Chapter 18
BECCA
The farmer’s market is louder than usual. Music is playing from opposite corners by local artists, people are laughing, dogs are weaving through legs, the smell of kettle corn and citrus and something fried is wafting in the air.
A low hum cuts through the noise; one of the vendors is testing something electrical. My stomach drops. It’s stupid. And it doesn’t even sound the same. But my body doesn’t care about logic.
For a split second, I’m back in bed. His voice in my ear. The way he said he already knew exactly what I needed.
Heat rushes through me, sharp and immediate. I shift my weight, crossing my arms like that’ll do anything to fix it. Absolutely not, I am not doing this here.
“Earth to Becca,” Phoenix says beside me.
I blink, forcing my focus back. “I’m fine.” I grab my coffee and take a sip, too fast. “Just … distracted.” It’s too hot, but I drink it anyway, scalding my tongue. Something to focus on that isn’t him.
Phoenix walks beside me, her iced coffee in hand, scanning booths like she’s conducting an inspection. “This is dangerous,” she mutters. “I came for produce, and I’m leaving with candles and a dent in my bank account.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “You were always leaving with that.”
She nudges me with her shoulder. “Fair.”
We make our way down another row, past handmade soaps and fresh flowers, when something catches my eye. A small crowd gathered around a booth. Not just gathered, but excitedly murmuring and pointing.
I slow down, wanting to see what all the fuss is about. “Wait.”
Phoenix follows my gaze. “What?”
The sign above the booth reads something soft and curated—Soluna Atelier. Organic beauty products from local vendors line the booth in neutral tones and pretty packaging.
And in the center of it all, Holly. She’s mid-demonstration, talking someone through a quick style, hands moving with a confidence I don’t think I’ve ever seen from her before, and clearly thriving in this element.
She looks … proud, like she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.
“Okay, I’ll admit it. This is kind of impressive,” Phoenix begrudgingly states as she admires the booth layout.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “It is.”
Holly glances up—and freezes. Her eyes land on me, and for a second, she falters, losing a bit of steam. Then she straightens her shoulders and waves us over.
“Becca,” she says, a little nervous. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I respond neutrally.
An awkward pause takes place before I can think of something to say.
“This looks really good,” I add, gesturing to the booth. “Like … really good.”
Her shoulders drop just a fraction. “Thank you. I’ve been trying to figure it out.”
I step closer, letting my eyes roam over the setup.
The styling tools, handheld mirrors, and little display stands.
And beside the booth, there’s a space designed almost like a showroom.
A small coffee table sits with clean lines and a smooth finish, the grain of the wood catching the light just right.
Next to it, one of those over-arm couch trays—curved perfectly, balanced, functional in that way that isn’t flashy, but needed.
And leaning against the back is a narrow mantlepiece. It is simple, solid, and beautiful.
My stomach drops. I know these pieces. Not just the style, the exact pieces.
“I mentioned this,” I say before I can stop myself, stepping closer. My fingers hover over the edge of the table. “Like … a year ago. We were at that hardware store, and I said—” I pause, swallowing back an emotion I am not ready to examine.
“Yeah, they’re wonderful pieces,” Holly says quietly.
My eyes cut to her. “What is this?”
She shifts on her feet, suddenly less sure. “They’re … um … they’re Sam’s.”
Of course they are. I swallow, keeping my expression neutral. “For the salon?”
She shakes her head. “No, of course not.” She bites her lip, hesitating. “They’re the ones that didn’t make the cut.”
I blink. “What cut?”
“He’s been making a bunch of stuff,” she admits, words coming a little faster and unsteady. “Perfecting, I guess? Testing designs. If something’s not exactly how he imagined, he won’t use it. So … these are the extras, or rejects, as he calls them. None of them were good enough.”
These were rejects? My chest tightens as I run my fingers lightly along the edge of the table. It’s smoothed so perfectly that it feels soft.
“You’re selling them?” I ask.
“Yes.” She shrugs. “This is the third batch. So far, all have sold out. Figured it was better than letting them sit in the shop. People have asked if he would create a custom piece, but he refuses to build for anyone but you.”
I nod slowly, stepping back. I don’t say what’s sitting heavy in my chest. That none of this feels like a reject pile. That this feels like someone remembering, paying attention to the little moments … and genuinely trying.
Phoenix clears her throat softly, reading the moment better than anyone. “Okay,” she says lightly, “I’m going to go find something overpriced and unnecessary. You good?”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I’m good.”
She gives me a look—you sure?—then disappears into the crowd.
I turn back to Holly. “This is really good,” I say again, quieter this time. “The booth, the setup. All of it.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “Thanks. I read the book you told me about, started following some local business owners on social media, and found this great blog on new business ventures in the beauty sector.”
