13. Hannah
HANNAH
The lanterns go up at dusk, strung between the stalls on lines of waxed cord, and when Lily and I reach the square the whole town glows amber.
Someone has set a fiddle and a banjo against the courthouse steps, and the music drifts over the crowd.
Children chase each other between hay bales.
A woman ladles cider from a copper pot. Vendors crowd with salvaged shutters and reclaimed brass, and Lily makes a beeline for a booth heaped with old hardware before I can catch her sleeve.
"Mom. Mom, come look. They have the exact hinges for the back parlor."
"We have a budget," I remind her.
"Yeah, but I have taste."
Ruby approaches me, flushed and grinning, and loops her arm through mine. "There you are. You're not allowed to be looking responsible. Come judge the pie table with me. I need a witness when I lose."
She tows me into the warm press of bodies. It is easier than I expected, being carried along by people who know my name now, who ask about how it's going and whether the chimney still smokes. Near the bandstand, Clara has gathered a group of children onto the courthouse steps.
"Long ago," she's saying, her scarves catching the lantern light, "before the road came, travelers used to pass through these mountains by night.
Night travelers, we called them. Folks who couldn't walk in daylight, for one reason or another.
And the brave families of Briar Glen kept their lamps lit and their doors unlocked, and they sheltered them, asking no questions. "
The children stare up at her, rapt. I smile at the harmlessness, and move on. I find Lily again at the hardware section with Alaric. He has a tarnished brass escutcheon in one hand, turning it over as though it has personally offended him. He looks like he's enduring a medical procedure.
"He came," I say.
"I demanded it," Lily says. "Someone has to confirm if these are real or reproductions, and he's a snob about it."
"I am not a snob. It's a reproduction. The screw heads are wrong."
"See. Snob."
A few feet away, two older women have stopped talking to observe him, heads bent close—a small ripple of attention, respect and wariness in the same glance. Theo ambles past with a paper cup of cider and pauses.
"Blackwood," he says. "Surprised you remember where the square is."
"Maddox."
"He's seen more autumns here than all of us put together. Don't let his quiet fool you." He winks and moves off before I manage to ask what he means.
My phone buzzes. The screen says Gregory. I just stare, unamused, then step back from the noise, toward the dark margin where there are less stalls.
"Hannah." His voice is smooth, reasonable. "I'm just checking in. About Lily."
"She's fine. Having a good night."
"Good. Good." A pause shaped to make me fill it. I don't. "I have to say, I worry. Pulling her out of everything she knew, dragging her up some mountain on a whim—"
"It wasn't a whim."
"You always did this. Decide first, think later. I'm only saying it as someone who—"
"You're saying it as my ex-husband," I blurt out, and I'm surprised by how level I sound. "Lily's enrolled, she's settled, she's happy. If you want to talk to her, call her. Goodnight, Gregory."
I end the call before he can find the next issue to relay. I'm less steady, but at least I'm still standing where I get to choose.
When I turn, Alaric is a little way off, near the old footbridge. He isn't eyeing me, exactly. He's simply there, giving me space. I find I'm grateful for that. I walk over. The lanterns end a few yards behind us; ahead, the creek talks to itself.
"My ex-husband," I say.
"I gathered."
"He has a gift for making concern sound like a major problem.
" I watch the water. "I couldn't tell the difference until I up and left.
He'd ask if I was sure about something, and I'd un-decide it.
It's only recent I hear my own voice again, under his.
" I glance at him. "Being believed matters to me more than it probably should. "
"I've lived with silence too long," he says.
"To the point that it stopped feeling like a choice.
There was a time I mistook grief for loyalty.
I thought if I kept apart, if I stayed still, I was honoring what I'd lost." He studies the creek, not me.
"Then I forgot what it felt like to be expected anywhere.
To have someone notice when I wasn't there. "
"And now?"
"Now your daughter texts me about hinges at eleven at night." The corner of his mouth moves, almost. "It's disorienting."
I giggle, low, and we stay there, close to each other. I feel cold lifting off him, he's that close, but he doesn't choose to step closer, and neither do I, although I kind of want to.
"Mom!" Lily, somewhere behind us. "Mom, come here, you have to see this."
She's at the history display under the bandstand, a corkboard of town photographs. She points to one near the bottom—a faded harvest crowd from decades ago, men in hats, women in long coats.
"Look at this guy," she says, half a joke in her voice and something else underneath. "Tell me that's not—" She stops. Tilts her head. The man in the frame is dark-haired, half-turned from the camera. "Weird. Never mind."
But she doesn't remove her eyes from it. And before we walk back toward the lanterns, I see her glance once over her shoulder, then slip out her phone and quietly snap a picture of the photo.