Chapter 5
“After all, tomorrow is another day.”
Scarlett O’Hara’s final words in
Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell
“Can you roll me up these stairs?” Scarlett asked with a beleaguered groan as she eyed the steps leading to the back door of Maree Larsen’s second-story apartment.
Instead of obliging, Noah grabbed Scarlett’s hand and ascended the stairs two at a time.
“You didn’t eat that much,” he cajoled, carrying her duffle bag over a shoulder, her suitcase in one hand, and pulling her in tow with the other. She tried tugging her hand from his, making a show of wrestling with the straps on her two camera bags and her train case, but his grip didn’t budge.
In fact, his hold might’ve tightened, as though her getting away wasn’t an option for him.
Her heart skipped a beat at the thought.
Not from fear, at least not a fear of Noah — he might’ve been the least-threatening human she’d ever encountered.
With his kind, albeit pulse-quickening smiles, and those playful yet entrancing eyes, Scarlett would bet money that Noah didn’t have an intimidating bone in his body.
Not to mention the way he exuded compassion and reassurance and his constant determination to help.
. . No, the worst thing she’d found in Noah was a big, huge servant’s heart that wouldn’t let her off the hook for this crazy pumpkin patch ordeal.
Then what did she have to fear?
Hope.
This place.
Hoping to belong in this place.
She’d spent half a day in Noah’s presence. She’d met two old ladies, the local furniture-maker, and one waiter. She’d driven through town three times. That’s all.
So, why did a craving for a home — a permanent home — gnaw at her gut?
And why did Noah’s hand in hers feel so good?
Before she had time to overanalyze that traitorous line of questioning, Noah had reached the landing and dropped her hand to dig the keys from his pocket.
A shiver floated down Scarlett’s back at the sudden absence of the connection.
In a ridiculously short amount of time, Noah had finagled his way past years of staunch independence. She’d long since convinced herself that human contact wasn’t necessary for survival, not even for success. And here he was, ruining the perfectly adequate world she’d built.
Contentment counted. Bliss and joy and happily ever afters existed only in fairy tales. Fairy tales weren’t real. A job that allowed her to work with photography, came with a cot in a temperature-controlled storeroom, and provided enough money for some food when she got hungry had been plenty.
It is plenty.
She corrected herself and glared at the back of Noah’s head with petulance.
Of course, Noah didn’t notice.
He’d opened the door and stepped aside to usher her into the apartment.
When he flipped a wall switch, a trio of lamps — one on an end table, another on the floor, and the third on a desk — cast a warm glow across the room.
“It’s delightful,” Scarlett whispered.
The adjective had slipped past her lips of its own accord, but truly, there was no other word to describe the space.
Fabrics — so many fabrics — of all styles, and every texture, and in a myriad of colors created an aesthetic feast for the eyes.
Olive-green velvet covered a small-scale camelback sofa, which a bounty of throw pillows almost hid from view.
Some pillows appeared to be vintage antiques in silk damasks, while others boasted natural fibers used in mid-century modern decor.
Still others would’ve been at home in a 1980s Laura Ashley floral bedding set, complete with frilly ruffles and plenty of eyelet trim.
The pleated drapes sported a modern geometric print; cornice boards covered in an elegant chinoiserie chintz hung above them.
Stacks of books of varying heights teetered on the floor surrounding a wingback recliner of minimal proportions, upholstered in striped ticking the color of weathered terracotta.
For a rather small space, there was a lot to see.
It should’ve felt crowded and overwhelming, but the vibrant prints worked together.
Scarlett had spent over a year working as a low-level gopher in a high-end decorator’s showroom before finding the photography shop in Dallas.
While working in the custom furniture business, she’d learned more than she’d ever hoped to know about interior design, including what the rules allowed when it came to fabric pairing.
Maree had disobeyed more than a few accepted practices. The result was stunning.
“I can’t live here,” Scarlett blurted out, turning to Noah in alarm before scrambling for the door.
With one smooth step, he slid in front of her.
She stopped in her tracks and felt the terror of a caged animal.
Again, she was not distressed by Noah’s size or strength, not even by his proximity — which was close. Very close.
The thought of living in a house — even a tiny apartment — so homey, so curated, so perfect terrified Scarlett.
“It’s just a room with four walls,” Noah coaxed, rubbing her arms from shoulder to elbow.
“It’s a cozy, proper room with a million dollars’ worth of exquisite fabrics, probably hand-selected furnishing, obviously treasured and adored by the owner. I bet the bedroom and bathroom are just as bad.”
