8. Wrenley
EIGHT
WRENLEY
T he weight of a five-year-old’s hug is surprisingly effective at keeping a packed suitcase exactly where it is.
Ivy’s arms are a warm vise around my neck, her small body pressed so tightly against mine I can feel the fast thump of her heart, or maybe it’s mine.
Saint’s footsteps recede, the click of the back door soft but final. He’s gone, leaving behind the lingering aroma of dark coffee and cologne, the type of morning hit that makes me inhale deeply.
It’s the kind of scent that doesn’t announce itself with a shout. Instead, it settles into the background, a subtle, woody spice that draws you in without you realizing why. It’s entirely too appealing for a man who communicates primarily through grunts and glares.
Why that particular brand of broken, grumpy, and utterly captivating man pulls at something deep inside me, I can’t explain. It’s not logical. I came to Falcon Haven seeking quiet, anonymity, a respite from emotional storms, not to stand in the path of a Category 5 human.
Yet, maybe it’s the way his gruffness occasionally cracks, revealing glimpses of the aching grief and fierce love warring within him, like that moment in his office when he’d tended to my scratches with such unexpected gentleness.
Or how he looks at his daughter with a tenderness that could melt glaciers.
There’s no artifice, no carefully constructed charm with him.
What you see is what you get, even if what you get is a scowl and a sarcastic remark.
After years of swimming in the shallow end of performative online personalities, his grounded, unfiltered presence is bracing.
Like a shot of straight espresso instead of a saccharine latte.
“Are you really, really staying?” Ivy mumbles into my shoulder, her voice thick with leftover sleep and a touch of lingering worry.
“Really, really,” I confirm, loosening my arms just enough to look at her. Her blue eyes, so like her father’s in their intensity but softer, search mine. “For a little while, anyway. Two whole weeks.”
I push aside the inconvenient truth that Saint, in all his tattooed glory, is starting to feel less like a temporary boss and more like a very complicated craving.
She beams. “I’m glad you’re not leaving. Now you can paint with me every day!”
“We’ll see about every day,” I say, ruffling her already wild hair. “But today is definitely a painting day. After we get home from school.”
She giggles and slides off my lap, heading for the low cupboard containing her cereal boxes with the unerring focus of a heat-seeking missile.
While Ivy crunches her way through a mountain of brightly colored O’s, she outlines her plans for our next fourteen days. They involve a lot of glitter, opening a potential mud pie bakery, and teaching me all the words to a song about a llama who wears pajamas.
The thought of doing all this with Ivy is unexpectedly endearing.
Two weeks. It’s a breath, a pause button on my life, yet not a full stop.
The relief that flooded me when Saint asked me to stay, however reluctantly, felt far too significant for a temporary gig.
It felt like being thrown a lifeline when I hadn’t noticed how badly I was drowning.
“Earth to Miss Wrenley!” Ivy waves a spoon in front of my face. “Are you thinking about Papa’s cranky morning face? You look like you are, ‘cause you’re making the same face.”
“Something like that,” I admit, my cheeks warming. “Let’s get you dressed.”
The morning routine is smoother this time, less about deciphering Saint’s seventeen-step manifesto and more about Ivy’s enthusiastic narration of her dream about a talking raccoon who wanted to borrow her sparkly shoes.
We had a different song for teeth-brushing this time, a pop tune about believing in yourself that Ivy sang at the top of her lungs, and another, slightly more complex braid that winds around the crown of her head that earns me an impressed, “Wow!”
The drive to Little Acorns Elementary is blessedly uneventful. No rogue squirrels, no sudden stops, no new additions to the Range Rover’s growing collection of character marks.
I pull into the drop-off line with the practiced ease of a seasoned parent, which is laughable, but I’ll take the small victories. Ivy scrambles out after I reach behind and unclasp the buckles of her car seat, backpack already halfway off her shoulder.
“Bye, Miss Wrenley! ”
“In a while, crocodile!” I call back, watching her skip toward the school entrance.
While she’s in school, I plan to really explore the downtown. The morning chill has burned off, leaving behind a perfect September day, the kind that makes you want to buy a pumpkin spice something, even if you don’t particularly like pumpkin spice.
I could just record a few clips. For myself. No one needs to see them. A visual diary.
But the thought of hitting record brings a familiar prickle of anxiety.
The lens, even on my phone, feels like an eye, and I’ve had enough eyes on me to last a lifetime.
