Chapter 20
“You Better Not Pout”
The wipers screeched against the windshield in a tense rhythm, flinging slush and salt grime from one side to the other the two blades waged an endless grudge. Wren’s hands clutched the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip as she navigated the treacherous roads without blinking.
Massive snowbanks rose on the shoulders, making the streets of Hideaway Harbor narrower. More snow threatened this afternoon into the evening, which meant Greyson would likely sleep all day and disappear around dinner time for another round of plowing.
She wanted to make it safely back to The Haven before the next temperature shift. Right now, the sun blazed and the drifts melted, but as soon as the temperature dropped again, all that slush would turn to ice.
Her palms grew slick with sweat despite the cold, and her heart hammered against her ribs with each slight slide of the tires. Every turn brought flashes of that terrible December night when her mother never made it home, when winter claimed two lives in a single, senseless moment.
“I hate this,” she whispered to herself, swallowing as the car slid ever so slightly on a turn. She tapped the brake, slow and steady like Greyson had taught her years ago.
She’d avoided driving until she turned eighteen. Greyson told her she needed to face her fears. He forced her behind the wheel of his truck and taught her how to drive, despite her constant complaining and worries.
That happened right around the time he started building his cabin in the woods—feeding his own demons. But by the time she passed her driver’s test, he had disappeared again for another year-long expedition at sea with the fishery.
She now realized he’d disappeared like that to avoid what he couldn’t control. Whenever they got close, he pulled away. Part of her still feared his old habits might resurface, which explained why she felt perfectly fine with taking things slow.
When another car rushed by, startling her, she winced, wondering again why she had chosen to do this.
“You’re doing this for Greyson,” she reminded herself.
Over the years, he’d shown patience with Bodhi. He always stepped in whenever they needed something she couldn’t manage on her own. Now, her turn had come to do the same. But the truth was, she owed Magnus Hawthorne nothing.
After years of disparaging remarks and resentment towards his sons, the boys held little expectation that their father would change in the short time he had left.
Magnus had trained his sons to hide their emotions, and now, as he reached the end of his life, he reaped what he sowed.
Three sons and not a glimpse of concern or emotion over his peril.
The truth was, she was doing this as much for herself as for Greyson. Her mother’s voice echoed in her memory, “Even the thorniest roses need love and water, sweetheart.”
Magnus Hawthorne might be dying alone by his own design, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t ease his suffering. As Haven’s daughter, she felt compelled to put even the most difficult men at ease, but she also felt she owed this visit to Sable.
Relief flooded her when she made it to the hospital in one piece. Wren pried her fingers from the wheel and took a few minutes to simply regulate her breathing.
The hospital smelled like lemon disinfectant until she reached the wing where Magnus stayed.
The subdued scent of a luxury furniture store overtook the air.
The floor gleamed like a gallery, and the art on the walls wasn’t mass-printed.
Instead, it showcased collection pieces from local artists, featuring coastal oil paintings displayed in brass frames.
The Hawthornes had built the wing before Sable died.
But she never had the chance to use it. The irony wasn’t lost on her—Sable had helped plan this beautiful space meant to heal the wealthy and powerful, but died before she could benefit from her own generosity.
Instead, her bitter husband would likely be its most prominent patient.
Wren hated hospitals, so she tried to pretend she simply walked through an ordinary hall in an ordinary building, and all those beeps and bells sounded like creaks and birds chirping.
She adjusted the woven basket on her arm and covered the collection of self-care items she brought.
They weren’t anything special, just a few things she had around the spa, but she had chosen each item to bring Magnus a little peace.
Handmade peppermint balm, beeswax salve for the rough spots of his heels, elbows, and hands, a lavender eye pillow, some infused oils to help with inflammation, an old hardcover biography of Reagan, and a knit throw Bodhi insisted she bring.
At the end of the hall, a polished brass plate read, Private Suite: M. Hawthorne.
She hesitated, drawing in a deep breath. Magnus had earned a reputation for cutting his sons off mid-sentence and he took no issue verbally eviscerating them in Wren’s presence—most likely because he never took much notice when she entered a room.
