Chapter 11
HALLIE MAE
I hadn’t slept.
Not really.
I’d lain awake most of the night, curled in the same sheets that had held me after the date, my body still humming like it remembered every breath, every look. The warmth of his hand on the small of my back, the feel of his mouth at my ear, the weight of his words.
If I kiss you again tonight, I’m not gonna pretend it’s just because the food was good.
And he had. Twice.
Once on the dock, with his hands wrapped tight around my waist like he was holding back a storm.
And once before I went inside—softer that time, slower, like he wanted to memorize the shape of my mouth before letting me go.
Both had wrecked me.
And now, in the quiet of morning, I could still feel them.
He’d walked me to my door, eyes dark and serious, and touched my face like he didn’t trust himself to go any further.
“Not tonight,” he said, voice thick. “You deserve more than fast and desperate.”
I didn’t know what that meant, exactly.
But it had taken everything in me not to ask him to stay anyway.
Now, in the cool morning light, with my windows cracked and the ceiling fan ticking gently above me, I felt everything all at once.
Shame.
Longing.
Hope.
Confusion.
The scent of salt still clung to my hair from the breeze off Shem Creek, and my chest still tightened when I thought about the way he’d looked at me—like I wasn’t just a woman in a blue dress. Like I was something he'd been searching for longer than he’d admit.
And Lord help me, I’d wanted to be that.
Even now, part of me still did.
I pressed a hand to my stomach, where the ache of want hadn’t fully settled. I was twenty-seven years old, a teacher, a pastor’s daughter, a woman raised to be good.
I’d never felt anything like last night.
Not with the sweet boys from youth group. Not with the Bible college guy who’d quoted Proverbs and kissed like he was afraid to open his mouth. Not even with the one I thought I might marry, back when I was twenty-three and still mistaking niceness for connection.
Noah wasn’t nice.
But he’d made me feel seen.
And now I didn’t know what to do with that .
I swung my legs off the side of the bed, wrapping my robe tighter as I padded barefoot to the kitchen. The coffee was already brewed—automatic timer, thank the Lord—and I poured a cup with trembling hands, trying not to think about the way his had felt on my hips.
I wasn’t supposed to want that.
Not yet. Not like that.
But wanting didn’t care what I was supposed to do.
The first sip of coffee burned a little, and I leaned against the counter, staring out the window at the quiet street below. It was still early. Pale light filtered through the trees, and a neighbor jogged by with a golden retriever, both of them too chipper for a Saturday.
I hadn’t even turned on my phone yet.
Maybe I didn’t want to. Not until I figured out how I was supposed to feel.
Because what if he’d texted already? What if he hadn’t?
What was I supposed to do with that?
My stomach turned just thinking about it.
I wasn’t used to games, wasn’t built for the guessing that seemed to come with modern dating.
I was old-fashioned in ways that made me feel both proud and embarrassed, depending on who was asking.
Men were supposed to call. They were supposed to pursue.
That’s what Mama always said— “If he wants you, he’ll show you.
And if he doesn’t, baby girl, don’t you dare go chasing him. ”
But Noah Dane wasn’t exactly the kind of man you could fit into a neat little Proverbs 31 box.
If I was being honest with myself, I wasn’t sure I wanted to wait.
I wanted to hear from him. I wanted to know if he’d woken up thinking about me like I’d woken up thinking about him.
I wanted that second date—God help me, I wanted another kiss.
But would calling him make me seem desperate?
Forward? Would it change the way he looked at me?
Then again … maybe a man like Noah didn’t care about who made the first move.
Maybe he liked it.
The thought made something low in my stomach flutter—half anticipation, half dread.
And then there was the other thought, the one I’d been trying to ignore since I fell asleep last night with the taste of him still on my lips.
What would Daddy say?
The image hit hard: Noah—leather-jacketed, gun-calloused, jaw sharp as judgment—standing in our living room in Estill, sitting awkwardly on Mama’s floral sofa while Daddy offered him coffee in one of those mismatched mugs from the church kitchen.
I could picture the silence stretching tight, Daddy’s eyes taking him in like a threat wrapped in flesh.
Would he even shake Noah’s hand?
Would Noah let him?
I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything. Only that it would be the most painfully awkward meeting in the history of the world—and I’d be caught between the two men who saw me completely differently. One as a daughter to protect. The other as a woman to want.
I pressed the phone against my chest, still powered off, heart thudding like it was trying to outrun the choices I hadn’t even made yet.
Maybe I’d call him.
Maybe I wouldn’t.