Falcon Haven is my escape, my anonymous haven.
Documenting it, even for my own private collection, feels like a betrayal of its quaintness, a crack in the sanctuary walls.
Still, the urge to capture it—to bottle this feeling of peace and simple beauty—is strong. What if I forget? What if the sharp edges of this memory dull over time?
As if it knows I’m thinking of it, my phone buzzes in my purse. Pulling it out on a sigh, I read the notification. It’s an email from my agent.
Subject: Still alive?
Wren,
Heard you’d gone off-grid. Hope you’re not holed up in a cabin somewhere writing a manifesto.
Or worse, knitting. Listen, funny thing.
Was chatting with a contact, and guess whose name popped up, practically vibrating with untapped potential?
Bernard Toussaint. Apparently, your new neck of the woods is his reclusive kingdom.
The man’s a culinary unicorn, darling. Brooding, brilliant, and tragically widowed.
Basically, catnip for the masses. Just a thought, but if you were ever considering a gentle re-entry like a ‘finding myself in a small town with a hot, emotionally unavailable chef’ arc could be gold.
Pure, unadulterated, monetizable gold. People are starving for authenticity, and what’s more authentic than a fallen influencer finding solace (and maybe love?) among the heirloom tomatoes?
Unless, of course, you’re still not feeling up to…
well, you know. Facing the world. After everything.
No pressure, obviously. But the algorithm waits for no one, kiddo.
Let me know if you’re ready to rise from the ashes, phoenix-style.
Just marinate on it for me. It’s all I ask.
XOXO, Brenda
My stomach plummets. Brenda Chu. Of course. She has a bloodhound’s nose for opportunity and the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
The casual mention of Saint and the way she framed him as a potential “arc” makes my skin crawl. She doesn’t know I’m nannying for him. My agent just sees an angle, a story to spin, another chance to package a life for consumption.
Not to mention the casual, dismissive “after everything,” she added, as if that encompasses the complete meltdown my millions of followers witnessed.
As if the public implosion—the weeks I couldn’t leave my apartment, the feeling of a million eyes dissecting my every mistake—was just a minor hiccup, a temporary setback in the content creation game.
The phone feels slick in my hand.
I shove it back into my purse, the screen dark, but Brenda’s words resonate, bright and intrusive, in the quiet car.
Marinate on it.
I’d rather marinate in a vat of actual acid.
A loud, prolonged honk sounds out behind me, making me jump out of my skin. I’m about to apologize profusely and drive off when a shadow falls over my open window.
“You’re holding up the car line. Wrenley, was it?”
“Miss Erin.” I give her a close-lipped smile.
Her floral dress today is a symphony in muted pinks and greens, and her voice is as crisp as her ironed collar. Her gaze flicks over the Range Rover, lingering for a moment on the front bumper, though the new dent isn’t visible from this angle.
Erin says, “Mr. Toussaint asked me to keep an extra eye on Ivy today. He was concerned over yesterday’s incident.”
The way she says “incident” makes it sound like I’d driven the SUV into a fireworks factory. My knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
Brenda’s email, Erin’s condescending tone … it’s a one-two punch to my already frayed nerves.
“Saint was concerned about Ivy, yes,” I say, keeping my voice even. “As he should be. She’s his daughter.”
“He and I had a long chat this morning about ensuring her environment remains stable. He values my input, especially when it comes to new influences.”
Her gaze flicks to my pink streak, then back to my face.
The implication isn’t lost on me: You, flighty girl with your pink hair and dented cars, are not what Ivy, or Saint, needs .
“Well, I’m glad Saint has such a dedicated professional he can confide in,” I reply, my own smile just as saccharine. “Accidents happen. Luckily, it’s just metal and easily fixed. Unlike, say, a chronically judgmental attitude. That’s much harder to buff out.”
Erin’s smile falters for a millisecond before snapping back into place. “Mr. Toussaint relies on those of us who provide a more consistent, grounded influence in Ivy’s life. He and I have been discussing potential long-term solutions for Ivy’s care. Someone with the right qualifications.”
“How proactive,” I say, offering her my own version of a bright, meaningless smile. “It’s always good to have a plan B. Or C. Or, in some cases, all the way to Z. Have a wonderful day, Miss Erin.”
As I drive off, I offer a cheerful little wave that I hope conveys utter indifference to her territorial display. But the image of Saint calling her personal cell, saying her name, confiding in her, stings more than I want to admit.