Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Gideon
I should have said no.
Then again, no one ever says no to Martha Flintman. Especially not me.
I eye the damaged fireplace mantel as I balance the granite slab against my thigh, pondering if the crack that runs through the center of the stone like a jagged scar can even be fixed.
This job should have been done ages ago.
This is what happens when the town council decides to go with the lowest bidder instead of doing things right the first time. Some jackass with a truck and a YouTube education tried to "fix" this mantel last spring, and now I'm here cleaning up his mess.
Against my will.
I should be home, working on the Hendersons' patio plans or finishing the repairs on the Murphy's retaining wall.
Instead, I'm volunteering my Saturday afternoon because my mother has this annoying habit of offering my services to every committee, charity, and civic project in Saltford Bay without bothering to ask me first.
The granite settles into place with a satisfying thud that echoes through the town hall's main chamber. I brace it with one hand and reach for the mortar with the other.
Around me, the Knitters Club has transformed the space into holiday chaos.
Folding tables sag under the weight of donated scarves, mittens, and hats in every color imaginable.
The air smells like pine from the fresh garlands draped along the windows, mixed with the dusty scent of old stone and the lingering aroma of hot cocoa from someone's thermos.
I spread fresh mortar into the crack, working it deep into the damaged stone.
My movements are economical, efficient. I've been doing this since I was old enough to hold a trowel, first learning at my father's side.
If only he was still here, I know he would be volunteering with a smile on his face.
But he’s not. I’m the one running the business now.
Fourteen years of running Flintman & Son Masonry, and I still love the feel of stone under my hands. The weight of it, the way it responds to pressure and heat, how it can be shaped and fitted together to last for generations. Stone makes sense. Stone is reliable.
Stone doesn't wake up one day and decide it wants something different. As a golem, I can relate.
"That looks crooked to me," a voice says behind me.
I close my eyes and count to three before turning around. Councilwoman Bernadette Garrington stands there with her arms crossed, wearing the expression of someone who's spent her entire seventy-something years perfecting the art of finding fault with other people's work.
"It's not crooked," I say through gritted teeth.
"Are you sure? Because from where I'm standing, it looks crooked."
My temper, already frayed from an afternoon of forced community service, snaps like a brittle twig. I shove the granite slab into perfect alignment with enough force to rattle the entire fireplace structure. Dust cascades from the mantle, and several volunteers jump at the sound.
"Straight enough?" I growl.
“Well, I never.” Bernadette takes a step back, her face flushing. "There's no need for that tone, young man. A simple 'yes, ma'am' would have sufficed."
She huffs away, muttering under her breath about manners and how I’m becoming a grumpy old bachelor, probably adding my name to whatever mental list she keeps of Saltford Bay's most problematic residents. I'm sure I'm already near the top.
"Don't mind him." My mother's voice carries across the room, warm and apologetic. "He's always like this when he's working, but the job will be done right."
I turn to see Martha approaching with a steaming cup of cocoa in each hand, her gray eyes sparkling with amusement.
She's wearing one of her hand-knitted sweaters, this one featuring a reindeer that looks like it's having an existential crisis, and her head is covered by a red knit cap with a pom-pom that bounces when she walks.
"Here," she says, offering me one of the cups. "You look like you could use this."
The cocoa is perfect, rich and sweet with just a hint of cinnamon. Trust my mother to know exactly what I need, even when I'm being an ass.
"Thanks," I mutter, then lower my voice. "And thanks for volunteering me for this without asking. Again."
"You're welcome," she says cheerfully, completely immune to my sarcasm. "The fireplace needed fixing, and you're the best stonemason in three counties. It's a perfect match."
"I had plans today."
"You had plans to sit in your workshop and brood over blueprints while avoiding any social contact. This is better for you."
She's not wrong, which only irritates me more.
I finish my cocoa and start packing up my tools, each piece settling into its designated spot in the worn leather case that used to belong to my father. The familiar routine is soothing, a ritual that marks the end of another job completed.
"Ready to go?" I ask her when I’m done.
"Not yet. Evelyn is supposed to relieve me at four, and she's running late." Martha glances at the ancient clock mounted above the entrance. "She'll be here any minute."
As if summoned by her words, the front door bursts open with enough force to rattle the windows. Mrs. Evelyn Primrose sweeps in like a tiny tornado, her ridiculous beret perched at an angle that defies gravity over her perfectly coiffed lavender hair.
For a pixie who barely reaches my chest, Evelyn commands attention like a general reviewing the troops. Her eyes scan the room, cataloging every volunteer, every donation, every possible source of gossip with the efficiency of a well-oiled surveillance system.
"Martha, darling!" she calls out, her voice carrying easily across the crowded space. “I'm so sorry I'm late. Addison Patterson asked me to run an errand for her. Poor dear fell down on the ice this morning and broke her wrist.”