Either way, I had a feeling this wasn’t something I could ignore for long.
But I still didn’t turn the phone on.
I carried it with me to the bathroom, set it facedown on the edge of the sink like it wasn’t burning a hole through my palm.
I peeled off my robe and sleep shirt, stepped into the shower, and let the warm water beat down on my shoulders until the mirror fogged up and my thoughts stopped spinning long enough for me to breathe.
I took my time.
Washed my hair. Shaved my legs. Moisturized with the good lotion, the kind Mama always said was for Sundays or special occasions. Not because I was trying to impress anyone—at least, that’s what I told myself. But because I wanted to feel like I was still in control of something.
If it was Noah calling, he could wait.
He was the kind of man used to commanding every room he walked into, every conversation he started. And maybe that worked for most women. Maybe they jumped when he called. Maybe they answered on the first ring.
But I wasn’t most women.
I didn’t want to be.
So I towel-dried my hair, pulled on a soft cotton dress, and did a few things around the apartment before I so much as glanced toward my phone again.
Only then—when I was good and ready—I powered it on.
The screen lit up slow, that little vibration buzz of booting to life crawling up my spine. My breath hitched when the missed call alert flashed at the top.
One.
Just one.
Unknown number.
My stomach dropped.
For a second, I told myself it could still be Noah. Maybe he was calling from a different line—work phone, maybe, or something encrypted, military-style. He didn’t exactly seem like the type to stick with one phone plan for too long.
But deep down, I knew something was wrong.
It wasn’t logic. It wasn’t evidence. It was that hollow kind of knowing that lives somewhere beneath your ribs, a quiet ache that flares when the world tilts sideways. The kind of knowing Mama always called “the Spirit whispering.”
I’d felt it the moment I opened my eyes that morning. That strange stillness. That waiting in the air. Like the sky knew something I didn’t yet. Like the birds hadn’t sung as loud, the breeze hadn’t stirred the trees the way it should’ve.
I told myself it was nothing. That I was just shaken up from everything at Grace House.
The break-in, the blood, the noise of it all.
I’d never been through something like that before.
Never had to give a statement to a detective with shaking hands or watch someone be handcuffed just feet from where kids played with chalk the day before.
I’d never even been inside a police station before.
The fluorescent lights, the quiet hum of printers and whispered conversations—it had all felt surreal, like I was acting in a movie I hadn’t auditioned for.
Of course, I felt off. Of course, the world felt strange. It didn’t mean anything was actually wrong.
There was no good reason to think anything had happened. Daddy had been fine when I hugged him goodbye at the station. Tired, yes. Stretched thin like always. But solid. Steady. Still holding my shoulder like he could absorb my worry if he just squeezed hard enough.
But I’d had this heaviness in my chest ever since. And now the phone, the number I didn’t recognize, the timing?—
It wasn’t coincidence.
It was confirmation.
Some part of me already knew.
Before I hit play.
Before I heard the words.
Before my knees gave out.
Because the body always knows before the mind does.
And my body had been grieving before I ever pressed listen.
Before I could stop myself, I tapped the voicemail icon, thumb trembling.
“Miss Calhoun? This is Officer Sandlin with the Estill Police Department. I’m sorry to call so early, but ? —”
My heart stopped. Cold rushed in.
“—I’m afraid there’s been an incident involving your father.”
I couldn’t hear the rest.
The phone slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a sickening little clatter, the voicemail still playing in a voice that felt too calm, too practiced, too detached.
My knees buckled. I sank to the floor in the middle of my kitchen, the hem of my cotton dress curling around me like a forgotten napkin.
No.
No, no, no.
This wasn’t happening.
Not Daddy.
He was supposed to be preaching tomorrow morning. He was supposed to be coming back Monday to help me sort through things at Grace House. He was supposed to be alive .
I gasped, hands pressed to my mouth like I could hold the scream in.
But it came anyway—low, strangled, animal.
I don’t remember how long I sat there, shaking on the tile, the faint hum of the fridge the only sound in the room. The voicemail had ended, but the silence it left behind screamed louder than any siren could’ve.
Eventually, I forced myself to pick the phone back up. My fingers felt foreign, like they belonged to someone else as I tapped through.
It rang twice.
Then, “Hello?” His voice was low, rough.
I choked on the breath I’d been holding.
“Noah,” I whispered, the name catching in my throat.
He went still on the other end. “Hallie Mae?”
A beat.
Then—sharper—“What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t say it. Not yet. Not out loud.
“I need you.”
Three words. That’s all I could manage. I need you.