Chapter 10 Rhett #2
He turned, a small smile gracing his features. “Yeah. Just checking in with Bronwyn about setup for today. She’s already at the square, directing the caterers like a five-star general.”
I chuckled, sitting up to press a kiss to his shoulder. “Sounds about right. What time do we need to be there?”
“Ten,” he replied, setting his phone aside. “Which gives us approximately an hour and a half to shower, eat, and get ourselves presentable.”
I pulled him back down beside me, nuzzling into his neck. “Or we could skip breakfast and be a little less presentable...”
Moses laughed, the sound vibrating against my lips. “Tempting, but no. I need to be fully functional and coherent for this. Rain check?”
“I suppose,” I sighed dramatically, releasing him. “But I’m holding you to that rain check.”
“I would expect nothing less,” he replied, dropping a quick kiss on my lips before heading to the shower.
We arrived at the town square precisely at ten, finding it transformed from its usual quiet charm into a bustling hub of activity.
Tables had been set up in a semicircle around the restored Paul Bunyan statue, a bold choice that didn’t escape my notice.
Bronwyn had positioned Moses’s gin tasting station directly opposite the statue, ensuring he would face the symbol of his past as he embraced his future.
“Symbolic,” I murmured to Moses as we approached.
“Bronwyn’s idea of subtle psychological therapy,” he replied, but there was no bitterness in his tone. “Facing your demons and all that.”
“Is it working?” I asked.
He considered the statue thoughtfully. “You know, I think it is. It’s just a hunk of wood and metal now. Not the monster I built it up to be in my mind.”
Throughout the morning, people trickled into the square, some clearly there for the free food and drinks, others making a point to stop by Moses’s station to sample his gin selections and, more importantly, to talk.
I helped where needed, pouring samples and explaining the different botanicals, but mostly I watched Moses, the way he engaged with each person, his genuine smile, his animated expressions when discussing his passion for distillation.
“He’s good with people,” a voice observed beside me. I turned to find Vanessa, stunning in a summery dress, watching the scene with the same appreciation I felt.
“When he lets himself be,” I agreed. “He’s kept people at a distance for so long, it’s remarkable how naturally he connects when he drops his guard.”
“Trauma does that,” she said thoughtfully. “Makes us build walls, keep secrets, hold parts of ourselves back. It takes courage to be open again, to risk being seen.”
I nodded, understanding the wisdom in her words. “He’s the bravest person I know,” I said simply.
“You’re good for him,” Vanessa replied, bumping my shoulder with hers. “You always were, even back in high school. The way you looked at him then, like he hung the moon and stars, it gave him something to believe in when not much else did.”
“I didn’t fight for him then,” I said, the old regret surfacing despite everything. “When he took the blame for the statue, when he pulled away, I let him go.”
“You were young,” she reminded me gently. “Both of you were. But you’re here now, when it counts.”
Before I could respond, a commotion near the entrance to the square caught our attention. Mayor Hayes had arrived, alone and looking distinctly uncomfortable. The crowd parted slightly, conversations quieting as people noticed his presence.
“This should be interesting,” Vanessa muttered, straightening as if preparing for confrontation. “Mayor Hayes hasn’t shown his face publicly since Soren admitted all and he tried to cover it up. It’s hard to retract someone's omission.”
I watched as the mayor made his way slowly through the gathering, nodding stiffly to those who acknowledged him. He was heading directly for Moses, his expression unreadable but his purpose clear.
“Should we intervene?” I asked Vanessa, tensing slightly.
She considered for a moment, then shook her head. “Let’s see what he wants first. Mayor Hayes may be many things, but he’s not stupid enough to cause a scene at a public event.”
Moses turned just as Mayor Hayes approached, his expression shifting from surprise to wariness as his son appeared after being absent from the town since his admission. Soren ignored his dad and moved closer to us all, a gesture I’m sure that didn’t go unnoticed by the mayor.
I couldn’t hear the initial exchange, but I saw Moses’s posture shift from defensive to attentive. The mayor was speaking quietly, earnestly, his usual political bluster notably absent. After a moment, Moses nodded, gesturing toward a quieter corner of the square.
“I’m going to eavesdrop,” Vanessa decided, already moving in their direction.
“Vanessa,” I began, but she waved off my protest. “My dad’s over there too.” She winked.
Unable to argue with her logic, and admittedly curious myself, I followed, keeping a discreet distance but close enough to hear their conversation.
“I want to be clear,” the mayor was saying as we approached, “this is not an official apology on behalf of the town or my family. That would require discussions with the council and legal considerations I’m not prepared to undertake.”
“I’m not looking for an official apology,” Moses replied evenly. “I made my peace with what happened a long time ago.”
Mayor Hayes nodded, seeming to gather himself. “Nevertheless, I feel I owe you a personal acknowledgment. I... I handled the situation poorly twenty years ago. I was quick to accept the explanation that painted my son in the best light, without questioning him.”
