Chapter 11 #2
But I’m still not sure how I feel about the revelation that Jim was my biological father.
I know Milo would say my detachment is strangling my mitochondria, which is the true cause of my back pain, rather than tree climbing and brothel-couch acrobatics, and I do sort of sense that there’s this giant wall of emotions in the back of my brain, just waiting to tip into a landslide, but at this exact moment, they’re not touching me.
“Ada…” I hesitate, then push forward. “You knew Jim, right? Did you, ah… did you know he was my biological father?”
She goes very still, then sets down her donut and really looks at me. Her expression shifts from casual to assessing, like she’s seeing me for the first time.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” she says finally. “I didn’t know, but maybe I should’ve. You’ve got the same hair—golden spun sugar. Same spirit, too, in some ways.”
“Me and Jim?” I snort. “I’m a professional with a career. I have no desire to talk to mushrooms or build a wacky treehouse. Or to donate sperm to create a child but insist on keeping it secret until I’m dead.”
I blow out a breath. That came out sounding judgy when I’d been aiming for blasé. I’ve been telling myself I have no feelings whatsoever about this, but maybe I do.
“Jim was a sweetheart, but he had a vision of what he thought his life should be,” she says carefully.
“He thought he was meant to be a free spirit. Time and again, he had opportunities to put down roots and build lasting relationships, but he’d pick up stakes and leave.
I think at a certain point, he knew the life he was trying to get wasn’t what his soul actually needed.
But for all his free-spiritedness, the pigheaded man didn’t know how to adapt. ”
“That’s not me,” I tell her, stung. “The person you’re describing isn’t like me at all. I never wanted to leave New York. I want roots. I had roots. All kinds of roots.”
But even as I say it, I wonder if those roots were as deep as I’d thought. New York let me go pretty easily, and no one but Milo seems to care that I’m gone.
“Glad to hear it, for your sake,” Ada says mildly. “There’s a reason Jim and I never tied the knot.”
“You and Jim? Were…”
“Together? Oh yeah. For half a second, twenty-one years ago. He was a character, and I dug his sarongs.” She winks. “I’m only human.”
I feel more emotion at this news than I did about hearing Jim was my biological father.
“I keep waiting for some big emotion to hit me about the whole father thing,” I hear myself admit.
“Anger, grief, something. But I had two great moms. And Jim’s choices aren’t the ones I would have made, but he never signed up to be a dad.
He didn’t owe me anything, but he left me his treehouse.
So maybe… maybe I shouldn’t have any big feelings. ”
Ada shrugs. “I don’t know that should has anything to do with it. Neither does biology, when it comes down to it. He gave you what he had to give, and what you do with the things he gave you, whether it’s your hair or that treehouse, is all up to you.”
That hits me hard because I’ve spent the past week and a half trying to figure out what Jim would want. Piecing together clues to figure out who Jim even was and why he did the things he did. But she’s right. Whatever I do with my life or the treehouse is up to me.
“That’s… helpful, Ada,” I say softly. “Thanks.”
“So many men think I’m just a pretty face.” She grins. “That’s how I lure ’em in. Then I spring my intelligence on ’em when it’s too late.”
Laughing, I climb up on the stepladder to clothespin the JG Flummery poster to the bunting, still processing everything Ada said. I stretch to reach the perfect spot… when the shop door suddenly bangs open.
I startle so hard the ladder tilts sideways, and for a horrifying moment, I’m falling backward with my arms windmilling uselessly—
Strong hands catch me around the waist, steadying both me and the ladder, and I find my face pressed against a broad, solid chest. I breathe in the scent of sawdust and pine.
A scent so good and already so familiar I’d recognize it anywhere.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Beckett’s hands are warm and sure around my waist, and his breath tickles my ear.
My whole body flashes hot, and I’m suddenly very aware of how our bodies fit together, how his thumbs are resting in what’s become their designated parking spot just above my hip bones and my face is pressed against warm flannel.
I tilt my head back just a little, and our gazes lock.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” I say in a voice gone whistly.
“You okay?” he asks roughly.
“Yeah, I…” I clear my throat and try to force my brain to make words. “Yes. Thank you.”
It takes another beat before he seems to remember that he should set me back on my feet, and even then, his hands linger on my waist a moment longer than necessary.
“So it’s like that, is it?” Ada murmurs under her breath, thoroughly entertained.
Beckett steps back quickly, cheeks going pink above his beard.
Sadly, from the heat in my own cheeks, I know he’s not the only one blushing.