I stop, stunned that she has taken my advice to heart so quickly. “Wow, that is some deep research.”
She shrugs like it’s no big deal, but gives herself away next, speaking at 1.
5x speed, not quite meeting my eyes. “I realized if you want to make something happen, if you really believe in it, you have to invest yourself fully. That’s something I wanted to talk to you about actually, your investment in the salon. ”
I stiffen at the word investment, and Holly notices.
“Well, that might be the wrong term to use in this situation … but I met with an accountant and some other business resources. I have a few details to iron out, but I want to schedule a meeting with you soon to discuss the payback details. Unfortunately, by the time I realized the situation, much of the cash was tied up in various ventures …” she trails off momentarily.
“Anyway, don’t want to bore you with all the business jargon at the market, but I will have the finalized details to you soon. ”
“You could never bore me with business jargon,” I respond immediately.
Holly begins to laugh but checks herself when she realizes I’m serious.
“Anyways, how is the cabin going?” Holly switches gears.
I stop myself from asking the million questions I want to; this is not the place.
“Good, still a ton of projects left to complete, but habitable now. I’ve got to clear out some of the brush near the back before it gets worse.
It’s … not cute. Isn’t providing the Insta-worthy photos I want my guests to be taking. ”
Holly nods immediately. “That makes sense. You don’t want anything getting too close to the structure, plus the social postings will be vital to bringing in new customers, setting the whole vibe and all.”
I glance at her, a little surprised at how knowledgeable she is. I cautiously respond to her, “Yeah … that’s right.”
She hesitates for a second and asks, “What day are you tackling that, and what time should I be there?”
I blink. “What?”
“I want to help.”
My eyebrows shoot to my hairline. “Help with what? With the brush clear out? No, Holly, you don’t need to.” Nor can I imagine her with a rake and leather gloves.
“I want to.” Holly laughs. “It isn’t even because I owe you …”
“Like 75,000 times owe me?” I bluntly eject.
“Um, yes, exactly. But more than that, I realize I never thought much about what it took to build the life you and Sam have. I want to be a part of it.”
There’s no pressure in it, just an offer to help someone out. I study her for a second longer than I mean to. Who is this Holly?
“Okay,” I say finally. “We’ll probably start late-morning tomorrow.”
Her face shifts, something like excitement, quickly checked. “Tomorrow might be tight,” she says. “I actually picked up a catering shift.”
I frown slightly. “Catering? I thought you were focusing on the salon?”
“I am,” she says quickly. “But we’re not open yet.
And I …” She shrugs, a little sheepish. “I wanted to start covering more of my own stuff. Not just … relying on everything working out. After I saw you working at the gala, I thought that would be a great part-time gig. So I reached out to Vanessa, she connected me with the company she uses. It’s just odds and ends shifts, but it’s a start. ”
I nod slowly, too stunned for words. “What kind of event?” I ask.
“Business lunch, some corporate retreat at the Butte.”
I glance down at her shoes, noticing they’re perfectly stylish. “Don’t wear those,” I say automatically. “You’ll hate your life by hour two. Just wear tennis shoes, dark color preferably, for spills.”
She nods immediately. “Okay. Tennis shoes. Got it.”
A small smile pulls at my mouth. “Come Sunday afternoon,” I say. “We’ll still have plenty to do.”
“I’ll be there, you can count on it,” she chimes with no hesitation.
And for the first time, maybe ever, I believe her.
That night, I move to the fire pit, fairy lights half-working and flickering like they have a personality of their own. But when I move to make a fire when I stop short at the pile next to the Adirondack chair.
The wood is stacked with clean, even cuts, no splintering. I can picture Sam doing this—shirtless, jaw set, focused, with his backward Mariners hat, sweat glistening as he’s bringing the axe down …
I squeeze my eyes tight as if I can stop seeing the mental image. I shouldn’t be going down this road, not with so much still unresolved.
At the bottom of the woodpile is a small piece of paper. I grab the build note before my brain can spiral any further.
I keep thinking about the things my mom says.
And the fact that I never really stopped to hear them.
I always took it at face value, just how she talks.
But you hear things differently. You think about what people mean, not just what they say.
I should have done that. I should have noticed. And I should have shut it down.
I didn’t, and I’m sorry. I promise, I’m listening now.
After I get the fire going, I sit in my perfectly made chair, sipping my Willamette Valley Pinot Noir, and stare into the flames. It’s the first time he has acknowledged how his mother speaks to me. It doesn’t change what she has said, but it could change the future.
It doesn’t fix what’s broken. But it’s the first time it feels like he’s actually trying to.