She steadied her hand and knocked lightly—then entered before she could lose her nerve. “Knock, knock.”
The room looked more like a hotel than a hospital. A sitting area occupied the corner, complete with tufted chairs, heavy navy drapes framing a wall of windows, and a side table with a crystal water pitcher and cut-glass tumblers no nurse had ever touched.
Magnus lay sunken into a reclined hospital bed positioned toward the windows. If he spoke, she couldn’t hear him over the murmur of the television. As she rounded the bed, she met his ice-blue eyes over the oxygen mask and smiled nervously.
The sight of him shocked her more than she’d expected.
This was Magnus Hawthorne—the man who’d intimidated her since childhood, who commanded rooms with his presence and could silence his grown sons with a look.
Now he appeared diminished, almost fragile, his powerful frame reduced to sharp angles beneath the hospital blankets.
“Hi, Mr. Hawthorne.” While Sable had always just been Sable, Wren had never received an invitation to call Magnus by his first name. She only referred to him as such in the presence of the boys, who also called him Magnus. She set down the basket with a shaky hand. “I brought you some presents.”
His brow furrowed with confusion as she lowered the basket gently, not wanting to rattle the glass of water.
“Is it okay that I’m here?”
He didn’t respond with a yes or a no.
“If you’re too tired for visitors, I can come back.”
His rheumatoid finger pointed to the chair, slow and unsteady, then lowered with a commanding gesture. She obediently dropped into the seat.
Months had passed since she last saw him, and the changes in his build startled her.
The bare arms peeking from the gown revealed crepe skin that sagged where muscles had once shaped his limbs.
Pale skin collapsed beneath his cheekbones where the fabric strap of the oxygen mask pressed.
Most startling was the unexpected sight of him unshaven with his hair tousled from sleep.
Seeing a man who had always been so put together in a state of coming apart felt wrong.
A blanket covered his chest, but his weight loss was obvious. Beneath the translucent creases of his eyes, his glare was sharp and observant. He looked at the basket then back to her.
“I brought you a few things to make your stay more…” Her words faded, and she cleared her throat, trying again. “Just some creature comforts and things that help me when I’m not feeling well.”
She struggled with long silences—they made her nervous.
She pulled the folded throw off the basket and said, “Whenever I’m sick, I always like to have a cozy blanket.” She draped the soft material over his legs.
Still no response.
Maybe this visit had been a mistake. “Anyway… I won’t stay long. Just wanted to check in.”
Magnus lifted a trembling hand to the mask and pulled it aside, wheezing as if that slight exertion had cost him.
She jumped up. “Do you need something?”
“Sit.”
She dropped back into the chair. “Yes, sir.”
He studied her for a long, hard minute. “I thought you were one of Logan’s… pursuits.”
She blushed and shook her head. “No, sir.”
“Hmm.” He took a long breath from the mask then moved it aside. “So you brought me—what—herbs and knitted things?”
His tone dripped with condescension, each word designed to make her feel foolish. Wren’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, but she forced herself to remain calm.
“I actually forgot the tea, but…” Realizing that he was mocking her gift, she wilted. “I can just go.” She stood again, this time collecting her basket.
“Sit.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry.” She dropped to the chair again, now protectively holding the basket on her lap. “I’m nervous.” Why had she told him that? “Sorry.” And she wasn’t supposed to apologize.
He frowned. “Let’s see what else you brought.”
Her gift seemed foolish now, so she reached for the most conservative item inside. “I, um, brought you a book. It’s a biography.” She flashed the cover. “I remembered you saying, once, that Ronald Reagan carried himself like a big tent showman.”
“Smiled too much,” he agreed. “Too busy performing for those he should have shut down.”
Her hand shook as she set the book on the bedside table. “I thought maybe you’d like something to read.”
“Books are a female hobby.” His lips pulled tight. “That was Sable’s job. Reading. Nurturing. Men follow current affairs and are better off sticking to newspapers.”
He spoke his deceased wife’s name with bitter venom, revealing more than she’d ever understood about their marriage. Wren stayed very still, unsure how to respond.