“My, ah… my mom asked me to bring you this.” He picks up a small, well-wrapped package he dropped on the floor and hands it to Ada. “She said you needed it for your window display?”
“Perfect timing!” Ada crows. “Vivian offered to have Truett carve me some pickle ornaments. Winsome is lucky to have so much local talent, aren’t we, Beckett?”
“Uh…” Beckett frowns. “Sure?”
She smiles mischievously. “I was just thinking Griffin needs to see more of our local charm. The shops and restaurants, galleries and artisans. You know, to improve the tourism marketing campaign he’ll be sharing with the town at Hello, Winsome.”
I narrow my eyes, not sure what part of our Big Dill strategy involves telling the competition what we’re doing. “I’ve seen plenty of places already,” I say. “And researched even more.”
“But you’ve barely scratched the surface!
How many local eateries have you visited, for example?
You can’t talk about the food scene in Winsome if you’ve only ever been to Watchfire.
Not that there’s anything wrong with Watchfire, of course,” she adds to Beckett, who’s still wearing a confused frown.
“I’ve been to the farmer’s market,” I protest. “And Fox Creamery. And I ate muffins from Ruby’s Diner—”
“Pfft. Muffins.” She shakes her head. “Beckett, you’ve been to Ruby’s a time or two. What’s your favorite thing on the menu?”
“I, uh… waffles?” Beckett shakes his head. “Anyway, I’d better get back to work—”
“Waffles!” Ada closes her eyes like she’s about to faint from ecstasy. “Oh, god. The ones with the apple cinnamon topping and the whipped cream!”
Beckett and I exchange a confused glance, and I shrug. I have no idea what’s happening right now.
Ada’s eyes pop open. “Well, there you go, then. Hello, Winsome’s only a few days away, and Griffin can’t possibly present his marketing campaign on Sunday until he’s tried the waffles. Isn’t that right, Beckett?”
Beckett looks like a deer caught in headlights. “I didn’t say—”
“So you should take him over,” she concludes. “Now.”
“Ohhhh, no—” Beckett and I say at the same time.
Before either of us can finish our protests, though, the door chimes again, and one of the women from the Brine planning committee comes in.
“Ada, I was hoping to catch you—oh, sorry to interrupt!” She spots me and Beckett and smiles. “Hello, Beckett. And Griffin! I’m Eleanor Hartwell, town council.”
“Nice to meet you,” I manage, shaking her hand. I try to ignore that Beckett’s standing just close enough for me to feel the warmth radiating off him, but I’m sure my awareness shows on my face.
“Eleanor, Griffin and Beckett here were just about to head over to the diner for waffles. Isn’t that wonderful?” Ada says innocently.
Eleanor’s eyes light up with interest. “It is! Research for this tourism marketing campaign of yours, Griffin? I’ve heard good things. I’m excited for Hello, Winsome on Sunday! And Beckett’s the perfect guide. I bet he knows every inch of this town, don’t you, Beckett?”
And just like that, we’re trapped. Neither of us wants to say no and risk seeming rude to a council member. Which is how, five minutes later, I’m back in my fleece, walking down Whether Street with Beckett.
Or, more accurately, Beckett’s striding down the street silently while I double-time to keep up and try not to obsess about how his hands felt on my waist.
When a delivery truck rumbles past a little too close to the sidewalk, Beckett instinctively steps closer, creating a barrier between me and the street. It’s such a small gesture, but it makes my whole chest warm.
“This is ridiculous,” I say, stopping short. “We did the scavenger hunt together. We went on a woodland adventure. You yanked me out of a tree. Surely we can eat waffles without being weird.”
Beckett crosses his arms over his chest and raises a skeptical eyebrow. If the edge of his lips hadn’t twitched, I might have thought he blamed me for this surprise waffle attack.
“Seriously,” I insist. “We just won’t talk about… you know. Certain things.”
He laughs. “Which things? Are we not talking about the easement? Or the Big Dill? Or…” He steps closer. “The sound you make when you’re choking on my dick?”
I shoot him a glare because way to make it very weird. “All of that,” I say firmly.
Amusement flickers across his face. “Fine, then what should we talk about? Wanna tell me all about this tourism marketing campaign of yours, city boy?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure you’re dying to know, given how much you hate outsiders.”
Beckett shakes his head. “You’ve got to stop listening to Derek Sullivan.”
“How’d you know it was him?” I ask.
“Because Derek Sullivan has it out for Axford Lumber, which means he has it out for me. That’s why he made you that neighborly offer to buy your land yesterday.”