.”
She ushered him inside to a kitchen that smelled like cinnamon and apples. A pie cooled on the counter, steam still rising from the lattice crust. “Coffee?”
“That’d be great, thank you.”
They sat at her kitchen table—smaller than Wes’s, more worn—and reviewed her financials.
Everything looked solid. She’d followed his recommendations to the letter.
She’d increased her income by selling preserves and baked goods year-round, had rented out her barn and pasture to a lovely family with show horses, and had plans for her own fruit stand in Spoon’s weekly farmer’s market the following summer.
But most importantly, she’d hired a young farmhand to help her manage things, and was considering a second.
“You’ve done incredible work,” Jake said, genuinely impressed. “Your revenue’s up fifteen percent from last quarter.”
Diane smiled. “I had a good teacher.”
“Your husband?”
“He was always better with the business side of things.” She refilled his coffee, her hands steady but her voice wavering. “After he died, I tried to do everything myself. Every damn thing. Thought I owed it to him, you know? To prove I could handle it alone.”
Jake stayed quiet, letting her talk.
“It almost killed me.” She laughed, bitter. “Literally. I was in the hospital with exhaustion and dehydration when you called me last summer. The bank letter had been sitting on my counter for three weeks. I hadn’t even opened it.”
“What changed?”
Diane looked out the window at the bare orchard. “My daughter drove down from Chattanooga. Told me I was being an idiot. That Robert would’ve wanted me to ask for help, not work myself to death trying to honor his memory. So I called you.”
Jake thought of Wes, grinding himself down to nothing.
“It’s hard to ask for help when you’re used to carrying everything yourself.”
“Damn near impossible.” Diane stood, cutting him a slice of pie without asking. “But you know what’s harder? Losing everything because you were too proud to admit you needed help.”
The pie was still warm, apples tender and sweet with a hint of nutmeg. Jake ate slowly, thinking about Wes’s workshop and the desperate way they’d come together—like they’d both been starving for something neither could name.
“This is incredible,” he said.
“Robert’s recipe. I’m finally able to make it again without crying.” She sat back down, studying him. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one my daughter gets when she’s trying to solve a problem that doesn’t have a neat answer.” Diane tilted her head. “Let me guess. Small town, holiday season, someone caught your eye who shouldn’t have?”
Jake nearly choked on his coffee. “What?”
“Honey, I’ve lived here my whole life. Nothing stays secret in Spoon for long. And you’ve got guilty written all over your face.” She leaned forward, conspiratorial. “It’s one of your other clients, isn’t it?”
“I really shouldn’t—”
“The Christmas tree farmer?”
Jake’s silence was answer enough.
Diane laughed, delighted. “Oh, I knew it. Wes Dalton, right? Big guy, beard, looks like he could wrestle a bull and win?”
“We’re not—it’s not—” Jake stammered, then gave up. “How did you know?”
“I saw Cassie Wan at the Rialto Tuesday night–Gladiator II. Pedro Pascal. Ha-cha-cha.” She lifted her arms, pretending to show off her biceps. “When I mentioned working with you, she said that you were working with him as well. It’s not so hard to put two and two together.”
“I guess not,” Jake admitted.
Her expression softened. “He’s a good man, Jake. Stubborn as hell, works himself to the bone, but he's good.”
“I know.”
“His mother, Linda, was one of my closest friends. We grew up together, went to school together. Watched our kids grow up together.” Diane’s smile turned sad.
“Losing her hurt him and his father terribly. Henry had his first little stroke—TIA, they call ‘em–two weeks after she died. It was the stress of watching her suffer, I’m sure. And Wes just… closed up. Stopped carving, stopped dreaming, stopped living anything resembling a life. Just works all the time.”
Jake thought of Wes’s hands, rough and calloused. The chainsaw carvings locked away in his workshop. The way he’d looked when Jake called him an artist, like he’d forgotten that’s what he was.
“He’s trying to change,” Jake said quietly. “Slowly.”
“Good. He deserves to be happy.” Diane reached across the table, patting Jake’s hand. “So do you.”
Jake finished his pie, helped Diane clean up, and promised to check in again after the new year. As he drove back toward Spoon, his phone buzzed, and he saw an incoming text on the rental’s center display.
Wes: Survived the Saturday rush. The farm’s a disaster. I’m a disaster. But we made good money.
Jake smiled. Using the reply option, he voice texted back: I’m proud of you. Dinner tomorrow?
Dad’s got a doctor’s appointment in the morning, and then work.
Doctor appointment? On Sunday?
Yeah, I know. It’s weird. But they do that now. It’s actually better for me because on Sundays we don’t open until noon.
Makes sense.
Monday?
I’ve got the vineyard visit.
Damn.
Tuesday?
Yeah. Definitely. Miss you.
Jake felt heat rising from within. Miss you too.
I’ll call you tonight.
He spent the rest of Saturday afternoon in his room at the Hawthorne House, working on reports and trying not to think about Wes.
He failed.
By evening, he couldn’t wait any longer. Wes answered on the second ring, breathless. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself. You sound exhausted.”
“I am. Good exhausted, though. We sold eighty trees today. Eighty. That’s almost a week’s worth in one day.”
“That’s amazing, Wes.”
“Yeah.” A pause, then softer: “Kept thinking about you, though.”
Jake closed his eyes. The phone felt warm in his hand. “Yeah?”
“Kept seeing you in the workshop. On the workbench. Your face when you—” Wes broke off, laughing. “Shit, I’m not good at this.”
“You’re doing fine.”
“I’m covered in sap, and I smell like a pine tree threw up on me.”
“Sounds sexy.”
Wes laughed again, warm and genuine. “You’re an idiot.”
“Your idiot?”
Silence. Then, quieter: “Yeah. I think so.”
They talked for another hour—about nothing and everything.
Wes told him about Miguel accidentally cutting down the wrong tree and a family from Alabama who’d bought the biggest Fraser on the lot.
Jake told him about Diane’s pie and the way the orchard looked in the winter sun, all bare branches and golden earth.
When they finally hung up, Jake sat in the dark for a while, just staring at his phone.
Sunday morning, Wes woke to the sound of his father moving around in the kitchen. The smell of coffee drifted upstairs—Henry was getting better at navigating the house, even with the cane. His physical therapist said he was making excellent progress.
Wes rolled over, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. A text from Jake, sent at six in the morning: Good luck with Henry’s appointment. Let me know how it goes.
He typed back: Will do. You still coming Tuesday?
Wouldn’t miss it.
Wes smiled, then immediately felt guilty. He was lying to his father. Not directly, but by omission. Every time Henry mentioned Jake in passing–“That banker seems sharp,” or “Nice to have someone who actually gives a damn”–Wes just nodded and changed the subject.
He’d never been good at hiding things. His mother could always read him, calling him out on his bullshit with a raised eyebrow and a knowing smirk. Henry was a little less perceptive, but he wasn’t blind.
Sooner or later, Wes was going to have to tell him.