Evelyn approaches, her heels clacking on the stone floor like applause from an invisible crowd. “You'll never guess what I heard at the post office.”
Here we go. Evelyn's "news" is usually a mix of half-truths, speculation, and wishful thinking, but she delivers it all with the enthusiasm of a war correspondent reporting from the front lines.
She’s practically vibrating with excitement. Her idea of a conspiratorial whisper could probably be heard in the next county.
"I bumped into Candy Reyes this morning and she told me the most wonderful news. Her daughter is back in town," she stage-whispers, leaning in close. "Isn't it wonderful? The famous Lucia Reyes will be in Saltford Bay all the way through New Year’s!"
The name hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest.
Lucia.
My hand tightens around the handle of my toolbox, and I hear the subtle creak of leather stretching under pressure.
The chisel in my other hand bends slightly, the metal yielding to my unconscious grip.
I want to stop, release the pressure, but I can’t.
Not when my mind fills with cotton clouds and my forehead feels like it’s on fire.
Lucia Reyes. Back in Saltford Bay.
Ten years. It's been ten years and still, every time her name is spoken aloud in my presence, it feels the same. My chest locks up like someone's wrapped steel cables around my ribs.
"How lovely," my mother says carefully, and I can feel her eyes on me, sharp and assessing. She knows. Of course she knows. Martha Flintman didn't raise an idiot, and she's been watching me avoid talking about Lucia Reyes for a decade.
"She's staying for two whole weeks, can you imagine?" Evelyn continues, oblivious to the way the air has suddenly become too thick to breathe. "Candy says she just showed up out of the blue last night. No warning at all. Makes you wonder what brought her home after all this time, doesn't it?"
I force myself to straighten the chisel, my movements careful and controlled. The metal protests slightly, bearing the impressions of my fingers, but it holds its shape.
"People come home for Christmas," I manage to say, my voice coming out rougher than intended. "It's not exactly shocking."
"Oh, but it is for Lucia," Evelyn says, warming to her subject. "She's barely visited since high school. Once, maybe twice a year, and never for more than a weekend. But two weeks? There must be a story there."
There's always a story with Evelyn. Sometimes I think she invents drama just to have something to discuss at the grocery store.
My mother's hand lands on my arm, a gentle touch that stops me before I can say something I'll regret. Or something that will give Evelyn a reason to gossip some more.
"Well, I'm sure the Reyes family is thrilled to have her home," she says diplomatically.
"Oh, they are," Evelyn confirms. "And speaking of family time, Thomas Hallowell mentioned that the sleigh runners at the farm need some attention before Christmas Eve. You know how popular those rides are with the children."
My stomach drops. Shit. Here we go again.
"I'm sure Tom's far too busy to fix that old sleigh with the farm at full capacity over the holidays," Martha says.
I know that tone. She's about to throw me under the bus. And I watch it happen like a car crash in slow motion. Like the big idiot that I am.
"Gideon will be there first thing tomorrow morning," she says, and there it is.
Fuck. Me.
Evelyn claps her hands together, delighted. "Wonderful! I'm sure he'll have it fixed in no time. Such skilled hands he has, just like his father."
I nod stiffly, not trusting myself to speak. Hallowell Farm is where every family in Saltford Bay goes for sleigh rides and hot cocoa and all that Norman Rockwell bullshit that makes people nostalgic for childhoods they probably never actually had.
That tightness in my chest squeezes even more until I can barely breathe.
I slam my toolbox shut with enough force to make several nearby volunteers jump, then stalk toward the exit without bothering to say goodbye to anyone. Behind me, I can hear Evelyn launching into another story, something about the mayor's wife and a questionable casserole at the church potluck.
The December air hits me like a slap when I push through the front doors, cold and clean and sharp enough to cut through the fog in my head.
My skin feels overheated, the way it always does when my emotions run too close to the surface.
One of the less convenient aspects of being made of stone.
When things get intense, I run hot enough to melt rock.
"Gideon."
I pause at the bottom of the steps, my mother's voice stopping me before I can escape to my truck.
"It’s been a long time," Martha says quietly, her breath forming small clouds in the frigid air. "I’m sure Lucia has her own life by now, her own family. Whatever happened between you two, I’m sure it’s old history by now."
I don't turn around. Can't turn around. If I look at my mother's face right now, she'll see everything I've spent ten years trying to bury, and I'm not ready for that conversation.
"I know," I lie.
"Do you?"
The question hangs between us like a challenge, and for a moment I consider telling her the truth. Instead, I climb into my truck and wait for her. Martha climbs in shortly after, and we drive home in awkward silence.
Lucia Reyes. Back in Saltford Bay.
But what are my chances of bumping into her anyway? Tomorrow, I'll do my job and pretend that the sound of her name doesn't still have the power to bring me to my knees.
And I will leave the past in the past, where it belongs.