“Well, they are rather small, but not bad, per se,” Noah allowed, teasing her.
“It’s not funny.” Scarlett stomped a foot and folded her arms. As quickly as she’d assumed the defiant posture, her sails lost their steam. “I don’t belong here,” she confided in a soft voice.
“Because you think it’s too nice? Maree invited you; she wants you here, and she wants you to enjoy being here.”
“Because it’s her home,” Scarlett argued.
“Her home is with Rhys,” he said. “And if you think this is wild, just wait ’til you see that house.”
“It’s not wild,” she said, looking down and shuffling her feet. “It’s wonderful.”
“And that’s why you don’t belong.”
“Exactly!” Her head lifted in an instant, her eyes boring into his as she pounced on his statement.
“Because it’s a real home,” he clarified.
“You said it,” Scarlett agreed, lifting a rebellious eyebrow. “I’ve been a street urchin most of my life. I lived in the back of a camera shop; my bed was a rickety cot in a closet. I don’t belong in a place like this.”
“This apartment, this new job, or this town?”
“Not in any of it,” Scarlett cried out, flailing an arm at the beautiful room and hating the frenzy in her voice.
“And yet, you’re here.”
Noah’s steady, matter-of-fact tone nearly derailed the hysteria nipping at Scarlett’s heels.
His lifting a hand to her face and cupping her cheek while his thumb wiped away a stray tear, finished the job. All the destructive thoughts whirling in her head disappeared.
“What?” she asked, clambering to resurface.
“This is foreign to you, completely new and out of your norm, right?”
Scarlett eyed him with suspicion, and he didn’t wait for her to answer.
“But you’re here all the same,” he continued.
“For some reason, you were working in that camera shop when M’Kenzee and Maree walked in.
You were developing your own photos at that particular moment of that specific day.
And M’Kenzee — who, by your own admission, is an exceptional photographer and judge of talent — saw something profound in your work.
Some force of nature urged M’Kenzee to mentor you, to bring you under her wing, which meant moving to Green Hills.
Something prompted Maree to offer you this apartment to live in while you’re here.
And I just happened to need some help and expertise setting up a pumpkin patch and photography attraction that will bring joy to many people at the exact time you arrived in town.
“Call it coincidence if you must, but don’t you think that after all those random flashes of time aligned, you’re supposed to be here?” He finished his speech with quite the mic drop.
“Like, my stars aligned? Or fate stepped in?” She weighed the theories out loud.
“Something along those lines,” Noah said with a half shrug. “We can debate that later. Regardless of what brought you to this moment, maybe it’s okay to simply be present now that you’re here. Being here can be enough — if you let it.”
Scarlett remained rooted to that single spot in the living room.
Noah took her suitcase and train case to the bedroom.
He set her camera bags on the desk.
Then he turned the light on in the kitchen. He retrieved the kettle from the stove, filled it with water, and lit the burner before setting it back in place.
“When that whistles, use the jar of cocoa and the bag of marshmallows next to the mug I set out and fix yourself a cup of hot chocolate. I’ll be back with dinner in a few hours.
Until then, sit on that fancy couch, nap on the pillow-laden bed, or take a bubble bath in the clawfoot tub.
I don’t care what you do, as long as you’re here when I return. ”
“Clawfoot tub, you say?”
“Have at it,” Noah said, running the back of his fingers down her cheek and pausing to hold her chin while he looked in her eyes, as though demanding confirmation she wouldn’t run.
Scarlett exhaled the breath she’d been holding and nodded.
“I’ll be here.”
As promised — so like Noah, as she’d already come to expect — he knocked on the door a few hours later, handed her a brown bag from a place called the Three-Toed Turtle, and went back down the stairs to his truck.
The aroma of cheeseburgers and French fries wafted from the bag, causing her stomach to rumble.
By the time Noah had hauled six large tubs into the tight living room, Scarlett was starving.
While they ate, Noah explained that in the tubs were a sampling of the quilts, blankets, throws, pillows, and fabrics available in the church’s storage building. Over strawberry milkshakes, they devised a plan for the next day.
When Scarlett walked Noah out, he once again told her to trust him, that everything was going to be great.
She watched him drive away with a sliver of hope pushing its way into her heart.
After Scarlet slid under a quilt and rested her head on a lavender-scented pillowcase, she whispered thank you to the stars, the fates, and the universe.
. .to whatever forces had taken her to Green Hills.
And brought her to Noah.