Magnus eyed her critically. “You’re a carbon copy of your mother.”
“I like to think so.”
He looked away, turning his attention to the window. “Unexpected visitors tell me things look worse than I feel.”
“How do you feel?”
“Like I’m dying.”
Bodhi would have said something like ‘we’re all dying’, but she didn’t think Magnus would appreciate that kind of enlightened observation.
A wet cough shook his frame, the sound jarring and painful to hear.
He took a few deep breaths from the oxygen mask.
Wren used the pause in conversation to lay out the contents of the basket.
As a defense mechanism, she shifted into professional mode, handing him a glass of water.
After he sipped and his breathing calmed, he leaned back and eyed her with suspicion.
“Why are you really here?”
Wren paused. She couldn’t very well explain that his roots had tangled and he needed light, so she said, “This is what I do.”
“Visit hospitals?”
“Help people relax.”
“I’m on a gurney. Do I look particularly stressed to you?” His stare didn’t waver.
“I think you’ve led a life with higher stress than most.”
“You’re correct there.”
Wealthy men struggled to empathize with the hardships of the less fortunate. They also failed to accept a reality outside of the one they chose.
Men like Magnus believed they were masters of the universe, until the universe proved they were not.
Disease offered a powerless position that powerful men rarely enjoyed.
It exposed vulnerabilities they didn’t want to acknowledge.
Watching him now, reduced to oxygen masks and hospital gowns, she saw how terrifying it must be for someone who’d controlled everything to lose control of his own body.
“Have they been taking good care of you?”
“If you consider good care three lukewarm meals a day, thin blankets, and a draft.”
“Well, you’re lucky I brought you an extra blanket then, aren’t you? And, I’m yours for the next hour.”
“Oh?” He perked up.
“Not…” Oh dear. “Not in that way.” She uncapped the salve, and worked the waxy ointment between her fingers, warming it. “Have you ever had a hand massage before?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Then you’re in for a treat. I brought a special oil infused with rosemary and peppermint to help with the swelling in your hands.”
“Is that what I smell?”
Rather than acknowledge his snide tone and unappreciative comment, she asked, “Do your joints hurt?”
“Only for the last thirty years.”
“This will help.” She stood, holding out a lavender eye mask. “Just relax.” She slid his oxygen mask back into place and then covered his eyes. Knowing he couldn’t watch her made it easier to concentrate.
She pulled the chair closer to his bed and cued up her meditation playlist. “I’m going to start with some light reflexology.”
At first touch, he felt stiff and tense, but once she started hitting the pressure points along his palm, he moaned and sighed like the rest of her clients. Slowly, his hands relaxed and he surrendered to her care.
She worked methodically, finding the tender spots where tension had gathered for decades.
His hands told the story of a life spent gripping too tightly—to control, to power, to the belief that everything could be managed through sheer force of will.
She pressed into the web between his thumb and forefinger, targeting the liver meridian point that helped release anger and frustration.
When she found the heart point on his palm, he released a sound that was almost vulnerable.
“You’re carrying a lot of tension here,” she murmured, working her thumbs in small circles. “This point connects to emotional stress. I’m going to apply steady pressure and let your body release what it’s ready to let go of.”
His breathing deepened under the oxygen mask, becoming less labored as she continued. She moved to his wrists, gently manipulating the joints, then up to his forearms where decades of physical labor had left the muscles knotted and tight.
By the end of the hour, Magnus looked refreshed, his dry skin now moisturized, as he snored like an elderly baby. Her selfless act for the day was complete.
She felt proud and courageous for having faced a man who always intimidated her, glad she was able to share this small moment with him.
As she gathered her things, his eyes fluttered open. For just a moment, without his usual armor of disdain, he looked almost grateful.
Wren left the basket with its contents and quietly backed out of the room. She might not have untangled him from his contracted, stiff ways, but she felt pretty sure she had loosened him up. Men as root-bound as Magnus Hawthorne would require a few more therapeutic shakes.
But maybe, just maybe, she’d planted a seed.