Moses remained silent, his expression carefully neutral as the mayor continued.
“Yes,” Moses agreed simply.
The mayor looked uncomfortable with Moses’s direct response, clearly having expected either angry rejection or grateful acceptance of his half-apology. Getting neither, he shifted tactics.
“I also wanted to let you know,” the mayor continued, straightening his shoulders slightly, “that I’ve spoken with your father. I made it clear that I do not expect or require him to disavow you or your statements. Whatever rift exists between you should not be on my account.”
This seemed to genuinely surprise Moses. “Thank you,” he said after a moment. “That was... unexpected.”
“Yes, well,” the mayor cleared his throat awkwardly, “it seemed the right thing to do.”
An uncomfortable silence fell between them, twenty years of misunderstanding and pain too complex to be resolved in a single conversation.
The mayor nodded once more to Moses, acknowledged me with a brief glance, then turned and made his way back through the crowd, his posture slightly less rigid than when he’d arrived.
“Well,” Vanessa said once he was out of earshot, “that was unexpected.”
“Very,” Moses agreed, looking somewhat shell-shocked. “Did he just... apologize? In his own politically calculated way?”
“I believe he did,” I confirmed, moving to stand beside Moses, my hand finding his in a gesture of support.
“And apparently, he’s intervened with your father as well.
I believe mine too.” She showed me her cell and the message from her dad about the situation.
“Seems things are settling down around here.”
Moses shook his head, clearly trying to process this development. “I don’t know what to make of that. My fathers not that easily influenced, especially when his pride is at stake.”
“True,” Vanessa acknowledged, “but Mayor Hayes can be persuasive when he wants to be. And he does have leverage; your father’s business depends heavily on contracts with the town and Hayes family connections.”
“Political self-interest dressed as moral rectitude,” Moses mused. “Classic Richard Hayes.”
“But potentially helpful for you,” I pointed out.
Moses nodded slowly, the idea taking root. “Maybe. Not today, though.” He glanced around the square, at the gathering that had continued uninterrupted despite the mayor’s brief appearance. “Today is about moving forward, not rehashing the past.”
As if to emphasize his point, Bronwyn appeared, clipboard in hand and determination in her stride. “If you three are done with your clandestine meeting, we have a gin tasting to run and about thirty people waiting to sample Moses’s new citrus blend.”
“Duty calls,” Moses said with a small smile, squeezing my hand before releasing it. “We’ll talk more later?”
“Definitely,” I promised, watching as he returned to his station, immediately engaging with the waiting customers, his passion for his craft evident in every gesture.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a pleasant blur of tastings, conversations, and unexpected moments of connection.
I watched Moses move through the crowd with growing confidence, accepting congratulations on his gin selections and, occasionally, quiet words of support regarding his recent revelations.
As the event wound down, I found myself standing before the Paul Bunyan statue, studying the craftsmanship of the restoration I’d designed so many years ago.
It was solid work, I noted with professional pride, the wooden figure imposing yet benevolent, a symbol of the town’s logging heritage that had taken on new meaning in recent days.
“You did a good job with him,” Moses said, appearing at my side. “He looks almost friendly now.”
“That was the idea,” I admitted. “The original always looked a bit menacing to me. When they commissioned the restoration, I thought he could use a kinder expression.”
Moses studied the statue thoughtfully. “Symbolic. Transforming something broken into something better than it was before.”
“I might have been working through some personal issues in my design,” I acknowledged with a small smile.
He bumped his shoulder against mine, a casual gesture of intimacy that felt both new and familiar. “Well, it worked. Both the statue and the personal processing, it seems.”
“It did,” I agreed, turning to face him fully. “Which brings me to tomorrow.”
“Ah yes, your mysterious plans,” Moses said, curiosity evident in his expression. “Care to share any details?”
“Just that it involves a short drive and might change how we think about the future,” I replied, deliberately vague. “Pack light. We’ll be back by evening.”
“Intriguing,” he murmured, eyes searching mine. “And slightly worrying. Should I be concerned?”
“Not at all,” I assured him, reaching for his hand. “Just trust me.”
“I do,” he said simply, those two words carrying the weight of twenty years of separation, of hurt overcome, of faith restored.
As we walked back toward the hotel, the square emptying behind us, I felt a sense of rightness settle over me.
Tomorrow, I would show Moses the property I’d been considering, a beautiful old farmhouse just outside Gomillion that would make a perfect weekend retreat, a middle ground between Boston and Atlanta while we figured out our next steps.
It was a gesture, a possibility, a way of saying without words that I was committed to making this work, to finding a path forward together after twenty years apart.
Whether he saw it as romantic or presumptuous remained to be seen, but I was done with half-measures where Moses Morley was concerned.
This time, I was all in.